Ipswich

Clacton Town 8 Diss Town 0

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It’s just under 37 kilometres from my house to the Rush Green Bowl, home of Clacton Town Football Club, but as far as I can tell the quickest that it is possible to make this journey by public transport is one hour and thirty-six minutes, and this involves a challenging degree of co-ordination of buses, trains and footsteps, probably not possible on a Saturday and not convenient for a 3pm kick-off, and then I still have to get home.  Never mind, I think to myself, I have an electric car so can save an hour for worthy purposes and still try and save the planet too whilst travelling to watch non-league football, and so that’s what I shall do today having chosen to watch Clacton Town versus Diss Town in the snappily monikered Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties League First Division North.

It’s been a while since I last saw Clacton play; eleven years and eight months to be almost precise, but rocking up at the Rush Green Bowl it doesn’t seem that very much has changed in all that time but for a superficial and recent switch from being FC Clacton back to being Clacton Town, and as William Shakespeare might have said if in a sarcastic mood, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. 

It’s a gloriously sunny, early autumn day as I step out of my neatly parked Citroen, breath in the briny scent of sea air and walk to the turnstile along the back of the clubhouse beneath an ugly gable and a sign bearing the Clacton Town crest, the word ‘Welcome’, a CCTV camera and a burglar alarm.  The turnstile itself is a magnificent piece of iron work but is set at a somewhat impractical angle as if an overly large person had tried to force their way through it or it had been rescued from a shipwreck. I ask the lady operator if it’s from the pier, but she doesn’t know.  Entry for a ‘senior’ costs a fiver, but more importantly and satisfyingly Clacton Town still produce a programme (£2.00), an impressively glossy twelve-page effort between stiff covers. Through the turnstile, a man sells old programmes and ‘goes’ on a pub card on which the pubs are football clubs. Seeing that Ipswich Town has already been bagged by someone called Richard, I plump for Burnley, who Ipswich beat to the 1962 version of what is now called the “Premier League” title.

There is still most of a half an hour until kick-off and so I look about a bit. I poke my head in the club house, a large, gloomy space that smells of body spray and has a large bar at one end; the back of the door is where the team line-ups are posted.  Returning outside, I take in the architecture comprising three small stands and a gathering of blue portacabins linked by a porch that looks like a massive nesting box and features another gable, which in this case grandly announces, “Hospitality Suite”.  Mostly blokes stand about awaiting kick-off as last-minute adjustments are made to the goal nets at the clubhouse end of the ground.  Some blokes hold plastic pint glasses of pale beery liquid.  One of the blokes not holding a plastic pint of beery liquid turns out to be Richard of pub card fame, who I know from our mutual historical association with Wivenhoe Town. Richard had booked a trip to the nearby Essex County Council dump to dispose of some garden rubbish and to my amusement had decided to combine that trip with one to the Rush Breen Bowl, which handily is next door.  We stand and talk and listen as the Clacton Town club secretary, a man called Karl, looks at his mobile phone and reads out the teams over the public address system.  Richard and I look at each other askance as the name of Clacton’s number three is announced as Lincoln Green.  “Surely, that’s a colour not a left-back” we almost say as one.

When the football begins, it is visiting Diss Town who get first go with the ball, which they despatch in the general direction of the club house and the North Sea, whilst hoping the goal net stops it from going that far.  Diss, known as “The Tangerines” wear an attractive kit of orange (more accurately tangerine) shirts and navy-blue shorts.  Richard and I agree that you can’t go far wrong with an orange football shirt. Clacton meanwhile sport white shirts with royal blue trim and royal blue shorts.  To avoid doubt they have the words Clacton and Town printed across their shoulders where players at professional level have their names.  Any musings about the comparative merits of the team kits are quickly forgotten as Diss Town soon lose possession and inside a minute Clacton dismantle the Diss defence and number seven Sonny Carr scores with a low, casually placed shot into the corner of the goal to give Clacton a very early lead.  It’s a lead which is almost doubled very soon afterwards as Letts’ header is saved and number two, Logan Green has a shot cleared off the goal line.

After thinking that Clacton might run away with the game, it settles down into one of scuffs and miskicks on the hard, uneven and dusty surface.  More than one hoofed clearance is propelled at an unexpected angle and into the undergrowth beyond the pitch.  Diss make it into the Clacton penalty area to win a couple of corners but seem to lack attacking players.  “’kin ‘ell” shouts a Diss player in response to a high boot and the game is held up as the Diss physio runs on carrying what looks like a first-aid kit from the glove compartment of his car. The game resumes with a Diss free kick which is booted straight out beyond the goal line from a good 40 metres out.   Cirrus clouds wheel above us, a small plane takes off from the adjacent airfield.   “We’re fuckin’ walkin’” shouts the totally bald Clacton coach as the game fleetingly descends into the not unusual swearing match often associated with local football.  “Keep it down for the kids” says Richard to me quoting the Thurlow Nunn League’s long-time mantra, and weirdly it seems to do the trick.

It’s now twenty-six minutes past three and all of a sudden Clacton lead two-nil as the speedy but diminutive number nine Adam Wrathall runs at goal, number seven Carr has a shot blocked at close range and number ten Letts bundles the ball into the roof of the net from even closer range. It’s a goal which owes its existence to pace and poor marking and the home crowd cheers. The Rush Green Bowl as its name more than implies is shaped like a bowl and on three sides there are mostly overgrown banks of grass on which spectators stand like the occupants of broken-down cars at the side of a motorway.  In front of us Diss’s number eight Ellis shepherds the ball out putting himself between it and the Clacton number five Cooper-Macklin. As the ball crosses the touchline Cooper-Macklin kicks Ellison on the ankle in what might generously be described as an act of petulance. The referee Mr Mills explains to Cooper-Macklin that the ball was already out but fails to book him for his spitefulness.  Soon afterwards, karma takes a holiday and after a Clacton corner kick the ball runs to Cooper Macklin on the edge of the penalty area and his low shot is deflected into the Diss goal to make the score three-nil.

