Ipswich Town 2 Wigan Athletic 0

September 14, 2020September 15, 2020 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Sunday bloody, Sunday, a classic angst ridden film drama from 1971 directed by John Schlesinger starring Glenda Jackson, Murray Head and Peter Finch and featuring a doomed dog called Kenyatta, but also how I describe the Christian Sabbath when Town have to play on it. I like my football on a Saturday and at 3 pm to boot. Noon on a Sunday should be when the pubs open and nothing else. To make matters worse today’s is the first match of the league season, a fixture which for the sake of symmetry if nothing else should kick off at the same time as every other club’s first game of the season. As if Boris ‘Bozo’ Johnson being Prime Minister wasn’t enough to cope with. Why do things only ever get worse?

Waking from my slumbers a little before 8 o’clock I draw the blinds and am bathed in bright early autumn sunlight. I shower and dress, donning my button neck, blue, Ipswich Town branded T-shirt purchased over the summer from the Planet Blue website, where my review of the garment has never appeared despite having been submitted three times (see previous blog post “Consumer City 1 Lockdown Town 0”); I’m not bitter, but the truth must be told. After a breakfast with my wife Paulene of bacon, egg, toast, tomatoes and mushrooms with tea and an espresso coffee, all prepared by me, I look for things to fill the time until shortly before noon when I will switch on my lap top, log on to the ifollow and hope that it lets me watch the match. I have heard that yesterday Portsmouth supporters were unable to watch their game versus Shrewsbury Town on the ifollow and ended up listening to local radio. I am soon in my garage breaking up cardboard boxes to put out for the refuse collection on Wednesday; it’s been a busy week of deliveries with two new toilet seats and thirty-two bottles of Fuller’s Bengal Lancer pale ale all arriving courtesy of men driving white vans. Boxes crushed, I potter about and fold away the blue and white bunting that bedecks my garden each summer to celebrate the season the sun and the Town.

Time passes quickly and Paulene is soon telling me that she has logged me onto to the ifollow and it’s working. I pour myself a pint of water, which I liven up with a squirt of lime juice, and lie on my back on the orange canvas bean bag that normally sits in the corner of the room, but which I have re-positioned centrally in front of the smart tv. I have today’s match programme by my side; impressively it arrived in yesterday’s post in time for the match. It’s not the best programme I’ve ever seen, it’s front cover, which appears to be an homage to the programmes of the 1980-81 season is a little speckled at the edges, like a poor photocopy, which is possibly the source of the design, but at least the cover price is a £1 cheaper than if this was a normal game. I don’t mind if there are fewer pages and less to read, I just want a few folded sheets of paper that are specific to this match and which lists the teams or at least the names from which the teams will be selected. Who actually reads all the other drivel that’s printed in the massive programmes we pay the price of a paperback book for anyway? Less is more in the world of football match programmes and I pine for those of the 1960’s and 70’s. In France, the clubs that produce a programme do not charge for it.

I am now comfortably slumped and as the broadcast begins I am surprised, but pleased, to hear the familiar, nearly Geordie tones (he’s from Berwick-Upon-Tweed) of Brenner Woolley and the flat, steady delivery of Mick Mills. Mick sets out on a lengthy monologue in which he immediately tempts fate by explaining that this is a good time to play Wigan. He goes on to explain in a manner which suggest he thinks we should be surprised, that he has been doing a bit of research and had logged on to the Wigan website to see who is in their squad. But he tells us that they have shipped out sixteen players and only brought in two so it was a waste of time; presumably he didn’t recognise any of the names.

The players are now walking onto the pitch to the accompaniment of the crap-rock strains of Van Halen’s “Jump”, this despite the absence of a crowd. I wonder to myself if the ‘entrance music’ is meant to inspire the players, and feel glad I am not a professional footballer. Sadly the opportunity has not been taken to have some fun with the entrance music by playing something like Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence” or something by Roger Whittaker. I’m pleased to see the players ‘take the knee’ and hope that all the people that it annoys, and sadly there are some, are so annoyed that they slam their heads repeatedly against the nearest wall and pour boiling water over their own genitals. Today’s referee and assistants are wearing purple tops which make them look like sporting Anglican bishops, which is appropriate for a Sunday game. Meanwhile , Brenner Woolley tries to trump Mick Mills efforts to tempt fate by telling us that Wigan Athletic as a club are “in free fall”, which is probably not quite true. At 12:02 little Alan Judge literally gets the ball rolling for Town who are resplendent in their new kit of all blue with Adidas decorations and the yellow and blue badge that the team wore back in the days when it won Cups and was one of the very best in Europe, if not the World. Wigan in contrast are today’s ‘baddies’, wearing all-black, although the gift of the tv close-up reveals that the shirt features a grim machine-like pattern of various shades of grey hexagon.

The game begins like a tennis match with the ball being knocked back and forward pointlessly between the two teams, but this disappointment is tempered by the realisation that Brenner Woolley’s radio commentary is actually much better than the usual tv commentary because he makes the effort to say who has the ball, and that is all we really need to know. On a tv screen the numbers and names on the backs of the players’ shirts are too small to read and most of the players look the same with their conscripts’ haircuts.

