Ipswich Town 3 Leeds United 2

May 7, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

And so, in the words of what was reputedly Sir Bobby Robson’s favourite song, Ipswich Town face the final curtain of this singularly unsuccessful season in Football League Division Two. There have been a few regrets, some too painful to mention or admit to, but we’ve seen the season through, we’ve laughed and cried and not really succeeded in doing what we had to do; there have been a lot of doubts and we’ve had more than our fair share of losing. I can’t imagine anyone would own up to it being their way of doing anything, unless they set out to get relegated. It is with a sense of blithe resignation therefore that I set off for Portman Road beneath cloudy grey skies into the teeth of a cold northerly breeze. It’s not even ten o’clock yet and I curse Sky Sports and their dictat on reality, which is that if something doesn’t happen on subscription television, it doesn’t really happen. There are supporters of both Ipswich Town and Leeds United at the railway station and sadly, Chelsea. The train is three minutes late although the electronic display claims it is on time; another example of the truth being what we are told it is. The train is busy with Bank Holidaying passengers; middle-aged women dressed up to the nines cackle excitedly, one wears a semi-transparent wide brimmed-hat like a gossamer sombrero. Legs apart blokes stand by the sliding doors and drink cheap lager from shiny blue cans. An invisible cloud of acrid body spray creates a tickling sensation in my nose, it spreads and transforms itself into a stabbing pain in what feels like the root of a tooth, I reminisce about hay-fever.

In Ipswich a state of emergency has been declared and would-be passengers vie for space in the railway station booking hall with a platoon of police, all hand-cuffs and hi-vis. On the station ‘plaza’ more police; fashionable police in baseball hats with riot-helmets swinging casually from their utility belts. Opposite in the garden of the Station Hotel the marauding Yorkshire hordes enjoy some drinks and a barbecue, the smell of charcoal smoke wafts across the river. I head for St Jude’s Tavern taking a detour along Constantine Road past the Corporation bus garage because Portman Road is closed. The Leeds United team bus sweeps by, it’s blacked out windows hiding its precious cargo from the gaze of the common people; a BMW waits where parking has been suspended; it’s always a BMW. At the corner of Portman Road early diners wrestle with paper napkins of meat-based, bun encased lunches, jealously guarding their sauce and onions. I buy a programme, a souvenir of the end of a sixty-two-year-long era.

St Jude’s Tavern has been open five minutes, but already a bevy of fifty-something drinkers crowd around the bar. “We’re all going on a League One tour” chants one before expressing his excitement at the prospect of an away match against Southend United. I turn to the barmaid “It doesn’t get much better than a day out it Southend, does it” I say with a hint of sarcasm. She looks confused, so I ask for a pint of the Match Day Special which is St Jude’s Elderflower Bitter (£2.50). It doesn’t taste too good. “It’s the elderflowers” she tells me and swaps it for a pint of Nethergate Venture at no extra charge. It makes me think of the ‘French’ John Cleese in ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’. I talk to one of the regulars about his replacement knee and elderflower cordial before Mick arrives; he buys me a pint of Elgood’s Plum Porter (£3.60), which is characteristically kind and generous of him. Mick and I discuss his current affliction with bursitis (Housemaid’s Knee) and I wince at the size of the bump on his leg.

Time passes quickly and I am soon drawn down Portman Road by the beaming blue face of Sir Bobby Robson peering between the bright green foliage of the trees beyond Handford Road. I enter the ground from Constantine Road past the array of planet-destroying, over-sized, show-off cars owned by the players and through the little used turnstile number 60. “It’s a quiet little number having this turnstile, isn’t it” I say to the young woman enclosed in her brick and mesh cubicle, she smiles nicely and doesn’t disagree. I stroll to my seat via the WC facilities beneath the stand where I hear the recorded stadium safety announcement; “If you hear this sound – wooooh, wooooh…” says the disembodied female voice with a faintly Irish accent. I imagine a woman from Donegal called Sheila who is capable of creating the strange whooping sound with her natural voice, like some sort of gainfully employed banshee.