The bald Clacton coach standing near the touch line in his blue tracksuit continues to shout and encourage.  Clouds of dust accompany almost every kick, and such is the apparent lack of any reaction in the Diss Town dugout I wonder if Diss have a coach at all, or whether the team functions as some sort of autonomous collective.  There are five minutes of the nominal first forty-five remaining as Clacton score their fourth goal from the penalty spot courtesy of captain Emmanuel Ikwuegbu after Wrathall runs at and around the Diss centre-half Viner and seems to be about to shoot when Mr Mills points to the penalty spot.  Richard and I agree it looked a soft penalty decision (shirt tugging?) and we wonder if Wrathall wouldn’t have scored anyway.  As if to let the world know that yes, he would have scored, five minutes later Wrathall rattles in a fantastic shot into the top corner of the Diss goal from something like 30 metres out.  When the half-time whistle is blown at twelve minutes to four the score is a probably decisive Clacton Town 5 Diss Town 0.

Richard and I have, during the course of the match, been making our way around the pitch and with half-time, we move from the sunny eastern side to the more shaded area next to what passes as the main stand.  On our way, we go onto the pitch to get around the subsiding terrace stand behind the goal that is now closed off for safety reasons.  It is at the same time a shame that the stand cannot be used but it also strangely adds to the character of the place and the delightfully depressing sense of decay and dilapidation that often characterises lower league football. 

The football resumes not much after four o’clock and at three minutes past Clacton score a sixth goal as number eleven Morton receives a square pass and from about 10 metres shoots the ball into the top right-hand corner of the Diss Town net.  The game resumes again and a man in a blue shirt, Diss Town club tie and possibly stay-pressed trousers, walks past us from the direction of the hospitality suite.   Earlier this afternoon as we stood near some of the Diss Town committee members I reflected on how even now some club officials come to games looking like refugees from the 1950’s with their collared shirts and club ties and sometimes even blazers and as a result they can’t help but also look a bit like coach drivers.    Richard suggests that if Diss have a bus in the car park they should make a note to park it in front of their goal in future. Our reverie is broken as the ball flies off the pitch and lands in the long grass next to me.  As I throw it back, I think it feels a bit soft, but on a rock-hard pitch that’s probably a good thing.

A Diss player is the first to be booked by Mr Mills, possibly for tugging a shirt, we’re not sure, and  as a cool breeze blows in off the sea the players shadows begin to lengthen across the mottled green of the pitch.  Diss win a freekick outside the Clacton penalty area, the Clacton captain is booked and from the kick Clacton’s goalkeeper Palmer, palms the ball away for his only save of the game.  Four minutes later and Clacton score their seventh goal as Wrathall scurries into the penalty area holding off a towering defender before sending a scorching shot high into the top corner of the net at the goalkeeper’s near post.

The last fifteen minutes of the match have arrived and to their credit Diss Town continue to do what they can to score and Ellis should do so when confronted with an open goal, but instead he boots the ball high over the subsiding stand. Four minutes later and once again I have to throw the ball back onto the pitch for a second time, I think I’ve now had more touches than the Clacton Keeper’ and the Diss centre forward.  Clearly a sympathetic man, Richard is hoping for a Diss goal but all they can manage is a shot that sails higher above the subsiding stand than the previous one and another which curls increasingly wide of the goal after leaving the Diss player’s boot.  It is a quarter to five when Clacton score an eighth goal, an audacious lob over the luckless Diss goalkeeper’s head from 50 metres after he misguidedly leaves his penalty area and clears weakly.

Finally, after an uncomfortable sounding clatter of shin guards on studs there is a late caution for Diss Town’s number three and captain Bray, who had deserved a booking for some earlier successful attempts to con freekicks out of Mr Mills.  With the final whistle, an understandably appreciative crowd applaud the teams and Richard and I make for the car park only to wonder if either of us had won the pub card.  Although it’s been a one-sided game in terms of goals, it has still been an entertaining one and on a beautiful autumn afternoon. After a rotten day for Diss Town however, we can only wish them and their coach drivers a safe journey home.

Ipswich Town 1 Havre AC 0

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According to the Chargemap app on my mobile phone, the 495 kilometre trip from my house to Stade Oceane in Le Havre, home of Ligue 1 football team Havre AC, would currently take seven hours and twenty-five minutes including two stops totalling fifty minutes to re-charge my planet saving Citroen e-C4.  This is a trip I made only last month and is one I would recommend, provided you have the cash to pay for the motorway tolls and the fare for le shuttle.   Le Havre is a fascinating port city and on account of its being re-built in concrete by Auguste Perret after the RAF flattened it, it is now a UNESCO World Heritage site.  Disappointingly however, Havre AC were not at home when I visited last month, so I made do with a trip to the Museum of Modern Art to see Ai Wei Wei’s Lego interpretation of Monet’s Water Lillies, several beers in the excellent bars of le brasserie L’Havrais biere, and wandering amongst some of my favourite buildings.  But the world and time are nothing if not round and a month later Havre AC have come to see me, playing a friendly versus Ipswich Town at Portman Road.

Unusually, my wife Paulene is coming to the match tonight, attracted by the promise of French footballers, although having grown up in Portsmouth she was, and as far as I know still is, always wary of French sailors. Our journey this evening is by planet saving Citroen e-C4 and we pick-up Gary on the way before parking very conveniently just around the corner from the Arb’.    Gary is sporting the very latest replica Ipswich Town away shirt this evening, and gets the drinks in first; a pint of Estrella for him, a small glass of dry rose for Paulene and a pint of Nethergate Stour Valley for me.    A woman in the bar compliments Paulene on her earrings before we retire to the garden and a table in the shade to talk of relatives and friends and other stuff, and Gary is impressed by my Havre AC T-shirt.  In due course, I buy another round of drinks the same as before, but I opt for a pint of the weaker Nethergate Voyager this time and am disappointed that it tastes a little like the pipes have been cleaned but not rinsed very well afterwards, as in fact  did the Stour Valley.

It’s about twenty past seven when we head for Portman Road and thankfully an easy downhill walk, because once again it is a very, very warm evening.  There are long queues for the Cobbold stand in Portman Road, but what I notice first is that there are no programmes on sale again, which vexes me greatly; even in the days of Marcus Evans there were always programmes for pre-season friendlies, weren’t there?   But my spirits lift slightly when I find there are no queues for the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and this gives me time to photograph Paulene with Town mascots Bluey and Crazee who are hanging around in the car park with a small man in spectacles.  I tell Bluey and Crazee that Paulene has been photographed with an army of mascots, including  Bouba the elephant in Monaco, Ri-Ri the Canary in Nantes, Auguste the lion in Reims, Merlux the Hake in Lorient, Erminig the ermine in Rennes, a very dodgy, moth-eaten looking Leopard in Rouen, but sadly not Sali the salamander in Le Havre.   Bluey and Crazee unfortunately do not reply, and I commiserate with them that they do not speak.

