Little Oakley

Little Oakley 1 Barking 1

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The village of Little Oakley in Essex, Wikipedia tells us, had a population in 2011 of 1,171 and is on the outskirts of Harwich.  More precisely, Google maps tells us that Little Oakley is a four kilometre, fifty-eight minute walk from Harwich International railway station.  Now, I reckon I could walk 4 kilometres in less than 58 minutes, but I am nevertheless of a lazy disposition and therefore, today I have opted to drive the thirty-six kilometres from my house to the Memorial Ground, home of Little Oakley FC in my planet saving Citroen e-C4,  rather than enjoy a travel melange of rail, bus and walking, which would take me between one and  half and two and a half hours depending on connections.  Today at the Memorial Ground, Little Oakley FC are playing Barking in the Essex Senior League, the ninth level of English league football.

It’s a beautiful, bright, clear, winter’s day and but for a Luton van pulling out in front of me from a lay-by on the A120, I have a relaxed, trouble-free journey, played out to a soundtrack of the Saturday afternoon pre-match football coverage on BBC Radio Essex, featuring amongst others, the dulcet tones of Glenn Pennyfather and Danny Cowley.  My Citroen’s SatNav doesn’t seem to know about the Memorial Ground, so my journey ends with an abrupt left hand turn when suddenly from the B1414 I see the street sign for Lodge Road, which I remember from looking at a map is adjacent to the Memorial Ground.  I park up at the side of the narrow approach road, beneath an avenue of trees with a deep ditch on one side and wooden fence on the other on which several signs plead with drivers not to park too close to it.  I make the short walk to the clubhouse enjoying the sound of birdsong whilst inhaling the smell of hot cooking oil, probably chip fat.

The clubhouse is welcoming and populated with happy pre-match drinkers.  I buy a bottle of Adnams’ almost non-alcoholic ‘Ghostship’ (£3.20) and the bar maid asks if I’d like a glass, I would. I stand and look up at one of three TV screens showing Sky TV.  From a hatch, behind which is the clubhouse kitchen, a middle-aged woman looks out glumly. “Fed up?” I ask her.  “Bored” she says “It was busy, and now it’s quiet”.  This lady seems responsible for fulfilling the whole crowd’s need for food and hot drink on her own but it will soon be kick-off, so for now she’s not needed.

I sink my low alcohol beer as quickly as I can without burping and head outdoors where a man with a loud, deep voice directs me to turn left beyond the shipping container at the far end of the car park.  A short, friendly man emerges from a hut, a bit like municipal car park attendants used to in the far off days before ‘Pay and Display’, and asks if I’m a concession.  I ask how old you have to be to be a concession; it turns out it’s sixty-five and he apologises when I tell him I’m only sixty-four. But it does mean I’m about six months further from the grave than I would have been if I’d been a concession, even if I will be three quid poorer for it.  Having handed over my £8.00 in cash, I ask if there is a programme and am surprised to find that there is. “Here you are, if you’d like something to read” says the man, handing me six colourful sheets of A4 paper stapled together in the top left-hand corner.  Best of all the programme is free, as if a little bit of France has been re-located to the top right-hand corner of rural Essex.

Pap-rock plays over the public address system as I take stock of the ground, which has two small pre-fabricated metal terraces behind one goal and another pre-fabricated metal stand with seats overlooking the far half of the pitch; it looks as if there wasn’t room behind the dugouts for the stand to be level with the half way line.  The ground backs onto a hedge and a couple of Oak trees on one side and onto the gardens of a row of semi-detached houses on the other.  At the far end there is just a playing field and a trio of teenagers have leaned their bikes against the rail around the pitch. I can also see from here that the clubhouse appears to have a partly corrugated metal roof; I bet it rattles when it rains.

The pap-rock gives way to Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’ and the two teams amble onto the pitch; if there is any shaking of hands or other gestures of sportsmanship I miss them. I stand close to the home team dugout and next to me a man talking into his mobile phone says “We got two meal deals at the Co-op before we came out, so we ‘ad them”.  In the ‘technical area’ in front of the dugout, a track-suited man calls out to the home players “Ave a look, ‘ave a look, just be aware of the fuckin’ double bluff”.  I have no idea what he means, and decide not to ask him.