Emerging up the steps from beneath the stand my eyes are met by a long blue and white banner at the Sir Bobby Robson stand end of the ground. “There is a light that never goes out” it reads. I like the music of The Smiths and Morrissey as much as the next miserabilist, but wonder at the relevance of this random snatched lyric and also if Morrissey will be pursuing a royalty. The lyrics of the Smiths are an odd choice if looking for uplifting words, and I would like to see the banner that announces “Heaven knows I’m miserable now”. Recovering my joie de vivre I see in my mind’s eye a banner at Carrow Road which reads “Ha ya got a loight boy?” and wonder what other lyrics from popular song are suitable to ‘celebrate’ relegation. I decide that “Wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave, no one was saved” sums up my feelings nicely and I imagine makes Morrissey jealous that it isn’t one of his lyrics.

As ever, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton are here today, but far fewer of the seats about us are vacant and I marvel at the increased level of support the club has garnered from becoming the plucky underdogs. Town kick-off towards us in their traditional blue and white shirts, befouled by the hideous logo of a firm of on-line shysters. Leeds United are also the lackeys of an on-line betting company, but with a nicer logo and they wear yellow shirts and socks with blue shorts, looking like Newmarket Town, but with more expensive and exotic haircuts and tattoos.

Having had first kick, Town quickly lose the ball to their opponents and struggle to get it back. “Marching on together, We’re gonna see you win” sing the Leeds support presumptuously from the top tier of the Cobbold stand. Below them in front of the executive boxes a couple of rows of Leeds fans sit with flags spread out on the seats in front of them, they look like they’re all together in a giant bed. If they were Norwich supporters they would be.

Eleven minutes pass and I’m a little bored already, Ipswich are sadly not doing much but chasing Leeds players and the ball. For a few moments Leeds play the ball around across their penalty area like a French or Brazilian team, confident in their ability to pass and control the ball, Town captain Luke Chambers looks on, mouth agape. The Leeds United goalkeeper Kiko Casilla appears to be somewhat bandy-legged; I ponder the likelihood of anyone from sunny Spain suffering with rickets.

A smattering of Leeds fans swing their scarves about their heads like slingshots, recalling the Gelderd Road end of Leeds’ ground in the 1970’s whilst the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand sing “Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be, we’re going to Shrewsbury” which is a worthwhile boast because the Shropshire town is a one of the Football League’s loveliest, up there with Oxford and our very own Ipswich. It is the nineteenth minute of the game and Town win a corner, bucking the trend of Leeds dominance. Andre Dozzell’s kick fails to travel beyond the Leeds defender at the near post however. A conversation ensues behind me the final words of which are “We need a new team, mate”. On the touchline Leeds manager Marcelo Bielsa adopts his customary squatting pose. The Argentine is sometimes considered to be an eccentric character and his moving to Leeds having managed Lazio and Marseille rather proves the point; he was a legendary figure at Marseille, adored by the Ultras and I am proud to say I saw him sit on a cup of coffee at the Velodrome, which may be why he is choosing to squat today.

The game is not living up to expectations and to pass the time the Sir Bobby Robson Stand goad the Leeds support by singing “Top of the League and you fucked it up” which is a bit rich from supporters of a team that has been bottom of the league virtually all season. Compared with our own team’s performance this season Leeds United are world beaters. “One Mick McCarthy” sing the Yorkshiremen in response, which is fair enough, but easy to say given that he’s only ever bored them until they cried with his attritional, joyless football as manager of the opposition.

I’ve been watching this game for almost half an hour and all of a sudden a couple of passes send our angular on-loan German Collin Quaner through on goal with just Casilla to beat; Casilla comes out of his penalty area and runs straight at Quaner who pushes the ball beyond him and hurdles the Spaniard’s lunging frame before crashing to the turf. The lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand bay for blood but referee Mr Gavin Ward proffers only a yellow card in the direction of Casilla, possibly because he couldn’t conceive of the current Ipswich Town team of having a goal scoring opportunity, let alone being denied one. But the resultant free-kick proves Mr Ward wrong as the ball sails high into the six yard box and no one is able to send it decisively in any direction, so it drops to the ground and Town’s Flynn Downes is nearest and able to hook it into the goal net. Ironically, it’s the sort of goal that owes a lot to the methods of Mick McCarthy.