Eight minutes pass and Wigan should be ahead as 19 year old Nigerian Emeka Obi is left all alone to head Gary Roberts’ corner powerfully but clumsily past the post; the Ipswich defence seemingly need to learn the lesson that black lives especially matter when they’re in your own penalty area. At about this time Paulene comes into the room and by some sorcery manages to make the screen bigger. This naturally adds to my enjoyment but not as much as Teddy Bishop does in the eleventh minute as he heads into the goal an attempted clearance of a Freddie Sears’ left-wing cross. It’s a goal that in its construction has something in common with Roger Osborne’s FA Cup winning goal in 1978, with the Wigan defender playing the role of the hapless Willie Young and with Freddie Sears as David Geddes.

As well as putting Town ahead, the goal highlights the fact that the commentary is fractionally ahead of the pictures on the screen as Brenner tells me that Teddy has scored a moment before the ball strikes the net. As the game continues it’s a lack of synchronisation that ultimately proves reassuring as Emeka Obi is twice more left free to score, but Brenner promptly tells me that he fails to do so at the very moment when my heart is about to enter my mouth. Brenner spoils it a bit though when he confirms that Wigan should be ahead, but adds, sounding slightly disappointed “…as it is , it’s 1-0 to Town”. From wrongly placed bias Brenner then veers towards surrealism with the phrase “Ipswich Town’s ball, in the shape of Stephen Ward”. The picture in the programme of Stephen only adds to my worries because I hadn’t realised he had a nose bigger than mine and hair neat enough to suggest he might follow a career as a referee once his playing days are over.

Whilst Brenner Woolley’s commentary adds things to the commentary not visible to the human eye, Mick Mills is I think having a very good day, providing some convincing and totally plausible tactical analysis about the full-backs and how the two teams’ respective line-ups and formations cancel each other out. On days like this it’s as if Mick is wearing the number 4 shirt again in Frans Thijssen’s absence and is running the midfield.

Wigan had looked quite good for a spell but Town are looking better, and a passage of absolutely marvellous play ends with Teddy Bishop having a shot tipped away on to the post by Wigan goalkeeper Jamie Jones, whose name instantly has me breaking into the opening song on the Clash’s eponymous first album. It’s easily the highlight of the match so far, but soon Brenner is competing with more weirdness as he tells how “Naismith scoops Sears’ cross away with his left shoe”. His left shoe! No wonder we’re winning if Wigan are playing in their shoes; but presumably for these Lancastrians it’s better than playing in clogs.

With a half hour gone there is a drinks break and the camera lingers on Wigan manager John Sheridan and his coach gesticulating and pointing enthusiastically as if relaying the latest odds on another relegation to the club’s former owners. Meanwhile Town manager Paul Lambert is wearing a rather unpleasant shiny grey Adidas training top and a blue Ipswich Town branded baseball cap. I’m not a fan of baseball caps, to me they just say “Sir Francis Chichester”, and whilst I have nothing against the sadly deceased circumnavigator, he wasn’t a Town fan. What have you done with your v-neck black jumper Paul? That looked much more classy.

As the end of the half draws nigh Joe Garner hits the Town cross bar with an overhead kick and my attention is grabbed by his nascent ginger beard, but also his skinhead haircut, which makes him look like he could be a member of the BNP, although I’m certain he isn’t. The half ends with Mick Mills telling us that “A second goal would be handy to say you’re in a good position” before the sound from Radio Suffolk takes on a weirdness to match Brenner’s commentary making the co-commentators sound like a cross between the Daleks and Peter Frampton. Oddly it’s an aural effect that suits Mick more than Brenner.

Half-time brings adverts like on the real telly and I am being encouraged to purchase the services of Screwfix, something called Utilita, some sort of video game and to watch the EFL on Quest, and then it happens all over again as if I might need reminding. Not really interested in this commercially driven filling of the football broadcast sandwich I head to the fridge and pour myself a glass of Faro Foudroyante lambic beer. Paulene is watching the Tour de France on the telly in the kitchen and expresses her surprise that Town are winning. My beer tastes a bit like cider and is very refreshing on a warm day like today.

The joys of the ifollow broadcast return with Norwood replacing Drinan for Town and Perry replacing a Wigan player; like Mick Mills, I don’t know who. At 13:07 the fun begins again and soon Brenner is saying “Norwood takes the ball on his shoe”. What is it with these northerners playing in shoes? Are Church’s and Clark’s suddenly offering better sponsorship deals than Nike and Adidas? This doesn’t bode well I’m thinking; thank goodness we’ve already scored one goal because I can’t see Norwood scoring if he’s not wearing boots. Idiot. I’m surprised Paul Lambert allows it.

The second half is interesting enough to begin with; but Wigan are doing better and Brenner suggests that Town let Gary Roberts go too soon, although he is now thirty-six years old; but it’s an opinion I support. In recent years Town and English football in general have valued athleticism and endurance above skill far too much. I want to watch football not long distance running. Brenner now adds incontrovertible facts to set alongside his opinions and lets us know that Town have won only four of their last sixteen home games before Mick Mills advises that someone else should have a go at the free-kicks after Freddie Sears sends a second hopelessly over the cross bar; I couldn’t quite understand why he took them when Bishop and Dozzell are both playing, but perhaps I am wrong to see them as the heirs to Peter Morris, Arnold Muhren, Mark Brennan, Ian Redford and Jimmy Juan.