Having been checked for scrap metal and explosives, I am ushered by a lady steward towards turnstile 61, but I tell her that I have to use turnstile 62, although I don’t know really know why and tonight’s match is only a pre-season friendly. “You never know” she says, and I think to myself “You never know what?” but like Bluey and Crazee I can’t say it. After venting excess spent Stour Valley and Voyager I meet up again with Paulene and Gary at our seats, which until we sit on them are an oasis of blue plastic amongst a sea of parents and children, many in last season’s replica kits.  None of them are at all familiar and I look in vain for Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul).  I feel rather uncomfortable, like a walrus stranded amongst roosting penguins on a stoney beach somewhere in the South Atlantic.  They seem to be giving off a lot of heat too because it is incredibly warm.

Eventually, the football begins with Town in their natural blue and white getting first go with the ball and kicking it towards the goal just off to our right.  Havre are most disappointingly in all black rather than their signature pale blue and dark blue halved shirts and dark blue shorts, although a look on their website suggests they have no away kit, at least, perhaps not one they think anyone would want to purchase a replica of.  Havre don’t know it, but they are of course kicking towards Cumberland Towers, a concrete building which is unlikely to earn Ipswich UNESCO World Heritage site status, but which I like because it looks a bit like a very big match box stood on its end.

In terms of football, the first half is awful, but this is at least consistent with most pre-season games.  We amuse ourselves by working out which players are which on both sides.  Gary asks who Mendel is and is more amused than he should be when I tell him that he is Mendelssohn’s father. This is probably the highlight of the half but only if I ignore the fact that Town’s new Japanese signing Daizen Maeda looks about sixty-five and nearly ready for his pension, but this is solely due to the strange silvery colour of his hair. Otherwise, all I recall are the numerous seagulls swooping overhead (have Le Havre brought their own?) and that Havre have a player whose surname is Pembele, which because it rhymes Dembele sets me off thinking about an imaginary team whose names all sound a bit like those of other, far superior players, like Zinedine Sedan, Bobby Carlton or Lionel Nessi.

The welcome relief of half-time is spent talking to Harrison, who Gary has never met before, although Paulene has. Harrison’s grandfather Ray is watching the match from his Heath Road hospital bed, from where he at least might have access to drugs.  I will visit Ray a day or two later and he will tell me that he missed the first fifteen minutes because Town TV is not very good.  I reassure him that in fact he missed absolutely nothing at all.

The match resumes at nine minutes to nine, predictably with a new Ipswich team.  As happened in last week’s pre-season game versus Osasuna the more or less wholesale substitution of the team seems to do the trick and thirteen minutes later a Town goal is being celebrated as Chuba Akpom directs a free header into the Havre net after some startlingly bad defending from the Norman team and Town lead one-nil.  On the touchline, the seldom smiling Havre manager Didier Digard, who incidentally played three games on loan for last week’s opponents Osasuna about ten years ago, is grim faced, looking as if he’s already deciding who to hit first when they all get back in the dressing room in half an hour’s time. Havre soon begun substitutions of their own, bringing on the players with the evening’s two most pleasurable surnames, Yanis Zouaoui and Hakim Dongopandji.

Twenty minutes of the second half have upped and left, and Jack Clarke has an early tilt at the worst shot of the season award as he shoots spectacularly wide and high.  A minute later George Hirst is brought on to see if he can do better.  Twelve minutes later, Havre produce what might be their only shot of the game, from substitute wide player Enzo Koffi, and the waning of interest in the stands begins to manifest itself with depressing calls of “Blue Army” from both adult males and small children. It’s something that doesn’t happen during ‘proper’ games and is another compelling argument for not attending pre-season friendlies.

The match nears its uninteresting conclusion and over the public address system we are told that collectively we number 6,669.  It’s probably close to a capacity crowd for the limited areas of the stadium that are open, but I remain disappointed that I have not seen or heard a single French person in the crowd this evening, or smelled a Gauloise or even a faint whiff of garlic.  I hope that we get to see RC Lens, Paris St Germain or Olympique Marseille at Portman Road before too long.

Ipswich Town 3 Queens Park Rangers 0

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I was awake before my alarm went off this morning, which was a good thing because being awoken by an alarm clock on a Saturday morning is plainly wrong.  What was not a good thing however was that I had thought it necessary to set my alarm because the evil media moguls of Sky tv had decreed that Ipswich Town will begin their last match of the season, against Queens Park Rangers at just half an hour past noon and I am therefore having to catch a train to Ipswich before the clocks have struck ten o’clock.   Having noted that the weather forecast from the met office predicted temperatures of almost 20 degrees centigrade today I decided to wear a lighter pair of trousers.   Feeling in the pocket of these “cargo pants”, which I probably hadn’t warn since late last summer, I discover the receipt for a cheap bottle of champagne.  I take it as a portent of celebrations yet to come.

At the railway station I wait with a man called Gareth who introduces me to Sally who is also going to the match.  “How do you feel about the match?” asks Gareth. “Relaxed” I reply.  Gareth and Sally laugh as if that can’t possibly be so.  But it is. I always want Town to win, but if they don’t, then they don’t. I don’t want to get ill over it.   I have no idea if the train arrives on time but I’m soon talking to Gary as we speed towards the promised land, Ipswich.  Our only disappointment is that as we descend the hill through Wherstead a train passes in the opposite direction obscuring our potential view of the polar bears, but I still manage to see one.  In Ipswich, the sun is shining as we walk to the Arb stopping only to purchase a programme from one of the kiosks that look like they should also sell ice creams.  I explain to Gary that I am, exceptionally, buying a programme (£4.00) today because it will potentially be an auspicious occasion, although if Town don’t win I will likely be left with a programme I don’t really want, although the front cover does feature a picture in profile of Darnell Furlong staring moodily off into the distance.