“We’re winning a game, we’re winning a game, how shit must you be, we’re winning a game” sing the Town fans, once more invoking the sound of ‘Sloop John B’. Surfing on a wave of a single Beach Boys tune the Sir Bobby Robson Stand ill-advisedly seek to push home their perceived advantage. “Premier League, you’re having a laugh, Premier League, you’re having a laugh” they chant to the tune of Tom Hark. If only they’d stopped to think about the probable response. “Championship, you’re having a laugh” is the inevitable short-vowelled response. A battle of wits, it’s not.

Happiness reigns until the final minute of the half when Myles Kenlock omits to prevent Luke Ayling, who incidentally sports the day’s daintiest coiffure, from crossing the ball and Pole Mateusz Klich is allowed a free shot at goal, from which he scores Leeds’ equalising goal. It’s disappointing of course and a little ‘out of the blue’ but not really unexpected. What I have come to enjoy most about this season is how little it now hurts when the opposition score; I have perhaps achieved some kind of state of grace.

The half-time break allows time to relieve myself of more surplus liquid, consume a Panda brand liquorice stick and gawp up at the half-time scores on the TV screen beneath the stand. Once again the statistics shown on the TV screen are inaccurate, with neither team apparently having had a player booked. If that stat is wrong, and it blatantly is, I cannot trust the others. Thwarted again in my search for truth I climb back up the steps into the stand and talk with Ray, a reassuringly honest man. I tell him that next Saturday I shall be watching Dijon FCO v RC Strasbourg at the Stade Gaston-Gerard; Ray tells me that he’s heard good things of Dijon, “they’re mustard” he says without any trace of embarrassment. In fact Dijon face relegation, so even Ray lied, albeit in the name of ‘comedy’.

The second half begins at thirty-four minutes past one, and before twenty-five to two the Towen are winning; Collin Quaner passing to Andre Dozzell in the sort of space usually only seen between Ipswich defenders. Dozzell scores with aplomb; it’s the first time Towen have scored as many as two goals at home since New Year’s Day. Leeds are quick and inventive but lack accuracy, although they still get chances they contrive to waste them. “That’s a ruddy good save” says the old boy behind me appreciatively, but with an odd hint of grudging reluctance as Bartosz Bialkowski dives to his left to tip a shot away for a corner. “One Bobby Robson, There’s only one Bobby Robson” sing the overly nostalgic and sentimental supporters in the stand that bears the dead man’s name. The Leeds supporters are not similarly moved to mention Don Revie OBE, despite the marvellous picture of the man in the match programme in which he looks a bit like Grouty (Peter Vaughan) in the TV sit-com ‘Porridge’. It’s easily the best thing in the programme.

All is going well and I dare to dream of seeing Town win. But I should know better by now. Ayling of the hair crosses the ball; the weirdly named Kemar Roofe hits the cross-bar with a close range shot and the ball seemingly just bounces off Stuart Dallas and into the net. There is a suspicion amongst Town fans that Ayling’s pony tail was offside and that Dallas handled the ball into the net, and to make the point ever-present Phil is off his seat and waving his arms in anger and frustration, but referee Mr Ward pays no heed; if he only knew how many consecutive Town games Phil has seen he might be more sympathetic. Heartless, ignorant git.

As the Towen kick-off the game once again a long line of riot police string themselves out along the front of the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and the disabled enclosure, sitting themselves down on the cold concrete floor. To a man, woman and child, the occupants of the stand are bemused. “Do you think they’ll get piles?” asks the old dear behind me, laughing. Ever-present Phil may be disgruntled but he’s never been known to lead a pitch invasion, neither has Pat from Clacton nor Ray, nor the old boy behind me, despite his occasional vitriolic tone. Ray’s grandson Harrison has got a pretty nifty new wheelchair so he’s not likely to throw it onto the pitch in a fit of pique, even if we helped him pick it up. Perhaps Police Intelligence (ha-ha) has identified me; I do have previous after all, having fallen foul of the stewards on separate occasions for banging a tambourine, sitting in the seat behind my allotted one and taking photographs; I might be considered dangerous, I like to think so, but really, as my own Smith’s inspired banner might say “ I’m not the man you think I am”.

