Framlingham Town 2 Norwich United 0

On a Saturday afternoon the number 118 bus leaves Ipswich at a quarter to two and arrives outside the former White Horse pub in Framlingham about forty-five minutes later, from where according to Google maps it is a thirteen minute walk up Bridge Street and Market Hill, along Church Street, Castle Street and up Badingham Road to the Badingham Road Sports ground, home of Framlingham Town Football Club. The only problem with this if wanting to watch a football match is that it is necessary to leave at half-time to catch the last bus back to Ipswich at a quarter past four. There are two later buses out of Framlingham, but they will only get you as far as Framsden. With passenger rail services to Fram’ having ceased in 1952, and deciding that unless sleeping in a hedge, stopping over for the weekend in Framsden or Framlingham (the next bus to Ipswich is on Monday morning) is a tad extravagant just to watch a Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties Premier League game, I have no option today but to get a bigger shoe for my carbon footprint and travel by car.
Even for someone wracked with guilt over his Citroen C3’s carbon emissions, having turned off the A12 it’s a pleasant drive along the B1116, which follows the valley of the River Ore through Hacheston and Parham. Tilled brown fields, grey flints, golden leaves and gaunt trees beneath a broad, bright sky set the scene for our winding, undulating journey. It’s all a bit ‘Akenfield’ out here. In Framlingham I park up near the 12th century castle and we, for today I am with my wife Paulene, pop to the Co-op for a small picnic; we would eat at the football club, but Paulene’s food intolerances won’t allow it. We stop off at the church of St Michael on the way back to the car to look at the display of knitted poppies draped over the south porch for Remembrance day tomorrow and take a look inside at the tombs of the ancient Howard family, feudal lords of the area after Sir Roger; appropriately the local Conservative Club is just over the road too.44933944875_965acaf762_z
It’s a very short drive from Sir Roger Bigod’s castle to Framlingham Sports Club on Badingham Road; like Stowmarket Town , Walsham le Willows and Brantham Athletic, Framlingham Town Football Club is now a part of the local sports club. Back in the 12th century Sir Roger was probably more of a hunting man than a footballer though. The roughly surfaced car park is pretty full, but we find a space and head into the club house for a drink, where we encounter what appears to be a ladies’ sports team all sat down in green trackie-tops having their dinner, and the shutters on the bar are down. Making an about turn we head around the corner to the turnstile entrance to the football ground , a nicely painted and brightly lit walk-through shed. Inside the shed a jolly man with a proper Suffolk accent relieves me of the admission fee (£8 each), which by at least a pound is the most I have ever paid to see an Eastern Counties League game and therefore seems a bit steep; I don’t think I paid more than a fiver when I last came to a match here about eighteen months ago. Financially bruised as I am, it doesn’t deter me however from splashing out on a programme (£1) too. On some days money means nothing to me. The man in the shed tells us that we can get beer or wine at the tea bar now, so the bar only opens later, I then have to remind him that I’ve paid for a programme too and he hands one over.