Inside the Arb there is a queue for the bar and not wishing to cause a scene I reluctantly join it. Queues at the bar in pubs? The world has gone mad.  Happily, the queue moves quickly, and I am soon looking for Gary in the beer garden whilst holding a tray on which sit a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, one for me and one for Mick, who has texted me to say he will be arriving late.  Our conversation today soon establishes that our lives are currently quite boring and uneventful although Mick is considering going to Venice by rail and is exploring the possibility of getting a ferry to Bilbao and then a train across southern France into Italy, perhaps stopping in Marseille to take in a match at the Velodrome.  Two more pints of Suffolk Pride, a pint and half of Estrella and two whiskies later we are alone in the beer garden because all the other drinkers left a good ten minutes ago or more and we are ready to depart for Portman Road too.

There are no queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand when I arrive and I even manage to use the side access normally reserved for people with disabilities, before accessing the stand through the illustrious turnstile sixty-two. I am venting spent Suffolk Pride when the excitable young stadium announcer announces the team and imagining I am in a pissoir, like a Frenchman at the Stade Jean Bouin or Stade Abbe des Champs I bawl the surnames of the few players whose squad numbers I can remember, or whose first names are long enough for me to work out which surname they belong to before the announcer finishes saying them.  Up in the stand Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are of course already here.

Eventually, with huddles having huddled, bursts of flame having died down and plumes of smoke having settled, the game begins with the Park Rangers of the Queen getting first go with the ball in their strikingly metrosexual livery of black and pinked halved shirts and black shorts.  The Rangers try to point the ball in the direction of Norwich Road and local twentieth century public housing landmark Cumberland Towers.  The Town are as ever in our signature blue shirts and white shorts and the teams wear Halos on their shirt fronts, instead of above their heads.

Inside two minutes Leif Davis is bearing down on Joe Walsh in the Rangers goal, but his low shot is saved by the former Eagles guitarist at the expense of a corner and an early rendition from me and as many as half a dozen others of  ‘Come on You Blues’.  As usual our shouts fall on stoney ground and the ball is cleared. But the Town are relentless, assaulting the Rangers goal with wave after wave of running at them with the ball down both flanks and through the middle. Within another two minutes Town lead, George Hirst kicking the ball over the goal line from improbably close range after slick passing finds Leif Davis crossing the ball low into the deepest recesses of the goal mouth. “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go!” fills the void, although in truth we can’t actually go any further up the Football league because Coventry have already bagged first position.

Behind me a bloke sings loudly and out of tune, like an international footballer rendering his national anthem as a tv camera looks up his nostrils.  “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” we bellow with tearful sincerity to the tune of The Wild Rover.  This is how the match was meant to begin; it was how it began in Town supporters’ dreams and those dreams are becoming a reality.  The onslaught continues with what seems like a season’s worth of attacking intent and desire rolled into one as if making up for lost time. It’s the tenth minute when more joyful running and passing leaves Jaden Philogene in front of goal and a jink and a twist later to avoid a Park Ranger he’s rolling the ball into the Rangers’ goal from about six metres away. Two-nil to Ipswich Town and that’s it; I reckon we’ve won.

With the game won, the excitement subsides a little and Town allow the Rangers a little more of the ball.   Up in the Cobbold Stand, the Rangers’ supporters make the attacks that their team is unable to conjure by chanting “Football in a library, do-do-do”.  I cope with the insult by thinking of tv’s Crossroads and inwardly laughing to myself that their number twenty-three is called Bennie, even if the spelling is wrong. The Rangers fans respond with “Two-nil and you still don’t sing”.  The first half is half over and the bloke next to me says “It’s all about game management now”.  I think to myself that our game management in the first ten minutes was pretty flippin’ good.  Back on the pitch George Hirst goes to stamp on a balloon but it escapes from beneath his boot and he stamps on fresh air, which looks decidedly uncool.  To escape further embarrassment and to punish the balloon George proceeds to pick it up and crushes it with his bare hands.

Town are managing the game well enough now that with six minutes to go until half-time the blokes behind me and a few from further along the row feel confident enough to repair to the bar for an early half-time beer.  Within two minutes the Rangers win their first corner, but the ball is easily gathered by Christian Walton because generally, as Fiona remarks, corners are equally ineffectual for all teams.   The words “Hot Sausage Company” scroll across the face of the Sir Bobby Robson stand in yellow on a vivid red background and we learn that five minutes of time are to be taken from our futures to make up for players lying prone on the turf during the previous forty-five minutes.

Unusually, the stolen five minutes provide some excitement as Town are awarded a free-kick just outside the Rangers’ penalty area and referee Mr Gavin Ward gets carried away marking out a line ten yards from the ball, applying his white spray with aplomb like a cross between Banksy and Jackson Pollock.  From the free-kick a corner ensues, presenting the last time this season in which the Churchman’s ultras will chant “Come on You Blues” and share the disappointment of not scoring again.

With the half-time whistle I go for the final time, until August that is, to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison and in passing to Dave the steward before venting more spent Suffolk Pride and returning to my seat in time for the re-start of the football at twenty-three minutes to two.

The second half is not unexpectedly different to the first, football mostly being a game of two halves.  Rangers have made two substitutions, one having the unusual first name of Tylon to rhyme with Skylon and Nylon, and the players have evidently received a reminder from their French coach Monsieur Stephan about the need to try and score les buts. As a result, an early Town shot at Walsh becomes an isolated incident as Rangers proceed to soon win a corner and a free-kick and their supporters become optimistic enough to chant “Come on you R’s” with genuine enthusiasm.  It seems that Monsieur Stephan has successfully injected a bit of va-va-voom and even “Je ne sais quoi” into his players.   I am particularly impressed by Ranger’s number ten Ilias Chair, although he is quite small, more of a footstool or a pouffe than a chair really.  

Despite the Rangers’ improved showing I don’t get the impression anyone is getting over-anxious.  “Another goal would knock the stuffing out of them” says Fiona, and I agree with her, my only quibble with her analysis being that it makes QPR sound a bit too much like cuddly toys and I wouldn’t want to see the Portman Road pitch festooned with kapok. 