With my mind racing Town’s defence lose concentration too and after a corner to Leeds Kemar Roofe drops to the ground after contact, of a sort, with Town captain Luke Chambers, who appears to have tried to tickle him. Mr Ward is decisive and doesn’t stop to think twice, or perhaps even once as he awards Leeds a penalty and sends Chambers off, which is a pity because it’s his name that features on the front of the match programme and he was also voted the supporters player of the year. Mr Ward should really do some research before refereeing his next match; today he is just making social faux pas after social faux pas. I doubt we’ll ask him back after this.

The ticklish Kemar Roofe dusts himself off before stepping up to take the penalty. What happens next is probably the funniest most blissful thing I have seen at a game since Robert Ullathorne’s back pass at Portman Road in April 1996, as Roofe appears to cross himself and then deftly kicks his own leg away from under him and sends the ball high and wide, appropriately towards the roof of the stand; I can’t swear to ever seeing the ball land, perhaps it hasn’t. If Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton had taken the penalty they couldn’t have bettered Roofe’s effort for pure slap-stick. I’d like to see it again in flickering black and white, slightly speeded up. If goals that go in are followed by Tom Hark or Chelsea Dagger over the public address system, moments like this deserve the Looney Tunes music and the scoreboard proclaiming “That’s All Folks!”

I feel satiated, enough has gone on this early afternoon to tide me over until next season. It might be disappointing not to win having twice had the lead, but this is 2019 in Ipswich, it’s good enough. But no, for the first time this season at Portman Road fate has something good in store and in the final minute of normal time Casilla and a Leeds defender both jump for a cross at once and succeed in knocking it on to Collin Quaner who has time and space to simply kick the ball into an open goal for another moment of high comedy and delirium.

The game ends and the season ends and at last Ipswich have a decent win in front of the Portman Road crowd. But I can’t help but feel a little sorry for Leeds; I grew up hating them like everyone else but they are part of the landscape of my football following life and I like them to be there looming large. I hope they get promoted if that’s what they want; although they should be careful what they wish for.

So Town have been relegated and will be a third division club next season, but it’s been rather fun getting here and Portman Road is a far nicer place to come now than it was last season. I just hope it’s as good or better come Christmas. Relegation isn’t so different to promotion really; we will still just end up playing a load of different teams to the ones we played this year. As a fan of the Smiths might print on a large banner “What difference does it make?” Norwich may have been promoted and we have been relegated, but let’s see who wins more games next season.

Mildenhall Town 0 Great Wakering 3

April 8, 2019September 25, 2021 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today, Ipswich Town, the team I have supported since 1971 are in the north west of the country playing away to Bolton Wanderers in what I still think of as Football League Division Two. I prefer to restrict my lengthy road trips to le péage of France if I can, but as une homage to my team’s direction of travel today, I am journeying to the far-flung north-west of Suffolk, to Mildenhall, to see Mildenhall Town play Great Wakering Rovers in the Bostik League North Division.

It was never possible to get to Mildenhall by train from the rest of Suffolk without first going to Cambridge. Then in 1962 the evil Dr Beeching did away with the Mildenhall branch line for passengers altogether, and now the only way to get to Mildenhall for a football match by public transport on a Saturday is by bus. The marvellously monikered Mulley’s Motorways operate service 355 which leaves Bury St Edmunds railway station at 22 minutes past each hour and takes 26 minutes to reach Mildenhall bus station, whilst Stephenson’s of Essex service 16 leaves at 52 minutes past the hour en-route to Newmarket and takes two minutes longer. Inevitably however, connections with trains from the direction of Ipswich are ‘clunky’ ensuring a bus has just been missed or there is a 25 minute wait for the next one. Getting back again is possible leaving at ten to five or ten to six or on the last bus out of town at ten minutes past six. Happily, Mildenhall bus station is but an under eleven’s goal-kick away from the football ground in Recreation Way. If travelling by train to Ipswich you won’t get back until almost seven-thirty, which given that it’s just just 74 kilometres away, works out at a feeble average speed of less than 30 kilometres per hour.