An hour has passed and Luke Chambers is the first player booked, but the match is becoming a bit boring; Mick Mills euphemistically describes it as ‘mundane’ and asks if Wigan aren’t beginning to be the better team. If I didn’t have beer to hand I’d be hoping for Pat from Clacton to appear with a bag of sweets now; hopefully the sugar would help me feel less queasy at the sight of Joe Garner’s completely tattooed left arm, which makes him look as if he has a nasty skin condition, all his veins and capillaries are a little too close to the surface or he hasn’t washed his arm for a year. But more to do with the game I am currently unimpressed with Norwood who seems to be wrongly playing beyond the defender who is marking him (Naismith), which means the ball is always intercepted before it reaches him, whereas Drinan played in front of the defender, received the ball, controlled it and laid it off bringing Dozzell and Bishop, the attacking midfield players, into the game. I like to think that Mick Mills would be impressed with my tactical evaluation.

Seventy-three minutes pass and Edwards replaces Sears, and three minutes later Huws replaces Bishop and the game swings back in Town’s favour. Just four minutes after Huws comes on Edwards doubles Town’s lead after a second excellent passing moving from Town, again down the left, and our record of sixteen successive games televised by Sky tv without a win looks set to end. The game is as good as won and the remaining highlights are reduced to seeing Wigan substitute Oliver Crankshaw massaging his right buttock, although he does have reassuringly long hair. Town attempt to end the game with panache, playing ‘keep ball’ until it reaches Luke Chambers and it’s good to see Emyr Huws then kick Joe Garner in the stomach. But there’s nothing more to this and at four minutes to two referee Mr Thomas Bramall calls time.

It’s been an afternoon of mixed and fluid emotions just as should be the case with proper football matches. The game has been won, but the result was often in doubt and credit to Messrs Woolley and Mills, today they have reflected and explained the turmoil, the trouble and the ultimate satisfaction, a much better performance than last Saturday. The ifollow has also done its job and I feel more confident about watching future broadcasts, even if I am paying over the odds just to watch the telly.

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol Rovers 0

September 7, 2020 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It’s the first Saturday in September and the weather has broken, although to be truthful it’s been looking a bit cracked for a while now. Autumn approaches. It rained overnight and whilst there are glimpses of sunshine it is straining to penetrate through the clouds and worst of all it feels cold. But on the bright side, today sees the start of the football season and mighty Ipswich Town, the vessel in which the hopes and dreams of a good many of the people of Suffolk are invested will be playing Bristol Rovers in what I refer to as the League Cup, but the football club, media and those who don’t know any better call the Carabao Cup. I didn’t used to know what Carabao was, I erroneously thought it was a wrongly spelt American name for a reindeer, but because of the League Cup, and thanks to Wikipedia, I now know that it is a domestic water buffalo from the Philippines and also a drink; not a proper drink mind, like Adnams Broadside, tea, Noilly Prat, milk, red wine, Fuller’s 1845, espresso coffee, Crémant, pineapple juice, Champagne, lime cordial, Belgian Trappist beer , hot chocolate or malt whisky but something called an ‘energy drink’. The sponsorship of football competitions is a curious thing and only adds to the feelings I have that I live as an outsider on the fringes of society, with the Milk Marketing Board being the only sponsor whose product I can honestly admit to ever having set out to purchase.

Kick-off is at three o’clock, but of course due to the Covid-19 pandemic it is not safe for a large crowd to gather and therefore no one is going to Portman Road today. Sadly, I shall be denied the joys of travelling on the trains of Greater Anglia, the pre-match pints, the quickening anticipation-filled walk down Portman Road and the click of the turnstile. Today I will not hear the moans of the home supporters nor the witless abuse of the away supporters; I will not receive the suspicious glances of luminous stewards nor feel the soft artificial fur of Bluey and Crazee as they brush past me with their out-sized heads and weird hoof-hands; I will not become engrossed in conversation nor share see-sawing emotions with Mick, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, the old dears, Ray and his grandson Harrison, or Pat from Clacton with her bag of sweets and lucky charm, the masturbating monkey.

Not thinking of what I am missing, I enjoy a light lunch of home-made spicy carrot soup with my wife Paulene whilst resisting the temptation of a beer, despite a choice of Adnams Ghostship, Adnams Ease Up IPA, Fuller’s Bengal Lancer, Chimay, Chimay Brun, Orval, Westmalle and Faro Foudroyante from my ‘beer cupboard’. We watch the Tour de France on the television, losing ourselves in the French countryside as an escape from the memory of lockdown. We talk and reminisce about holidays and trips to France. It’s a quarter past three. Flippin’ eck! The game has started and I hadn’t realised, this is what life is like without the discipline of the railway timetable to get me to the match. I leave Paulene somewhere in the Haute Garonne and find my radio, which is already tuned to BBC Radio Suffolk, because I like a laugh. I decided long ago that watching Town on the ifollow is not worth £10, particularly when I’ve already spent over £300 on a season ticket, so I settle down in an Ikea Poang chair in the back bedroom with Brenner Woolley and Mick Mills. Elvis Costello was right ” Radio is a sound salvation”.