With an hour gone the Rangers’ fans launch a final attempt to goad the home supporters with a chant of “Football in a library”. But their efforts fall on deaf ears, which is hardly surprising given the age of some of us in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  Two minutes later and the traditional ‘half an hour left’ substitutions are made by a thoughtful looking Keiran McKenna as Philogene and Burns are replaced by Clarke and McAteer.  Almost instantly, Town win a couple of predictably disappointing corners but it’s enough to re- invigorate the home crowd,  who are soon back to chanting “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go” in the simple style of a class of primary school children.  Twenty-one minutes of normal time remain when Jack Clarke shoots wide of the goal. A minute later and Nunez and Hirst depart for the bench to be replaced by Azon and Mehmeti in the well-rehearsed fashion.  Across the illuminated centre of the Sir Bobby Robson stand the spirit of optimism is echoed in the words “The future of flat roofing today”.

Another goal would be good, and I sense some frustration that it hasn’t been scored yet as everyone yearns to see the game ‘put to bed’, perhaps with a milky cup of Horlicks or Cocoa.  Leif Davis getting booked barely registers in the scheme of things now and the longed-for goal almost comes as Jack Clarke is fouled and from the free-kick the ball is headed across the face of the Rangers’ goal.  Eleven minutes of normal time remain, and Rangers’ Smyth makes his mark on the game by having his name taken by Mr Ward for a foul on Darnell Furlong.  Eight minutes of normal time remain, and the Sir Bobby Robson standers are now confident enough to test out a chant of “We are going up, We are going up”, which almost seems to be the signal for a parade of stewards and police in what look like uniforms that can easily be wiped clean to surround the pitch.

Seven minutes remain, and Christian Walton is forced into a flying save to keep out a shot from one or other of the Park Rangers and it’s as if the surrounding of the pitch by people dressed in black and day-glo orange might have been distracting.  But three minutes later play is at the desired end of the ground again as Jack Taylor storms towards goal, the ball is blocked but runs to Kasey McAteer who guides it into the net and Town lead three-nil. 

Now the game is truly over and promotion is secured, again. It doesn’t really matter that Dan Neil replaces Jack Taylor, that we number 29,636 today or that four minutes of added on time will be added on.  With the final whistle, within seconds a swarm of supporters cover the pitch and Town are definitively promoted to what is called the Premier League.  The last time I saw this many people on the pitch at a match versus QPR they were fighting each other.

Very few people leave to catch trains or buses today.  I was going to, but against my better judgement I hang about pointlessly looking on at people milling about the pitch whilst the excitable young stadium announcer tells them that there will be no presentation of the runners-up trophy until the pitch is completely cleared. I am wasting my life away here.   The game ended at twenty past two and its three o’clock by the time the presentation of the trophy is made but there are too many other people on the pitch to see that and then the team don’t parade it around the pitch, they just hang about near the halfway line enduring very loud music. A blast of Status Quo at getting on for two-thirty is the final straw and I head for the railway station and home to find that I must have already drunk that bottle of champagne for which I found the receipt.   

Ipswich Town 1 Millwall 1

/ martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

Yesterday was the Spring equinox, when the tilt of the Earth is neither towards or away from the Sun and the northern and southern hemispheres receive equal sunlight; it was also the start of astronomical Spring.  With balance and optimism agogo, it is a shame therefore that the stupid EFL and stupid Sky tv decree that today’s game versus Millwall is a 12:30 kick off and the day will therefore have no worthwhile morning or afternoon that isn’t occupied by being at the pub or by football.

After a hearty breakfast that includes two hot cross buns but is otherwise a secular affair, the condemned man (that’s me) takes to the train beneath a clear blue sky. The train has only five carriages today and I text Gary so that he is not stranded expectantly at the wrong end of the platform when the train pulls in at the next station stop, where he will board. The train is quite full because the previous train, which was bound for Norwich never appeared, lost in a pagan ritual to welcome Spring somewhere near Witham, but our journey is pleasant enough and we get to see a polar bear without having to pay the entrance money for Jimmy’s Farm.

Today, we elect to take the seemingly convoluted and arguably less scenic route to ‘the Arb’ via Portman Road, across Civic Drive and past the fantastical spiral underground car park, sadly one of only a few elements of Ipswich’s Greyfriars to St Matthews psychedelic, 1960’s wonderland to remain intact. Arriving at our destination I am back to being first through the door at the Arb as Gary trails behind me, and we are soon transporting a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and Mick (£14 something with Camra discount) out into the beer garden, where we decide unanimously  to sit at a table in the full sun.  We have barely sat down before Mick arrives.  Gary has ordered a sausage sandwich which soon arrives too, but without any sauces, and he has to return indoors to ask for his preferred brown sauce, which is then brought to him in a stainless-steel dish; not a plastic sachet in sight.  Later, Gary will have a sesame seed left on his bottom lip, but he will wipe it off just as I am about to tell him so.

Our conversation today soon establishes that our lives are currently quite dull, Gary having the wildest times of the three of us, being on jury service, but like the good citizen that he is he won’t talk about it, although being from Essex and not having had the benefit of a classical education courtesy of Suffolk County Council like Mick and me, he never once uses the term sub judice.  Time travels on and Mick buys more Suffolk Pride for me, a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a whisky for himself before Gary buys Mick a half of Suffolk Pride and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me.

I have no real clue what time it is when we get up to leave for Portman Road, but I imagine it to be gone twenty to three, which would be rather late for a twelve-thirty kick-off.  As one we visit the gents before departing, and it is just about possible there are a couple of people following on, meaning that somewhat exceptionally we are not the last to leave.  As we cross Civic Drive on our way to the ground Mick reveals how when walking down a supermarket aisle the other day he was struck by how much processed ‘crap’ was sold to people under the auspices of ‘food’, and how pretty much no one cares as long as it makes a profit.  Once in Portman Road, Mick and Gary head for what I still think of as the Pioneer Stand and I head for ‘Churchmans’ as we bid one another adieu until Easter Monday somewhere near Sir Alf’s statue.

Passage into the Sir Alf Ramsey stand is quick and painless today and I stand very briefly behind one other person before being checked for weaponry, explosives and scrap metal. Entry to the stadium is through the commemorative turnstile number sixty-two, and after tripping William the Conqueror-like up the steps into the lower tier of the stand I soon find myself shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona, a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game.  Absent today are Phil’s son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who I think really comes from Stowupland.  I have rocked up too late to see the excitable young stadium announcer reading out the team but as much as I enjoy pretending to be a Frenchman at the Stade Roazhon by bawling out the players’ surnames I can’t say it has overly reduced my enjoyment of the day so far.