In common with everyone else I’m not getting any younger, and hoping to make the most of the time I have I left I reluctantly decide to further poison the planet but save time and travel by car. I fire up the trusty Citroen C3 and head off along the A14 towards Bury St Edmunds and then the lightly trafficked A1101 to Mildenhall. It’s a dull, grey, overcast day but it’s a pleasurable enough drive through Fornham All Saints, Hengrave, Flempton, Lackford and Icklingham, each with their own thatched cottages and medieval flint churches. From Lackford a change in scenery is perceptible as arable farmland begins to give way to the heath and pine trees of the Brecks.

I arrive in Mildenhall in good time and park up the Citroen in the free car park beyond Sainsbury’s supermarket, a very short walk from the ground; the River Lark is nearby and signs tell me that the area is liable to flooding, but I think my Citroen will be safe today. With almost 55 minutes until kick off I decide to explore and soon form the impression that Mildenhall is sadly a little down at heel. The town museum isn’t open yet, but the tourist information office at the bus station has already shut. The sixteenth century market cross, which features on the football club badge squats amongst parked cars by McColl’s convenience store in the rather shabby market place next to the uninspiring shopping precinct. But Mildenhall’s glory is its’ impressive, 14^th century, Grade 1 Listed parish church of St Mary’s, with its spectacular carved wooden angels in the roof. You can’t beat a bit of medieval woodwork and this is some of the best. But West Suffolk District Council needs to make more of Mildenhall, they can have that as the strapline. If the railway still ran to Cambridge it would surely be very different.

Spirits raised by the host of angels I head back to Recreation Way but struggle to find a way into the football ground as what looks like it should be the turnstile is locked. Spotting a trio of likely looking football watchers I follow them into Sainsbury’s car park, round the back of the Mildenhall swimming pool and down to a metal hut at the bottom end of the ground by Jubilee Park. It’s about twenty to two and I am one of five or six people all entering the ground at once, there’s almost a queue. I hand over a tenner and receive two fifty pence pieces in change, I tell the gateman that the club website says entry costs £8, he replies that that price is for members; it doesn’t say that on the website but I let it go unsure if the Trades Descriptions Act applies to football admission prices or the internet. Inside the ground there are people queueing up to take more money off me as first I buy a programme (£2) and then a man with barrow-boy patter tries to convince me that £2 for three draw tickets will be the best two quid I ever spend; “Not if I don’t win” I tell him. He looks slightly hurt by my harsh logic so guiltily and foolishly I hand over two pounds; I am destined not to win.

Weighed down with programme and draw tickets I head for the busy clubhouse and am excited to find four hand pumps on the bar; admittedly one is serving Greene King IPA, which is just about forgivable being just 22km from Bury St Edmunds, but the others are for Adnam’s Broadside, Mighty Oak Maldon Gold and Black Country Ales Chain Ale. This has to be the best selection of real ale at any football club in Suffolk; one-nil to Mildenhall Town. I choose a pint of the Chain Ale (£3); it’s a bit watery and flat but it leaves a pleasant aftertaste.

Clutching my plastic glass of ale I step back outside into the natural light to sample the pre-match atmosphere; a soporific ballad (I think it’s what is called R & B) is played over the PA system and a white-haired man struggles to copy down the details of the team line-ups into his programme. I am impressed that the metal perimeter fence has cup-holders for my beer; this is possibly the best thing I have ever seen at a football ground. I wander back down towards the players’ tunnel and arrive in time to see the gate across the terrace closed and the players lining up behind a steel grille at the side of the stand where a notice advises rather enigmatically that “obsessive foul or abusive language” will not be tolerated. I wonder to myself what constitutes obsessive foul language and decide it might be something like shouting “Arse!” or worse every time a member of the opposing team touches the ball; I then wonder if this sort of abuse is something peculiar to Mildenhall and West Suffolk because I have never seen such a sign anywhere else, or it could simply be that the sign writer meant ‘persistent’ not ‘obsessive’.