Very quickly I learn that Aaron Drinan is pronounced Dry-nen and doesn’t rhyme with ‘linen’ as I previously thought it did, which I think is a useful start and then Mick Mills tells me that a half-chance for Bristol Rovers is the first time they have threatened Town’s goal so at least I can now be confident that we’re not losing. Brenner and Mick witter on and Brenner tells me that Tomas Holy “puts his foot through the ball”; I wait for the referee to stop the game to extricate Holy’s foot, but rather confusingly the commentary carries on with Brenner describing the ball as being passed “along the deck “and I now wonder if the game has been moved from Portman Road to an oil tanker; it’s common after all for the size of such ships to be measured in terms of football pitches. I’m still not sure of the up to date score but Brenner is hoping for a result in normal time, which implies the scores are still level and that he’s got better things to do after five o’clock than commentate on this. The absence of any crowd noise then strikes me for the first time and I am conscious of the shouts of the players echoing through the stands left cavernous and empty. Fittingly in all this blankness, Brenner at last reprises the score, it’s still nil-nil; I haven’t missed anything then. Phew.

Mick Mills is not a man to ever sound at all excited, but he feels moved to say that our left hand side has ‘come to life’ and produced two or three ‘moments’. That’s what the game is all about I think to myself and am heartened to hear Mick provide balance by wishing that the right hand side of the team could do the same. Brenner takes back control of the commentary and I learn that today Paul Lambert is wearing a big over coat, which is most unusual; I don’t think I’ve ever seen him not in a black v-neck sweater; perhaps the added security of his five year contract has led him to invest in a more extensive wardrobe, but I do worry that it’s a bit early in the year for an overcoat and surely this can only provoke more abuse from his critics on social media.

As I drift off into reverie about what is an appropriate coat for a football manager on a cool early September Saturday, Brenner announces that “Sears was not going to miss” and Town are 1-0 up. It’s twenty-eight minutes past three, I clench my left fist and softly whisper a sibilant ‘Yes’ to myself. “It was easy to get the ball down the corridor to Sears” says Mick Mills and once again I’m a bit lost trying to imagine where I’d seen any corridors at Portman Road, except beneath the stands, and worrying that if the ball was in a corridor surely it should have been a throw-in. I thank our lucky stars that our level of football is not subject to VAR.

With Town a goal up the game soon sounds like it has become a tad dull, or it could just be the commentary. Mick Mills increasingly seems like a comfortably retired man in his seventies, but the I remember that he is. Brenner meanwhile goes off piste and begins to talk about Town’s next game at home to the Arsenal Under-23 team in the now despicably compromised, credibility-lacking EFL Trophy, expressing his interest in seeing “…how good the latest crop of kids at the Emirates are”. If he’s so interested in bleedin’ Arsenal perhaps he should clear off to BBC London. Hopefully as annoyed as I am by Brenner’s concern about a club that isn’t Ipswich Town, Mick tries to break the mould by injecting a hint of excitement into the commentary and announces “That was a super pass from Dozzell” but he spoils it rather by pausing and then adding “so that was good”, as if his use of the adjective “super” was in retrospect going a bit far.

I look at my watch and find that it’s approaching half time and I think I discern from the commentary that Town have a corner. They do, and now it’s 2-0 courtesy of what Mick Mills dubs a ‘fabulous goal’ from Luke Chambers. “Luke Chambers is pretty deadly in the opposition box” says Mick leaving me to fill in the blanks that he can, on occasions, be quite deadly in his own box too. Half-time arrives and unlike at Portman Road I don’t make an undignified dash to the khasi but stay in my seat. This is no doubt in part due to not having a bladder full of the remnants of two or more pints of beer and partly because at Portman Road I am not pleasantly paralysed through sitting on a comfortable chair. For remaining seated I am rewarded by hearing Mick Mills refer to Aaron Drinan as Aaron Dry-nan although he instantly corrects himself to make Aaron’s surname rhyme with linen a la Brenner Woolley. Mick goes on to tempt fate horribly by saying that he “…cannot see Bristol Rovers coming back in to this”. I admire Mick’s forthrightness, but recent experience nevertheless leads me to offer a small prayer for him, and his opinion, despite my probable atheism. I take a brief trip downstairs to France to bring the gospel to my Christian wife that Town are winning 2-0. She asks if I am sure I have tuned into the right radio station.

The second half begins at the ridiculously late time of 4:06pm, and it’s not long before Mick Mills is telling me that the game has become a “…little but drab, a little bit boring”; if anyone should know about that it’s monotone Mick. Personally, I am finding the experience of sitting in my back bedroom listening to the wireless quite exciting and probably more interesting than if I had had to fork out a tenner or so for a match ticket plus as much again for the train fare, beer and perhaps a pie, all requirements if I was to attend in person. I am further enthralled when Brenner advises me as the ball is booted off the pitch that “…the ball is dipped in some sort of sterilizing solution when it goes in the seats over there”. I can’t help wondering why this is necessary; who normally sits in that part of the ground? What sort of unpleasant residue have they left? Why hasn’t that corner of the ground be cleaned since last March?

Moving on, Mick Mills is providing the most enjoyable moments of the commentary and, as he did in the first half, he gives praise but then tempers it. “That was a wonderful corner by Judge” he says before qualifying his statement by explaining “It was…………good”, once again suggesting that given time to think about it perhaps his initial assessment was a little too enthusiastic. It’s either that or he just doesn’t know that many adjectives. But there is no doubt that lurking beneath Mick’s inherent reticence and quietude there is a passion and he soon lets it out with the statement “There’s a lot of football in the team”. As for Brenner he can’t help but betray a certain cynicism, no doubt borne of over fifteen years commentating on the mighty Blues; “Good play from the Blues” says Brenner, before adding with perfect timing “At the moment”.