When the time comes, it is Millwall who get first go with the ball, which they are attempting to send in the direction of the goal at the far end of the ground from me and my fellow ultras.  Town are in their natural colours of blue and white whilst due to a colour clash Millwall sport off-white shirts and shorts with what looks like green trim; it’s a look that suggests the kit was left too long in the boil wash.  Portman Road is noisy today, with an atmosphere a bit like that for a Norwich match but without the bile, and Norfolk variants of the Habsburg chin.  After five minutes, Dan Neil shoots wide of the Millwall goal and then Millwall win a corner.  Up in the Cobbold stand even the gangways look full in the away ‘end’, as if those crafty, lawless cockneys have somehow managed to sneak in ticketless fans in the pockets of their fashionable short coats or disguised as sharp haircuts.

Ipswich dominate and shots rain in on the Millwall goal. The Millwall goalkeeper Patterson ‘spills’ a shot from Ben Johnson and Dan Neil has a shot blocked before Ivan Azon volleys goalwards from reasonably close range and Patterson makes a remarkable reflex save to divert it over the cross bar for a corner.  From the corner I am struck by the enormity of Millwall’s centre halves Cooper and Taylor and by Cooper’s mullet haircut, which suggest either that he would rather be playing Aussie Rules Football or that he has travelled forward through time to be here from circa1984.

On the pitch, Ipswich begin to dominate and by the eleventh minute the noise subsides.  Every time Millwall concede a free-kick their supporters chant something about being “fucked by the FA” as they weave another repeated pattern into their rich tapestry of self-pity and conspiracy theories. Ipswich dominate. “We can do all this and then they’ll breakaway and score” says Pat from Clacton with the understandable pessimism of someone living in the constituency for which Nigel Farage is member of parliament. In the sixteenth minute, Millwall’s Josh Coburn is the first player to be booked by referee Mr Michael Salisbury, who I like to think is heir to the former high street chain of handbag shops.

The half is half over and in a rare Millwall interlude, their number four shoots wide of the Town goal. Above the goal, the electronic advertising hoarding mysteriously reads “The UK’s leading Hydrogen Water” and all around the ground people stop and think, “Ooh, I’d better stop for some Hydrogen Water on the way home”.  Ipswich otherwise continue to dominate, winning corners roughly every two minutes until in the forty-first minute Jack Clarke embarks of a short, characteristically stuttering run somewhere near the far edge of the Millwall penalty area before shooting low into the near corner of the goal, and Town lead one-nil.

The goal is no more than Town deserve and probably a lot less, but it’s enough to inspire a miserable sounding rendition of “When the Town go marching in” and a minute’s worth of time is conjured up and added on to the forty-five we’ve already lived.

With half-time, I quickly depart to dispense more spent Suffolk Pride and as I stand along with many other men, all with our penises in our hands, urinating, I wonder at our interesting juxtaposition to the posters above the urinals that introduce us to Ipswich Town’s ‘safeguarding’ team. Relieved but confused, I leave the toilet to talk to Dave the steward and then Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison at the front of the stand.  Ray tells me how he is going to have to have an operation in the next month or so which will involve a bone graft with bone taken from his leg that he apparently doesn’t need.   Harrison, who is in a wheelchair, has told Ray he can have the bones from his legs because he never uses them.

The second half begins at twenty-eight minutes to two and within two minutes Millwall have a corner. Three minutes later Millwall have equalised as Darnell Furlong lies pleading on the turf, knocked over by some muscular, proxy docker before a low cross is diverted into the net between Town’s two centre backs from close range by the previously booked Josh Coburn.  “The future of flat roofing” read the illuminated advertising hoardings on the Sir Bobby Robson stands.  Four minutes later, and from a corner Millwall have the ball in the Town goal net again but foul play is suspected and Town are awarded a free kick.

Millwall are stronger this half, more capable of winning the ball back and getting forward with it themselves.  Town aren’t without their moments however and as the first hour of play recedes into history three corners are won from shots on goal, with the last ending with a knot of players collapsing to the ground as if the edges of the Millwall six-yard box had been laced with trip wires.  Pat from Clacton meanwhile tells Fiona and me about the flocks of what she thinks were Canada Geese that she saw from her hotel whilst on her whist-playing holiday in Great Yarmouth. What is more, Pat shows us the photos to prove it too.

The sixty-seventh minute is later than when Keiran McKenna usually unleashes his first batch of substitutes, but today this is when Jaden Philogene and Jack Taylor replace Casey McAteer and Dan Neil, although in my head I can’t not hear the excitable young stadium announcer barking “Jack Clarke” as two very separate and distinct words as the change occurs.  It takes Fiona to convince me that he actually said “Jack Taylor” and not “Jack”  “Clarke”.

As the succession of minutes beginning with the number seven pass by, Millwall are winning more corners and now George Hirst and Chuba Akpom replace Ivan Azon and Anis Mehmeti. Pat from Clacton unfolds the two pieces of paper that show the scores she has drawn in the ‘predict the score’ competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus;  3-2 seems a bit unlikely, but 2-1 to Ipswich has us now all rooting for another Town goal twice as hard as before.

Heading down the final descent towards ninety minutes we are told that there are 29,129 of us here today and satisfyingly such crowds are now so commonplace at Portman Road that people no longer applaud themselves for their own existence. Four minutes of the standard ninety remain and Millwall’s Derek Mazou-Sacko replaces Billy Mitchell, a player who sounds more like a character from Eastenders.  Within seconds Derek Mazou-Sacko clatters Jack Clarke and as a result his name makes an interesting entry in Mr Salisbury’s notebook.  Clarke is quickly substituted, replaced by Eggy before he comes to any more harm.

The final minute has the match leaving the impression that Millwall are more of an attacking force than they have been as Walton makes an excellent reaction save from close range and then the rebound is smacked into the underside of the cross bar by Ivanovic when it looked certain that Millwall would score. Two more Millwall corners follow and yet another in the four minutes of added on time but despite the presence of the towering Cooper and Taylor Town defend these successfully before Mr Salisbury’s whistle delivers a curdled cocktail of both relief and lingering disappointment.