My reverie is interrupted by the teams bursting on to the field to the plodding strains of Thin Lizzie’s “The boys are back in town” with the referee and his assistants to line-up and shake hands before the appreciative crowd. The teams are announced over the PA system and with coin tossing, end selection and team huddling all out of the way the game begins with Mildenhall, known colloquially as “The Hall” kicking up the not inconsiderable slope in their yellow shirts and black shorts towards the bus station, Mildenhall Social Club and home of the local Sea Cadet troop. Great Wakering Rovers meanwhile, inevitably play down the slope towards Jubilee Park the River Lark and the tower of St Mary’s church Barton Mills beyond; they sport green and white striped shirts with white shorts and socks. Great Wakering’s is a bright, striking kit perfect for a dull day like today and has a hint of the 1940’s or 1950’s about it; it is probably the finest kit I have seen all season; with a kit like this even the rubbish games can look good.

Possibly in part due to the assistance of gravity, Great Wakering dominate the play from the very start with frequent breaks literally down the flanks. But early play is also very competitive and when The Hall’s combative number six Jordan Lawal is tripped by Rover’s colossal number nine Shomari Barnwell, Lawal is somewhat piqued and appeals to the referee Mr Andrew Hitchcock. “Ref-er-eeee” he says pleadingly before sagely adding “You gotta deal with that”. Only five minutes have passed since kick-off but Hitchcock surprisingly takes Lawal’s advice and displays his yellow card for all to see, confident he has not booked the wrong man.

Behind the goal which Rovers are attacking is a group of three or four youths with a green and white chequered flag. Like work experience versions of Ultras they bang on the perimeter fence and chant “Come on Rovers” as their team wins a corner and “You’re rubbish, you’re bleedin’ useless” when a Mildenhall player miscues a clearance. “Why don’t you shut-up?” calls a voice from the mass of drinkers stood in front of the clubhouse. “Why don’t you shut-up?” is the classic, typically teenage response from the work experience boys. Teenagers, you got to love them, because if you don’t they will grow up to be maladjusted adults, sociopaths and Norwich City supporters.

It’s about a quarter past three and the public address system announces that ticket number 371 has won the prize draw; my numbers (Nos 423 to 425) are forty-nine tickets too late, if I’d only got myself here sooner and hadn’t spent time gazing up at those angels in the church roof I might be £40 richer. One of those angels must have been Satan. But I barely have time to swallow my disappointment before The Hall grab my attention by going a goal behind. A short through ball lays waste the square defence and Shomari Barnwell runs through to take the ball around the solidly built Jake Hayhoe in the Mildenhall goal before rolling it into the net from an acute angle. No one can claim Great Wakering don’t deserve it and they continue to be the better team by some way. A low Great Wakering cross bounces up and there are appeals for handball, “Fuck off” says a derisive voice from the Mildenhall bench. I move round to stand between the dugouts to enjoy the swearing and fully appreciate the extent of the slope. “Good Ringo. George, George!” shouts one of the two Great Wakering coaches, presumably to number two Jason Ring and number four George Cox; it’s probably my age but I can’t help thinking of the fab four at least until one of them says “Coulda been good, but it was a shit touch”.

It’s half past three and in a rare, nearly effective attack Mildenhall almost equalise as the ball drops in the six yard box, but no one is close enough to prod it into the net before Gt Wakering goalkeeper Bobby Mason smothers it. The Mildenhall manager Ricky Cornish, whose nose reminds me a little of the late Bob Hoskins is less than happy and at times seems lost for words. In contrast, in an idle moment one of the Gt Wakering coaches says “I can’t remember the last time we lost” (it was four games ago) then adds mysteriously “Oh yeah, it was when we had that hologram in goal”. Mildenhall have the ball in the Great Wakering net at about twenty to four but the ‘goal’ is disallowed before Great Wakering have a second player booked; bald-headed number six Marc Gorball being punished by Mr Hitchcock for a foul on Mildenhall’s captain Luke Butcher.