We walk the few yards to the main stand, briefly stopping to exchange pleasantries with a contented looking lady sat on a chair, basking in the low autumn sun. She always sits here she tells us. The tea bar is in the middle of the small brick stand at the back of the three rows of neat green seats. We both have a tea (£1), I have milk, Paulene doesn’t due to dairy intolerance; coincidentally she’s a bit scared of cows too. Paulene selects a seat in the corner of the stand; it will no doubt get colder later and this looks like a spot that will offer the closest approximation to ‘cosy’ once the sun has gone down. We drink our tea and eat our picnic, which mostly consists of Suffolk ham and crisps; we watch the officials warm up, which is always entertaining. Today’s threesome look refreshinglyOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA young and unusually trendy; one has a beard, one sports what may be designer stubble whilst the third has one of those tied-up, top-knot haircuts with two partings. I always thought the Football Association had their own barbers who tried to make all referees look like Action Man, but it seems not. They’ll have to keep an eye on the fella with the top-knot; seems a bit of a individualist.
It’s still only about half past two, so like the spend thrift that I am I return to the tea bar for a bottle of Adnam’s Ghostship (£3) to wash down the salty picnic. The lady who serves me pours the beer expertly whilst explaining how it tends to froth up in plastic glasses. I tell her I think she deserves some sort of drum roll as she pours, but hold back with a round of applause when it’s done. Beer in hand I take a stroll round the pitch and wait for the teams to emerge from the dressing room behind the stand. Eventually, to the strains of Nancy Sinatra’s “These boots were made for walking”, an unusual but impressive choice, the teams walk on to the pitch led by the referee Mr Jack Willmore and his assistants Jack Lock and the somewhat theatrical sounding Ayrton Hursey; if I had to make a guess I’d say Ayrton is the one with ‘the hair’.
The ritual handshaking occurs and the teams chase off to their respective halves of the pitch. The Framlingham players then line the centre circle and because it is Remembrance Day tomorrow the Last Post is played over the PA system, but no one seems to have told Norwich United and they ‘knock up’ as usual, as footballers do. Sadly it’s a bit shambolic and had it been filmed would surely make the cut for a possible Channel 5 documentary series entitled “When poignant ceremonies goes wrong”. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWith the Last Post over, it’s time for the minute’s silence, which happily is well observed by everyone and I suspect we all feel much better for it. For future reference, the Last Post should probably follow the silence.
It’s Norwich United, nickname The Planters, who kick-off the match in the direction of Rendham wearing a change kit of red shirts with white sleeves, red shorts and socks whilst Fram’, known informally as ‘The Castlemen’ wear green and white hooped shirts with white shorts and socks. Fram’ play in the direction of the town and the castle, of which one of the decorated Tudor chimneys is just visible from the Rendham end of the ground. The game begins quietly with Fram’ playing neatly and Norwich occasionally bursting forward, but neither side is very effective close to the opposition goal with the important forward passes often being over-hit or too easily intercepted; but it’s nice enough to watch all the same.
The sun sinks ever lower through a wreath of cloud as the half progresses and with the main stand and facilities on the north side of the pitch, most of the sixty-three strong crowd spend a lot of time squinting and holding their hands up to their foreheads as if looking out to sea. Spectators stood by the pitch-side rail cast long shadows behind them on to the metal boundary fence. I stand for a while by the team dugouts on the shaded side of the pitch where it feels rather cold and damp. Behind me is what looks like a small, dilapidated cricket pavilion and rather bizarrely, next to that is what appears to be a boarded up Council house.