The second half is clearly not totally thrilling, but the impression received is thankfully that Town are playing within themselves and have the measure of these “Pirates”. The game plays on and I am guilty of paying more attention to Twitter than to Brenner and Mick as I seek to discover how the likes of Whitton United, Long Melford, Ipswich Wanderers, Stowmarket Town and Framlingham Town are getting on. I admit I haven’t really been paying close attention to the commentary but am nevertheless surprised at four thirty-three to hear Brenner say that Town are now 3-0 up, and although I will admit to reading Twitter I wonder how I could have missed hearing the goal go in. I am left to suppose Mick’s less than excited general delivery and Brenner’s overriding interest in the Arsenal’s “kids” could explain why neither commentator had succeeded in grabbing my attention. Fortunately, Twitter can also tell me that it was Freddie Sears who scored the third goal, in the 68^th minute as well as actually showing me the first two goals and then the third as well.

Time moves on inexorably and it’s now four forty-nine, and Brenner confirms that it’s been “all over really” since Freddie Sears scored Town’s third goal, as he stifles a yawn. Fittingly the commentary peters out a little with periods of silence punctuated with commentator clichés letting the eager listeners know that Bristol Rovers don’t have “enough left in the tank” to change the result and that Town have been “good value” for their lead. “Three-nil, Ipswich Town” says Brenner, saving up his allocation of useful verbs and adjectives for another day, perhaps when Arsenal’s “kids” might be playing. “Town, winding the clock down” says Mick. “According to my watch we’re just about there” are Brenner’s final words, as if prompting the referee to blow his whistle, which miraculously he then does.

Pleased that Town have won and pleased that I can leave Brenner and Mick alone together and return downstairs to my wife, I turn off my radio. I haven’t really had a clue what’s been going on all afternoon but I do know that Town have won a cup tie, scoring three times in the process and not conceding, even if I only noticed two of the goals and it feels as if it all happened in a far off universe, but being divorced from the proceedings the result is all that matters. Back to reality, if not normality; a glass of beer and fish and chips for tea. As Ray Davies of the Kinks told us in Autumn Almanac, “I like my football on a Saturday”.

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 1 Nottingham Forest 1

March 18, 2019March 18, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Thirty-eight years ago today, give or take ten days, Ipswich Town played Nottingham Forest in the sixth round of the FA Cup. I travelled up to Nottingham for the game, taking the train from Brighton where I was at university and then, having met up with three other Town fans in London, by Morris Minor 1000 up the M1. We spent the night in Nottingham after the match, ate mushy peas and chips, drank large quantities of Home Ales bitter, slept on a floor of someone we knew at Nottingham University and drove back down south the next day. Nottingham Forest were the reigning European Cup holders and in two months’ time Ipswich Town would win the UEFA Cup. They were happy times.

Today, both clubs languish in the second division, Town awaiting inevitable relegation whilst Forest struggle in vain for a play-off place; but they meet in the day’s only match between the former winners of European cup competitions. It is a dull, blustery, mid-March day and layers of grey cloud are stacked up overhead as I walk to the railway station. Blossom from the trees is blown into the gutter. I pass by a newspaper recycling bin and feel perplexed that it is considered necessary to paint a sign on it advising people not to climb inside. At the railway station I meet Roly; the train is on time. Roly shows me a short video on his mobile phone of his eighteen month old daughter kicking a ball. Roly is nothing if not a very proud father.

Arriving in Ipswich the weather hasn’t changed; Roly gets some cash from an ATM whilst a group of Ipswich supporters struggle to get a car park ticket from an automatic machine. We head down Princes Street towards Portman Road and on to St Jude’s Tavern. As usual people mill about aimlessly in Portman Road waiting for the turnstiles to open, they must retain the hope that one week they will open early, otherwise why get here early week after week after week? There is always hope.

At St Jude’s Tavern Roly has a pint of Nethergate Bulldog (£2.50) and I have a similar quantity of the Match Day Special, which once again is St Jude’s own attractively named Goblin’s Piss (£2.50), a name that St Jude’s should really offer to Greene King for their IPA. We sit at a table next to the usual retirees who meet here pre-match. We talk football. Another clutch of retirees arrives, “What do you recommend” one asks looking at the beer list, “That you clear off somewhere else” is the response. Statler and Waldorf live. Not entirely satisfied by the ‘tired’ condition of our first pints, Roly and I switch to Nethergate Venture (£3.40) for our second; it’s okay but a bit too ‘floral’ for my tastes.

At about twenty to three the pub begins to empty out and Roly and I leave too. He doesn’t admit it but I suspect Roly wants time to get something to eat, that’s the kind of guy he is. With fifteen minutes until kick-off Portman Road is busy but the club shop isn’t and I pop in, much as I might pop to the Co-op, and buy a programme, redeeming the 115 loyalty points I have accrued from previous purchases in the process. In the past week I have now enjoyed two free programmes (at Kirkley & Pakefield and Colchester United) and a cut-price one, I am feeling blessed and if this carries on I will soon have saved enough to retire; hopefully Brexit won’t happen and I can go and live in the south of France, although if it does happen that is probably all the more reason to move to the south of France, or anywhere.