“Come on Mildenhall” shouts a desperate sounding voice in the crowd “you’re going down” and with Romford currently winning Mildenhall are indeed now bottom of the league in 20^th place, fifteen points behind 15^th placed Great Wakering who, should they win today can be reasonably confident that they will be playing in the Bostik League again next season. With the half-time whistle I make my way to Mal’s diner (the tea hut) for a pound’s worth of PG Tips in a polystyrene cup before I check up on the half-time scores on the clubhouse TV; Ipswich are winning 2-0, which is nice. A part of the club house is screened off to provide a hospitality area for today’s match sponsors, KJM Roadsweepers. Before today I thought road sweeping was the preserve of local councils and hadn’t realised that private road sweeping businesses even existed, and I contemplate how ‘KJM’ might have started out with just a couple of stiff brooms but now has a fleet of modern mechanical road sweepers scouring the streets of West Suffolk.

A little after four o’clock the football resumes and with Mildenhall now kicking downhill they begin to benefit from the force of gravity that playing downhill seems to bring. The Hall spurn two good chances to score and Jordan Lawal shoots against Bobby Mason with the whole goal to aim at. Despite making more of a game of it and making Great Wakering look a little shaky in defence, Mildenhall are not playing accurately enough and optimistic crosses and passes inevitably end up as goal-kicks. It’s only a quarter past four and number eight for The Hall, Panny Boxer is replaced by number seventeen John Sands. The change of ends seems to have given Mildenhall a ray of hope, although as much as the slope helps them it seems to frustrate them too; but it’s probably not the fault of the slope, sadly like Ipswich Town, this season they’re just not good enough.

It is twenty past four and after struggling for a quarter of an hour or so Great Wakering suddenly and unexpectedly discover the joys of passing football. Four or five passes are strung together one after another ending with a low cross which is swept easily into the net by the big right boot of Shomari Barnwell; Great Wakering are two-nil up and the game is as good as won. It‘s a goal to be proud of. Needing to absorb the beauty of what I’ve just seen, I take a sit down in the sparsely populated metal pre-fabricated stand close to the ‘top’ corner of the ground opposite the club house.

Sat in the stand and looking around I decide I like Recreation Way with its slope and views of St Mary’s church tower beyond the incongruous white gable of the Sainsbury’s supermarket and the belisha beacons in its car park. The clubhouse is like one of the ugly bungalows visible beyond the opposite side of the ground which has mysteriously been mis-placed and equipped with a bar. At either ends of the ground high trees house nests of rooks and to cap it all it’s as good as in the town centre, where like cinemas, smart hotels, restaurants and bus stations football grounds should be.

The game enters its final fifteen minutes and the unexpected happens. Great Wakering’s Marc Gorball is turned and he grabs old of his tormentor. There are the expected howls of discontent and as far as Marc Gorball is concerned Mr Hitchcock is the man who knew too much and a red card is brandished. It’s not much of a walk for Gorball to the players’ tunnel but he makes the most of it turning to stop and point his finger on more than one occasion. As unfortunate as it is for the player concerned and the ‘good of the game’ I love a good sending off.

But football is nothing if not a mirror on the vagaries of life and within five minutes the ten men of Great Wakering create an opening down the left. Barnwell charges forward, exchanges a pass and then bears down on Hayhoe in the Mildenhall goal, slipping the ball past him into the net as he drops to the turf. It’s three-nil to Great Wakering and Shomari Barnwell runs towards the adoring trio of teenage fans behind the goal with his arms outstretched, like a huge cargo plane descending into the nearby US airbase before he is mobbed by ecstatic team mates. This is the goal that has definitely won the game.

It’s gone twenty to five now and the final minutes are perfunctory. Home fans leave disconsolate, or seek solace in the bar. Great Wakering fans gather to applaud their team from the field. Finally Mr Hitchcock calls time. Mildenhall are bereft, Great Wakering delirious, but regardless of the final score it’s been an entertaining afternoon. If Mildenhall are relegated they’ll be a welcome addition to the Eastern Counties Premier League and whatever happens Great Wakering will brighten up afternoon’s everywhere with their green and white striped kit.

Ipswich Town 0 Wolverhampton Wanderers 1

January 29, 2018April 17, 2022 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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