Fiona and Pat from Clacton are swiftly away with a brief farewell and “See you on Easter Monday” but I hang on to applaud both teams off for providing a very entertaining match.  As ever I had high hopes for a win, but as ever in the Second Division strength has matched artistry.  I should have known that on the day of the Spring equinox the two teams level on points would receive equal sunlight.

Ipswich Town 1 Preston North End 1

/ martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

It’s been an unexpectedly sunny morning but everywhere is still dripping with last night’s and yesterday’s rain.  The morning has drifted by after an energetic start, which consisted of popping to the Co-op before breakfast to buy mushrooms, fruit and three bottles of local beer not available in the monopolising supermarket chains.  In the Co-op car park, a large petrol-engined pick-up truck, of the sort I imagine American rednecks driving was parked in one of the electric vehicle charging spaces; the legend along the side of the truck in big letters read ‘Barbarian’, which seems appropriate.  

Now, the train to Ipswich is on time but confusingly only half as long as it usually is, as if there is a shortage of carriages, but it doesn’t matter as there is still plenty of room on board and Gary and I can comfortably spread out over four seats when he boards at the next station stop, although it takes him time to find me because the train hadn’t stopped as far up the platform as he thought it would. As we descend through Wherstead, Gary admits to considering buying a season ticket for Jimmy’s Farm, although he’s not sure it would be as good value as one for Colchester Zoo.  I spot two polar bears patrolling the fence of their enclosure, but Gary doesn’t.

Sunny Ipswich is busy with pre-football people and as we walk along Portman Road I ask Gary what colour kit he thinks Preston North End will wear today.  He doesn’t know but hopes all-white. I tell him that if Wikipedia can be believed Preston is home of the tallest parish church spire in Britain, although here in puritan Ipswich I’m not sure it counts because it’s a Roman Catholic one.   Somewhere near the Spiral underground car park I listen to a voicemail message from Mick which tells me he is going to be late because he got half-way to the Arb and has realised he left his season ticket at home, so has gone back to get it.   Wracked with doubt and disappointment we arrive at the Arb where, as ever, I am first through the door, and following pub etiquette invest in the first round, a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and one of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10.40 with Camra discount).

Beers in hand we make for the beer garden and select metal chairs to sit on because the wooden seats are damp and the shelter backing on to High Street is fully occupied.  When Mick arrives he buys another round of drinks (Estrella, two pints of Suffolk Pride and a whisky chaser) and we settle down to look at today’s team line-up, have Mick regale us with tales of his recent trip to Glasgow and what he did there on Burns (Robert not Wes) night, discuss Charles Rennie Mackintosh, how AI might be able to tells us why Celtic football club has a soft ‘C’ but Celtic culture has a hard one, Antonio Gaudi and the Sagrada Familia, pick pockets in Barcelona, Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Gehry and the Guggenheim Museums in New York and Bilbao, and the contents of the Kelvin Hall Museum.

Sometime after twenty-five to three we depart for Portman Road and part ways in what would be the shadow of Alf Ramsey’s statue if the sun shone from the North not the South, as Mick kneels down to tie his shoelace.  Parting is such sweet sorrow in the knowledge that we might not meet again for a whole month before the next home fixture on 28th February versus Swansea City.  There are short queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand where the search by smiling people of mostly Asian heritage for weaponry and scrap metal continues zealously.  I enter the stand through turnstile sixty-two, vent spent Suffolk Pride and join Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood and Angie, who is back in her usual seat, just as the excitable young stadium announcer tells us the names of the Town team and I am able to bawl a few surnames as if I was a Frenchman at Stade du Moustoir, Lorient or Stade de l’Abbe Deschamps, Auxerre.

When the game begins, it is Preston North End who get first go with the ball, which they kick loosely in the direction of Gaye Street and what used to be the appropriately named Revett’s motorcycle shop at 53-67 Norwich Road.  Preston, or PNE (pronounced Pernee) as I usually think of them are suited in a plain, but classic kit of white shirts and navy-blue shorts, like England or Bolton Wanderers.  The virgin whiteness of PNE’s white shirts is relieved only by a frankly under-sized, curvy orange logo that not very clearly reads ‘Spud Bros’ and looks like the brothers might have designed it themselves.  Possible relatives of Mr Potato-Head, Spud Bros are more reliably known as purveyors of takeaway baked potatoes to the people of Lancashire, and “stars” of Tik-Tok, although according to Companies House their registered office is in Brentwood.  As ever, the Town are in blue shirts and white shorts that make no reference to vegetables or hot, takeaway food.

The first few minutes of the game have me noting mentally the home debut of recent signing Anis Mehmeti , the fact that the referee Mr John Busby is a very short man who might consider wearing a busby to make him look a bit taller, and how I think today’s tactic should just  be to ‘give it to Jack Clarke’.   Fiona meanwhile explains her absence from the Bristol City game; although she didn’t feel unwell, she just had to keep running to the loo, so thought it advisable to stay home and watch the match on the telly.  Above us, the sky has turned a heavy grey but with welcome patches of blue.  With the arrival of the ninth minute Town win a corner and enough of us to form a five-a-side team chant “Come on You Blues”.  Fiona asks if Mehmeti is Albanian and the PNE fans sing “Who the fuck are Blackburn Rovers?” to the tune of “John Brown’s Body”. 

Six minutes later, and Town win another corner. Again, we chant “Come on you Blues”, but to no avail.  Above us there is now more white cloud, and before us the green neon light from the Sir Bobby Robson stand flashes “Health care you can trust” implying rather worryingly that there is also health care that you can’t trust.   If Nuffield, who claim to be the trustworthy ones know something, they should tell the rest of us. Four minutes later and Jack Clarke shoots high and wide with the admirable style and panache of a man with a hair band, and he was plainly attempting the curl into the top corner.