The game is being played in a good spirit and although the players whinge and whine about perceived unpunished fouls and faux free-kicks there seems to be a realisation that it’s only a game; a fact that quiet reflection during the minute’s silence should have confirmed beyond all doubt. When Mr Willmore doesn’t give handball as the ball strikes the upper arm of Norwich’s full-back Adam Probert, Fram’s number seven Simon Poacher grasps his head with both hands in over-affected disbelief. Probert laughs, although it’s not clear if he’s laughing at having got away with a handball or at Poacher’s ham-handed histrionics. There are corners and crosses and misses of a sort, but it takes until the fortieth minute for either team to have a really decent looking attempt on goal when Fram’s Max Willet lands a long range shot on the roof of the Norwich goal just as the floodlights come on; a moment of double illumination. When Fram’s number five Anthony Johnson then unnecessarily concedes a corner his goalkeeper Gary Rose can be heard to say frustratedly “I told him to leave it, I told him”. But the corner comes to nothing, so no harm done.
Half-time and the seeping chill of the late autumn afternoon demands another pound’s worth of tea from the tea-bar. The result of the 50-50 draw is announced and it is revealed that the winner is the club chairman. “Money goes to money” says a man next to me in the queue at the tea bar. But the chairman seems down to earth enough, he’s stood in the tea bar and he’s not dressed up in a suit like the Norwich contingent. Teas purchased, Paulene and I huddle in the corner of the stand, the side screen of which, somewhat peculiarly, is double-glazed, which seems a little unnecessary given that it is a necessary feature of all stands that one side is left completely open. I have a flick through the programme. It’s a colourful and glossy little publication, short of text but sporting the best advert I have seen in a programme for some time – “AFS for Your Fumigation Requirements” it reads; I will be sure to give them a call for my next pre-harvest grainstore treatments. There is also an advert for agricultural trailers and, more prosaically, for Framlingham Pizza and Grill, which shows a colourful array of pizzas and fast foods against a back drop of the castle, as if the two are somehow intrinsically linked. Genuinely, I never cease to be impressed by the support of local businesses for their local team, even if they do make me laugh a bit too; all power to their advertising elbows.
At three fifty-six Mr Willmore blows his whistle to begin the second half. Within a short space of time Fram’s number nine Danny Smith runs down the right, crosses the ball and it strikes the arm or hand of the Norwich number six and captain Andy Eastaugh. Mr Willmore awards a penalty. There is a bit of a delay as we wait for the inevitable arguments from the Norwich players to subside. A seasoned Suffolk voice to my left says “If I was the ref that ruddy goalkeeper woulda gone by now”. When the penalty is finally taken, Simon Poacher scores; a rustic cheer erupts from the main stand to which I add my voice. I can’t remain impartial when it’s Suffolk versus a Norwich team, although in truth Norwich United aren’t from Norwich at all, but from Blofield five miles away, as is Poringland where the club began in 1903 as Poringland and District, a name which sounds more like a bus company than a football club.
The game needed a goal and given the first half display a penalty seemed the only way it was likely to happen. Fram’ hadn’t really pushed enough players forward in the first half, but now they are looking strong down the right wing where number eleven Max Willet is getting plenty of the ball; he puts in a couple of crosses but there is no one to get on the end of them. Fram’s number ten comes close however as he twist and turns and shoots forcing the purple clad Norwich goalkeeper Luke Pearson to make the first proper save of the match as he tips the ball over the cross-bar.
Play goes on and darkness descends and I inexplicably notice how many of the players have severe haircuts and resemble those of army conscripts from World War One. TheOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA Norwich number four Sam Applegate would seem to have a particularly vicious barber who has given Sam a haircut which makes him look as if he is wearing a skull cap. Fram’s number six James Mayhew becomes the first player to be booked by Mr Willmore. The excitement increases as Fram’ look for a second goal, but also look to hang on to their lead. “Go on Fram’”, “Go on, close ‘em down” “Come on Fram’, play football” are the calls of advice from the main stand.
Norwich have an attack and win a corner. “When was the last time we scored from a corner?” says a Norfolk accent. There’s a slight pause before the terse reply “Last week wasn’t it?” From the corner a Norwich header hits the Fram’ goalkeeper or someone on the goal line provoking predictable calls of handball, but nobody seems very convinced, least of all Mr Willmore.
45815355781_1b8fc59db8_oAt just before twenty five past four Max Willets chases off down the right for Fram’ once again. He gets into the penalty area, checks, changes pace and gains half a yard on the full-back before crossing the ball and Jake Seaber, whose name doesn’t even appear in the programme, scores a simple tap-in at the far post. The cheer for the second goal is even bigger than for the first and I once again join in; witnessing a Suffolk team called Town score a second goal against a team from Norwich is something I’ve not done in quite a while. Up the Towun!
I wander off around the other side of the ground again to enjoy the final quarter of the game. Under the floodlights the colours of the two teams comes alive and so does the match, but not in a good way. Norwich have applied some pressure without success, but have also had to defend and evidently not to the standard their goalkeeper Luke Pearson expects and he suddenly throws a tantrum, stomping stiff-legged from his goal and bawling incomprehensibly. A short while later there is a fracas near the centre of the pitch, I have no clue what has happened but Fram’s Simon Poacher staggers from a melee looking like he’s been punched in the stomach. A Norwich player is booked and the Fram’ coaches tell the linesman he knows what he saw; something to do with Norwich number five Sam Watts throwing a punch. Mr Willmore consults his assistant with the haircut and Watts is shown the red card; after a short argument he accepts his fate and returns to the dressing room. There’s not long left now, especially as the referee seems keen to finish the game as quickly as he can and within a few minutes as Fram’ goalkeeper launches a kick Mr Willmore calls time.
The crowd of mostly middle-aged and older men are appreciative of what they’ve seen this afternoon. Although Fram’ remain second from bottom in the twenty team Eastern Counties Premier League they’ve beaten a team who were ten places above them and only last season were two divisions above them. For my part it’s been a fun afternoon of goals, beer, medieval architecture and a sending off, I couldn’t ask for more.