There is no queue at the turnstiles, I smile and thank the moustachioed turnstile operator as I pass through. After a brief conversation with Dave the steward, a former work colleague, I use the toilet facilities and then take up my place alongside Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his young son Elwood. There are a lot of Nottingham Forest supporters here today (the score board will tell us during the second-half that there are 1,691 in a crowd of 16,709) and Phil recounts how he visited his mum in Newmarket this morning and as he left he even saw one heading for Newmarket railway station. The teams enter the field and my view is through the net of a practice goal which hadn’t been wheeled away before the concertina-like players’ tunnel was extended out to the corner of the pitch.

The game begins with Nottingham Forest getting first go with the ball and playing towards the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and Alderman Road rec’, they are wearing red shirts, shorts and socks. Town are in their customary blue and white kit, despoiled by an ugly advert for an on-line scamming organisation, a likely contributor to this season’s eventual relegation; they are aiming in the direction of me, Pat, Phil and Elwood, but hopefully a bit to our right. The Nottingham supporters are in very good voice regaling us with a lyrically altered version of Land of Hope & Glory that tells of how they hate a number of other clubs but love Nottingham Forest, it’s an old favourite and takes me back to the 1970’s; the old ones are the best I think, sounding like my late father and his father and probably his father before that. Enjoy your youth while you can Elwood, because one day you will be an old git too.

Barely five minutes pass and Town produce a quick move of short passes in front of the East of England Co-operative Stand and the lifeless souls that populate it; Gwion Edwards gets behind the Nottingham defence, delivers a low cross and like a magical genie the hard to hide Collin Quaner appears from nowhere to deftly stroke the ball into the goal to give Ipswich the lead. It was a most beautiful goal. I have heard so-called supporters say rude things about Collin Quaner but I like him, he’s German, he has the distinctive, exotic look of an Easter Island statue (minus the big ears), but most of all he plays for Ipswich Town and therefore he’s alright.

The goal gets the home crowd going for a short while, “Allez, Allez-Allez-Allez” some of us sing, enjoying the linguistic abilities that a meeting of two former European competition winners bring. The noise of the crowd rises and swirls around in the strongly gusting breeze. But by and by the enthusiasm recedes and that goal is one of the last exciting things that happens at my end of the pitch as Nottingham Forest go on to un-sportingly monopolise the remainder of the first half winning four corners to Town’s none and having eight shot to our two. It’s not long before the home crowd is quiet once again and the Nottingham Forest supporters can begin their goading. “One-nil, and you still don’t sing” they chant to the tune of the Village People’s “Go West”, but without the manly bravura of the original version. Exasperated perhaps by the lack of a reaction the Forest fans invoke the Beach Boys’ Sloop John B to sing “We’ll sing on our own, we’ll sing on own”, which is probably the sensible thing to do in the circumstances, before their attention then turns to an obese Town supporter to whom they sing “Fatty, Fatty, give us a song”. After enquiring through the medium of song if he has ever seen his own genitals they entreat him to “Get your tits out for the lads”, he duly obliges. It’s hard to say if ‘Fatty’ enjoys his five minutes or fame, but he doesn’t return to his seat after half-time.

The game carries on and Ipswich are denied what looked like a corner “That was literally in front of you, you Muppet” shouts a woman from behind me at the linesman. Would that we could really have Muppet linesman I think to myself; the FA and The Jim Henson Company should forge closer links. I note how many foreign players Nottingham’s are fielding and am impressed by the performance of Pele at number 28 which is remarkable for a man in his seventies, but I am surprised to learn from the tiny little Guinea-Bissau flag against his name on the back of the programme that he is no longer Brazilian. My attention is also drawn to Forest’s number 29, Tunisian Yohan Benalouane who, with his completely bald head and pale complexion makes me think of Nosferatu; I don’t get a look at his finger nails.

It’s just gone half-past three and Nottingham Forest win a corner, the ball is directed towards goal, Bartosz Bialkowski dives to his left, Nottingham players raise their arms and the diminutive referee Mr Keith Stroud signals a goal, which the scoreboard attributes to the Malian number 13 Molla Wague, although it will later be said to be a Jon Nolan own-goal. It’s a shame for Town, for Molla Wague and for Jon Nolan and given that the goal has brought so much disappointment I am surprised it is allowed to stand. “Que Sera Sera, Whatever will be will be, You’re going to Shrewsbury, Que Sera Sera” sing the gloating Nottinghamians, revealing a hitherto unexpected admiration for Doris Day, although the earlier Go West song was perhaps a clue as to their preferences.

Half-time arrives and briefly Portman Road is once again back in the long lost 1970’s as the PA system provides an aural treat in the sound of Bachman Turner Overdrive’s “You ain’t seen nothing yet”, a song which makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I visit the facilities beneath the stand to drain off some more of that Goblin’s Piss; at the urinal I stand next to a man who is simultaneously either texting or checking the half-time scores on his mobile phone. I find the scene rather disconcerting and leave as quickly as nature allows before consuming a Panda brand liquorice stick as a tasty half-time snack and to help me forget.