The half is not quite half over and a foul throw from a PNE player brings the biggest cheer or rather jeer of the afternoon so far.  I decide I don’t really care about foul throws, why not let players just chuck the ball however they like?  Town meanwhile have the ball most of the time but are not getting through the massed ranks of white-shirted players and not a single cross has come from the right-hand side, where Mehmeti is possibly crowding out Wes Burns.  Finding entertainment where they can, Pat from Clacton and Fiona laugh as they recall occasions when Pat’s sister has fallen over, which apparently, she did today when she called at Pat’s before setting off for the football; I didn’t realise they were so cruel. The best move of the half sees Davis cross the ball, Burns head it back and Azom boot an overhead kick straight into the arms of PNE goalkeeper David Cornell, who forgettably,  played for Ipswich in the 2020/21 season; if only Azom had been facing the right way and could have seen where he was kicking it,

A third Town corner turns up to tease us and more lonely chants of ‘Come on You Blues’ prove fruitless again before PNE break up field with their number nine, who expertly lifts the ball over the advancing Christian Walton and comfortably wide of the goal.  It was probably the best chance of the half.  Little Mr Busby meanwhile is making himself very unpopular with the majority of people in Portman Road by only giving free kicks to PNE, and his efforts to atone by going back and booking PNE’s Thompson for a foul committed a minute or so earlier don’t convince anyone. Mehmeti shoots high into the side netting with great velocity and then PNE win their first corner.  “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” plead the home crowd staving off boredom as sunshine plays on the Cobbold Stand through gaps in the cloud.  If anyone has to shield their eyes, they won’t miss much except perhaps Mr Busby squirming slightly to the choruses of “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee, shit referee, shit referee”.  With the final minute of the half Town claim their fourth corner and the cries of “Come on You Blues” briefly reach audible levels before two minutes of the future are requisitioned by the fourth official to make up for moments of collective inertia since three o’clock and Town win a fifth pointless corner.

With the half-time whistle, I break ranks to vent more spent Suffolk Pride and then chat briefly to Dave the steward whilst on my way to speak with Harrison and his dad Michael down at the front of the stand.  We talk of music and Harrison tells me of his liking for Paul McCartney’s first solo album ‘McCartney’ and we agree it is his best, even if some of it wasn’t considered good enough to be on the Beatles ‘White Album’.

The football resumes at four minutes past four with George Hirst unexpectedly replacing Ivan Azom before Mr Busby tries to curry favour by booking another Prestonian and the PNE manager Paul Heckingbottom, who sounds like he could be a character from the BBC tv sitcom ‘Last of the Summer Wine’.  Soon afterwards PNE miss the second-best chance of the game so far as Alfie Devine shoots over the Town bar after a quick break through a sleepy looking Town defence. The smell of damp turf drifts pleasantly up my nasal passages as any remaining sunlight slips behind the West Stand.

Ten minutes of the half have been and gone and already there are desperate pleas of “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” from the home support.   For a few minutes PNE dominate possession and I wonder if maybe Town could turn the tables with a quick break away of their own, but we’re never that quick.  To pass the time, Town win a sixth corner and Pat from Clacton tells us that in the ‘pick the correct score’ competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus she has drawn 3-3 and 3-1. “Something had better change pretty soon then” I tell her gloomily.  A third decent shot on target from PNE sees Christian Walton make a low diving save prompting chants of “P,N,E,  P,N,E,  P,N,E” from the inhabitants of the town most famous for its admittedly magnificent bus station and having been the first to be by-passed by a motorway.

Twenty-minutes into the second and final half and Eggy and Jack Taylor replace Wes Burns and Jens Cajuste.  Within sixty-seconds, George Hirst misses what looks from the lower reaches of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand like an open goal as he heads wide.   Such is our anxiety now that it is agreed that Pat from Clacton should release the masturbating monkey good luck charm from her handbag and he is passed amongst us like some sort of weird Communion cup.  The blue Dodo from Mauritius follows the same ritual soon afterwards.  Meanwhile, today’s attendance is announced as being 27,549 and as we are thanked for attending by the excitable young announcer, Christian Walton makes an acrobatic save to tip a fourth decent PNE shot over the cross bar for a corner kick.

Sadly, whilst corner kicks have a strong element of lucky dip about them, the odds of Town scoring from them are akin to the likelihood of winning the national lottery, whilst for other teams the odds seem more like the chances of winning a game of whist.  This being the case, an outstretched leg and a rebound and then a close range scuffed shot are enough to ensure PNE take the lead with eighteen minutes of the originally allotted ninety minutes remaining.   The scorer is number nineteen Lewis Gibson, who bizarrely celebrates by cupping his hands either side of his head to make him look as if he has very big ears, and then running towards the PNE supporters.  I can only think he has been rendered temporarily insane with the excitement of scoring.

As we head into the last fifteen minutes, Town continue to rack up corners, and the home crowd show growing impatience as Dara O’Shea lingers over the ball rather than surging forward like Kevin Beattie, or just booting it, like Kevin Beattie.  Mehmeti shoots wide before Akpom replaces him and Johnson usurps Furlong.  Another Town corner develops into an exciting head tennis match or bout of pinball.  PNE make substitutions. Town take another corner and I tell myself I am still believing Town will score and go on to win.  That things don’t go as they should seems in part due to Mr Busby and the Sir Bobby Robson standers chant “Shit referee, Shit referee, Shit referee” with a passion and a volume never produced when merely attempting to encourage the team.

The final ten minutes of the ninety see George Hirst’s flick over Cornell cleared off the line after a fine pass from Jack Taylor but otherwise Town possession does not translate into shots on goal or the PNE defence being torn asunder.  But then, as if by magic, in the very final minute, with additional time of six minutes having just been announced, Jack Clarke runs across the PNE penalty area and is tripped by a Spaniard by the name of Pol Valentin.  Mr Busby awards a penalty kick and Jack Clarke scores.  Apparently, because Clarke slips when taking the kick, the PNE players try to claim the ball was kicked twice but Mr Busby has received enough abuse this afternoon to stop him entertaining specious claims like that.

Eventually, the six added minutes are played and despite multiple claims for penalties for firstly another foul on Clarke and then two or three handballs, no further goals are scored.  It’s been a disappointing afternoon of course, one to file with the catalogue of similar matches from the past against the likes of Cheltenham Town, Oxford United, and Port Vale, clubs often desperately punching above their weight.   We win most of them but not all and today we have been lucky to draw.

The crowd depart quickly into the dusky evening both happy and unhappy to have drawn.  The late goal almost feels like a win if like me you adjusted your expectations with only time added on standing between the present and defeat.   Even if the football wasn’t always the best, we’ve had our money’s worth this afternoon in terms of drama.  The Wolsey Theatre would be worried about the competition, but pantomime season has finished.