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Debenham Leisure Centre FC 1 Framlingham Town 4

A journey through the Suffolk countryside on a bright, sunny and unseasonably warm early April afternoon is the lovely prelude to this game, this local derby. Unfortunately, whilst it is easy enough to get to Debenham on a bus for 3pm on a Saturday afternoon, it is not possible to get back again unless you live in Mendlesham or somewhere on the bus route between the two villages. The upshot is that I have had to drive to the Debenham Leisure Centre, and if you do the same, rather than say walk several miles across the fields from Framlingham or Diss, I would recommend getting here in good time because the car park can get full up.
Debenham Leisure Centre FCOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA was founded as recently as 1991 and it is odd that a largish village like Debenham should have to wait so long to have a football club, then when it did happen the club name should include the words Leisure Centre. But in the comparatively short space of 26 years they have progressed as far as the Eastern Counties Premier League, although they currently reside in the First Division, which is step six of the non-league pyramid, or Division Ten if ‘The Championship’ is Division Two.
A yellow and black sign in the car park announces that this is where the football club, known as the Hornets, hang out, but there is no turnstile into the ‘stadium’ and you have to work out that the access is through the leisure centre itself. But once inside it’s still not clear where to go; there are two choices, through the leisure centre bar or down a short corridor which appears to lead to the outside, which if my memory of other football grounds isn’t failing me is where the match is likely to be played. Using logic I opt for the corridor and of course I am wrong and a gentleman older than me appears like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn to ask if I will be watching the match. I am advised that entry is through the bar and he can’t understand why people try to get in the way that I tried to. May be because they can’t understand which way they are supposed to enter I venture. But there is a sign he says. But does it say which way to go I ask. As mysteriously as he appeared he disappears and I find myself in the bar where my accomplice, who I have not mentioned up until now, buys me a pint of cask Speckled Hen in a plastic cup.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA Surprisingly perhaps and all credit to the leisure centre staff for this, it tastes pretty darn good. Pints in hand we pay our £5 entry fee to a friendly man with a pint mug full of banknotes who is stood behind a table, and I also purchase a copy of the impressively cheap match programme33948024985_c1fb66a745_o (50p).
We sit outside in the sun at a circular wooden picnic table. A grey-haired man in some sort of commemorative Liverpool shirt brings us bright orange wrist bands to wear,33817958691_1bcae0aa48_o to show that we have paid to watch the game. Apparently the football club has a problem with people watching the matches without paying; this is because there are so many ways into the ground which are unchecked. I will later find what seems to be a public footpath crossing the site which confirms that this club is on a hiding to nothing. After a little while a couple in their late sixties or early seventies sit opposite. The man reads his programme behind his sunglasses and sups a beer. The woman tells him a couple of times that she is enjoying her cup of coffee; “It’s nice sitting here in the sun” she says, but her comment provokes nothing, nothing but silence, it is as if her words had never been uttered. No affirmation, no contradiction, nothing. Another man arrives and says something bland about football and the two men have a conversation. Her cup drained, the woman says how much she enjoyed her coffee, “I suppose you’ll want another one at half-time then” says the man.
A little while later a rounded man walks past our table to the main block of the leisure centre carrying two large jugs of a yellow/orange liquid. Making our own entertainment my accomplice and I earnestly tell each other that under new FA doping rules everyone in both teams must be tested for drug use. At this level of course that is prohibitively expensive so each team is tested in one go, hence a single jug of yellow liquid from each. It’s a team game after all. How we laugh at our own joke.

Time moves on and it’s nearly 3 o’clock; time to take up a position by the rail to watch the match. The Friend’s Meadow ground or Maitland’s as it was formerly known is a basic but neat ground with a small pre-fabricated


stand containing seats straddling the halfway line and a concrete path around the rest of the perimeter. The dugouts are opposite the stand and there is a sturdy post and rail fence around the pitch with a number of advertisement boards attached to it, bearing the names of assorted local plumbers, builders and hairdressers. Behind one goal is a small mound, a grassy knoll, behind that, bushes, a hedge, a field, a tractor. There is a regimented line of poplars some 80 yards beyond the far side of the pitch with a hedge beneath. Daisies and dandelions are beginning to bloom on the mound and on the pitch.

At last it’s 3 pm and Framlingham Town, wearing their kit of green and white hoops kick off towards the council houses at the edge of Debenham. About a quarter past three Framlingham score a goal, not undeservedly because they have been much the better team, quicker and brighter, they pass the ball whereas Debenham in their black-sleeved yellow shirts are slow, less skilful and dull by comparison. The Debenham number 11 seems unable to approach a Framlingham player without fouling him and is spoken to by the short referee, Mr Willmore.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA The number 11 doesn’t look very contrite and predictably when he fouls again, the referee brandishes a yellow card in his general direction. A full-faced bearded man leaning on the rail pleads the number 11’s case. “What was that for? That was piss poor” He opines, adding that he hopes the referee is going to be consistent, which is an odd wish given that he is apparently getting his decisions wrong.