The second half begins and Trevoh Chalobah replaces Cole Skuse. At ten past four Trev’ unleashes a spectacular shot that whistles just centimetres outside the right hand post of the Nottingham goal. Sometimes such a narrow miss is more thrilling than a goal, particularly an opposition one. The second half turns out to be much better than the first for Ipswich and Town dominate the attacking play, although admittedly without making too many clear cut chances to score. Chants of “Come on You Blues, Come on Blues” burst from stands on all sides of the ground and with increasing frequency. The referee Keith Stroud, who ‘has previous’ as far as Town fans are concerned adds to his record of failure and bias by not awarding Town free-kicks whilst giving undeserved favour to Nottingham, whose fans are now largely quiet. “Short refs, we only get short refs” sing Phil and I to the tune of Blue Moon. On the touchline Paul Lambert, as ever in his black v-neck jumper and black trousers, swings his arms about encouraging his team and the crowd. Little Alan Judge crosses the ball and Jon Nolan heads wide of an open goal.

On the Nottingham bench Roy Keane at first looks his usual sullen self, but as Town dominate more and more and the game moves into its last ten minutes he stands in the technical area gesticulating, looking annoyed and filled with murderous intent. The combination of the ‘enigmatic’ Martin O’Neil and psychopathic Roy Keane as a sort of latter day Celtic incarnation of the Clough/Taylor partnership can surely only end badly, but it could be fun to watch. I ensure that when the game is over I stay on long enough to boo Keane from the field for what he did to Ipswich Town. I offered to my friend Mick to boo Keane on his behalf as he could not be here today, he said to feel free and he was happy for me to spit for him too if I wanted. I thought that was going a bit far, although I imagine it is the sort of protest Keane might respect as he would then feel justified in meeting it with extreme violence.

Ipswich deserve to score again but don’t and the result is yet another one-all draw. This has arguably been the best game of the season at Portman Road and curiously despite being bottom of the league by several points for several months, with very little or no hope of staying up and only two home wins since August it has been the most enjoyable season for several years. What is more, the crowd are at last getting behind the team; if this is what it takes perhaps Town should just go for relegation every year.

To the tune of Auld Lang Syne….all together now…

We’ve won the League, we’ve won the Cup

We’ve won in Europe too

Now every week we draw one-all

There’s f-all else to do.

Colchester United 0 Forest Green Rovers 3

March 14, 2019March 14, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a foul March day; blustery, wet and cold; at times the word very has been in front of those adjectives. Now it is gone seven o’clock, the sun has gone down and it’s mainly miserable and dark, particularly at the Colchester Park & Ride car park, an exposed expanse of dimly lit tarmac next to the A12, adjacent to a petrol station and a McDonald’s. Colchester is Britain’s oldest recorded town.

Across the A12 the lights of the Colchester Community Stadium, currently known as the Jobserve Community Stadium and formerly the Weston Homes Community Stadium, which I like to call ‘Layer Road’, shine, but not enough to satisfactorily illuminate the ticket machine at the edge of the car park. The machine asks for at least three digits from my car number plate, then changes its mind and asks for all of them and then tells me to pay with coins; I don’t have any. I trudge the 70 odd metres to the typically streamlined Park & Ride waiting room building and change a fiver into coins with the help of another machine. I ignore the queue of other people buying tickets at the machines there and trudge back to the dimly lit machine. A kind man illuminates it with his mobile phone and after the machine first claims ignorance of my car registration it eventually allows me to purchase a ticket (£3).

I walk to the football ground between bright lights planted into the ground that don’t actually illuminate the path only give me a clue where it might be. I turn left onto Boxted Road and traverse the bridge over the A12 with its high metal sides presumably there to prevent suicidal football supporters from jumping down onto the highway; I turn left into United Way and arrive at another open expanse of tarmac upon which here and there are painted the words BUS STOP. A white Mercedes Benz is parked partly across the word STOP. I shed a tear for the shuttle buses which no longer ply their way to the stadium and were the only thing that made this god forsaken location for a football ground even faintly viable. I have probably watched Colchester United play well over 300 times in the last 35 to 40 years but have not been to ‘Layer Road’ since the shuttle bus service stopped running, until tonight. Tonight I have come to see Forest Green Rovers play Colchester United because I want to see Forest Green Rovers, the Football League’s only vegan football club, the only Football League club owned by a former ‘New Age’ traveller. The irony that I have had to drive to watch this club famed for its ‘green’ credentials is not lost on me.

The Community Stadium is as bleak and lonely as it ever was, surrounded by a car park and nothing much else. The Forest Green Rovers team bus sits up a corner by the main stand, disappointingly it looks like a regular team bus, not powered by methane or biofuel or anything other than dirty old diesel. I take a look in the well-stocked club shop, where trade is slow; toy bears stare out into the car park but no one is buying.

I queue at the turnstile for what feels like seconds wishing I had a bag for the steward to look into to make this experience more interesting. Inside the ground however things look up, the programmes are free! This is like being in a civilised country like France where free football programmes are de rigeur and fleetingly I am transported to the imaginary Rue de Layer where Unifie de Colcestre are about to take on Nomades de Foret Vert in the Ligue National. The sight of Pukka pies not baguettes and Carling instead of espresso coffee returns me from my reverie. I spot a former work colleague called Mark, which is nice, and we shake one another warmly by the hand; he introduces me to his friend Darren who like me is really an Ipswich Town supporter. Mark tells me this should be a good game, although Colchester United tend to either ‘do alright’ or lose 3-0. Up in the South stand I take my seat, I am sat behind a man and woman who I recognise from the Barside at Layer Road from over thirty years ago, they look much the same, just slightly shrivelled with age.