The sun beats down as best it can in April forcing my accomplice to make use of his hoodie to protect his delicate northern European complexion. Framlingham continue to be the better team. Debenham just boot the ball forward for their forwards to run after; “Foot race” shouts the bearded man. What other sort of race is there in a football match? A horse race, slow-bicycle race? Let’s kick racism out of football. At about twenty five to four the Debenham number two tackles over-enthusiastically and is booked. From the ensuing free-kick the ball is crossed and after a pass or two, Framlingham, score a second goal, a volley, spectacular of course as all volleys are. The bearded man questions the linesman about the referee’s decision and very helpfully the linesman tells him about the use of excessive force and not being in control when tackling. The bearded man doesn’t recognise this as a thing in football and the linesman tells him that there is an assessor stood near him who can explain and he in turn helpfully tells the bearded man about what you can’t do in the ‘modern game’. The bearded man is unimpressed and moans about making the game ‘non-contact’ and it not being like it was when he played.

About five minutes later Framlingham score yet again just to make a point and soon it is half-time. I and my accomplices, for a second friend has joined me during the first half, head for the tea bar. I buy a soft roll for £2 and a pounds worth of tea in a mug with a handle,OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA which is much more civilised than a plastic or polystyrene cup. I have to take the roll outside to a barbecue where another lady gives me a sausage to complete my hot dog The two ladies indoors serving the tea and rolls fight over who gets the three pounds. Later, I speculate as to whether in the same way that some people get into the game without paying, others might bring their own soft roll in order to bag a free hot dog.

For the start of the second half we stand on the grassy knoll, which is a surprisingly good vantage point, although it’s slightly in the shade so it’s a bit cool and eventually we settle at the side of the goal now being defended by Debenham and their bulky goalkeeper, who is a vision in baby blue,OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA but doesn’t cast a shadow over us despite his size. After their abject first half display Debenham have made three substitutions with the clumsy number 11 being one of them. Debenham look all the better for their mugs of half-time isotonic tea and their substitutes’ ‘fresh legs’ and attitude, and after just nine minutes of play are awarded a penalty, which is scored by their centre-forward whose first name is Paris. Debenham continue to spend time in the Framlingham half, but their hopes are dealt a severe blow when their pony-tailed substitute falls over and is accused by Framlingham players of diving. Jabbing of fingers ensues before a look of shock crosses the referee’s face and he brandishes his red card at the pony-tailed substitute, apparently for threatening behaviour towards his accusers from Framlingham.

Debenham’s hopes are pretty much dashed and whilst the game begins to meander, there is an unexpected outburst of frustration when following a foul by a Framlingham player the Debenham captain suddenly bawls “when are you going to do something ref!”  The referee looks a little taken aback. After a Debenham player generously heads the ball into his own goal to give Framlingham a fourth goal, the game enters the final ten minutes. Aware of much shouting from the managers we move closer to the ‘technical areas’ and witness a Framlingham substitute having a wee up against the back wall of the dug-out before going on; possibly a superstition or may be that second cup of tea at half-time was a mistake. Interestingly there is a high fence between the dug outs which could easily ‘hide’ a urinal if necessary.

Framlingham have a lot of young players on the field and the coach or manager or whatever he is provides plenty of words of encouragement. Mystifyingly I hear him several times shout “Call him Will” then surmise that he is actually shouting “Call him, Will”. Meanwhile the Debenham manager has a less positive vibe about him and is bemoaning his team’s luck for which he blames the referee. He complains that they should have had a penalty and then complains that the penalty they did score shouldn’t have been a penalty, which on balance seems a fairly pointless complaint.

Eventually time is called and there is some applause, but not a lot from the 128 people who were counted as having paid and those who possibly didn’t. A bit miserable of people not to applaud the effort; these players aren’t being paid fortunes to do this, not here anyway. The crowd drifts away and in making our exit we complete a circuit of the ground, barely stopping to admire some graffiti which looks a bit ‘urban’ and out of place in rural Suffolk.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Not a bad afternoon’s entertainment for a fiver.