The U’s soon kick off towards me in their customary blue and white stripes, although from behind their shirts are all blue with white sleeves as if they couldn’t really decide if they want to be in stripes or not. Their white socks have just two blue hoops as if they couldn’t decide if they should be hooped or not either. There are no such uncertainties with Forest Green Rovers’ kit of overly dark bottle green with lurid day-glo green trim.

Colchester dominate the start of the game taking on the role of 6^th placed promotion hopefuls eager to cement their place in the play-off positions, as someone on Sky Sports TV might say. Ninth placed Forest Green defend capably. “It’s a long way on a Tuesday, innit?” says the bloke behind me and is not fully understood by his companion. He explains that it’s a long way for Forest Green supporters to travel from wherever it is that Forest Green is, “Somewhere down Portsmouth way, I think”. Forest Green Rovers actually play in Nailsworth in Gloucestershire, so they’re more Laurie Lee than Lord Nelson, but I don’t turn round and tell him that.

The Forest Green number 23 Joseph Mills is the first player to make an impression; he is wearing his hair in a bun. “You’ll never make it Ward” says a voice at the back of the stand, seemingly attempting to goad the Forest Green goalkeeper Lewis Ward who is dressed all in pink. From the middle of the stand directly behind the goal a chorus of “Ole, Ole, Ole” rises or perhaps it’s “Allez, Allez, Allez”; it’s hard to tell, it could be both. After twelve minutes Colchester win the game’s first corner.

Twenty minutes have passed, Colchester are doing okay just not scoring. Forest Green cross the ball from the left to Lloyd James, he quickly shoots and scores from a good 18 metres or so from goal. No one was expecting that, it’s probably the first shot on target. “Come on Col U” chant the understandably disappointed but not unduly upset occupants of the South Stand. But things change, the crowd becomes more vociferous, less happy, more angry. Colchester win another corner to no avail and Forest Green players spend time sat on the turf looking pained. “Get on with it, you bloody…” shouts an angry man so irate that he can’t think of a word to finish his sentence. It’s nearly twenty past eight and Forest Green break away down the right, one pass, another pass and number ten Reece Brown side foots the ball past Colchester’s slightly exotically named goalkeeper Rene Gilmartin. Forest Green lead 2-0. Colchester’s number forty-five Frank Nouble kicks Lewis Ward out of spite and becomes the first player to be booked by the slightly portly referee Mr Alan Young. Colchester rather pointlessly win a third corner and Lewis Ward is booked for mucking about.

After three minutes of added on time comes the half-time whistle and I head downstairs for a pounds worth of PG Tips in a plastic cup and to check the half-time scores, but mysteriously all the TV sets are on their sides; perhaps the Sky subscription is cheaper like that; it would be okay if you could lie down on a sofa to watch it. Ipswich are losing.

The second half is much like the first, just a bit colder. The breeze is getting stronger and there are a few spots of rain in the air. In the West Stand a man in a blue and white wig and bath robe reclines against his seat looking bored. Perhaps like Bobby Ewing he will later step out of the shower and find it was all a bad dream. Colchester press forward but Forest Green defend well, blocking every shot, thwarting every move, frustrating the spectators. The crowd begin to blame Mr Young for a lack of free-kicks to Colchester or too many free-kicks to Forest Green. “You are kidding” shouts an exasperated man at Mr Young and drawing out every word. “What is wrong with you referee?” asks someone else. “Show some flair referee” says another rather more obscurely “Show some bollocks” replies yet another, a little crudely. I for one want Mr Young to keep his shorts very definitely on. A few rows in front of me a young woman, or very high pitched man shouts viciously, rendering herself or himself incoherent with vented spleen. The atmosphere is unpleasant and it’s no wonder Boudicca sacked the place back in AD60 if the inhabitants were as narky as this.

Despite Colchester’s dominance of possession and shots it takes until gone ten past nine for Lewis Ward to make a decent save as he dives away to his right like a flying raspberry blancmange to give Colchester another pointless corner kick. The final ten minutes begin and Forest Green show that they can keep and pass the ball very neatly, so much so that they end up passing to an unmarked Christian Doige who despite a suspicion of offside amongst the home supporters scores a third goal. The names Shephard, Brown, Doige appear as verse on the scoreboard.

With the game lost its time for two youths to run onto the pitch, probably as their tribute to recent televised pitch incursions at Arsenal and Birmingham. They only look about fourteen. One of them makes a break for it trapping himself at the back of the East Stand having athletically vaulted over several rows of seats. “Wanker, Wanker, Wanker” shout the South Stand. “Wanker!” shouts an angry man behind me a little belatedly, and sounding a bit stupid as a result. He should have saved his shout for the equally silly Frank Nouble who rounds off an entertaining evening by committing a needless foul, getting booked for a second time and consequently sent off.

The crowd of 2871 are already heading off into the dingy car parks and wasteland outside before five minutes of added on time are announced. A wildly bearded man in patched double denim rails at the team as others shuffle past. “Worst game of the season” a man says to me unintentionally referencing Comic Book Guy in The Simpsons as he raises his eyebrows and edges past me. I wait until the very end to get my money’s worth (£18.50) before also heading off into the damp and dark to walk to my car and travel home alone fondly remembering the days when we left the ground together sharing our misery in a crowded shuttle bus.