The match begins, and Barking get first go with the ball, their second touch being a hefty hoof out to the left wing.  Little Oakley, known as ‘The Acorns’ are wearing blue and black striped shirts with black shorts, a bit like a destitute man’s Inter Milan and are defending the empty, featureless end of the ground with marshes, Hamford Water and the North Sea a kilometre or two beyond.  Barking are all in yellow, with black sleeves, and they defend the clubhouse and Ramsey end of the ground, with the River Stour and Suffolk beyond that.   Barking win an early corner with some clever play by their number seven Michele Maccari. “Why’s that big guy on the edge? ‘e’s got a massive head on him” asks a lad sat behind me of his two friends, who I think could all be Little Oakley players who are not playing today. The ‘guy on the edge’ is stood at the edge of the penalty box and whilst he is quite tall, I must admit I can’t really see that his head is any bigger than anyone else’s.

“Barking, Barking give us a song” chants a bloke tamely, somewhere off to my right.  “If you all ‘ate Dagenham clap your ‘ands” comes the response from three or four other voices.  Unfortunately, Little Oakley has no such choir. It’s just gone a quarter past three and despite Barking probably playing, or at least attempting to play the more attractive and neater football, it is Little Oakley who have the first decent shot on goal, as number ten, Daniel Rowe spectacularly volleys the ball against the foot of a goalpost creating a pleasing metallic pinging sound. Recovering from the momentary excitement, I notice that between the semi-detached houses on the far side of the ground and across the water inbetween, I can see two dockside cranes at the Port of Felixstowe, beyond which and unbeknown to me, Felixstowe & Walton Football Club are on their way to drawing nil-nil with Haringey Borough in the Isthmian League.

Barking make claims for a penalty as one of their number tumbles between two Oakley defenders and at this point the referee seems to lose any affection the visitors might have once had for him. “You’re a joke ref” calls a man from behind a camera with a tele-photo lens, “Absolute clown ref”.  It’s nearly twenty-five past three and all of a sudden Barking take the lead; a clever, arcing cross being headed in at the near post by number six and captain Fahad Nyanja.

As the game is about to resume, an Acorns’ player calls out “We keep going, we fucking keep going”.  It is stating the obvious and I for one would feel a bit short-changed if this early in the game they’d all along been secretly playing ‘next goal wins’ .  As unnecessary as it should be, these apparent words of encouragement nevertheless almost work but in an unexpected way, as a low cross from the Oakley number seven, Idris Namisi is diverted against a goal post by Barking number four Sam Edwards.  Idris Namisi seems a popular player amongst the home crowd, and I can’t help but like him too, even if it’s probably because his first name is the same as that of the dragon who lived in the firebox of Ivor the Engine.

Oakley’s number ten, Rowe claims the honour of being the first player to be booked as he pulls back a Barking player and I agree with the old boy stood next to me, whose grandson is the Oakley number eleven, Luke Hipkin, when he says it was a needless, stupid foul.   The old boy asks me if I’m from Harwich and I tell him I grew up in Shotley just over the river from here. “Not far away, then “. He says. ”Not if you’ve got a boat” I reply.  Back on the pitch, the Oakley players are arguing amongst themselves. 

The half ends with Rowe being put through on goal for Oakley with just the Barking keeper to beat, but his shot is saved and Idris the popular dragon blazes the rebound high and wide.   I check my phone and Ipswich are losing 0-3 at Liverpool, which makes me glad I’m here and not on Merseyside.   With the half-time whistle I make for the club house to drain off excess low alcohol Ghostship and invest in one pound fifty’s worth of tea, because under a clear sky it’s beginning to get cold as the sun sinks in the west.  The middle-aged woman in the kitchen is being cheerfully rushed off her feet serving tea, frying chips, griddling burgers and taking cash and card payments. I can’t help but think it’s a pity the players and managers of both teams can’t just get on with what they’re meant to be doing with as little complaint. I haven’t heard her say ‘fuck’ once.

I take my tea outside into the softening, late, winter afternoon sunlight and the match resumes at two minutes past four; I stand by the Barking dugout. “Get ‘old of the fucker” barks the Barking manager  a seemingly irascible  man sporting a stylish grey cap and white goatee beard, who sounds like Ray Winstone and mostly never says ‘fuck’ or ‘fuckin’ in a sentence unless he can say it half a dozen times.  Mostly, his exasperation seems to be directed at his own Barking team who, I can only guess, aren’t playing so much like the Spanish national team, as may be he told them to.

Time goes on and Barking’s number eleven Ugonna Emineke is booked for time wasting as he delays taking a throw-in because there is a rumpus happening in the penalty area and he’s waiting for it to subside.  Unfortunately for Emineke, the referee only had eyes for him and hadn’t noticed the pushing and shoving in the penalty  area, although before the throw is eventually taken he has to go and sort it out and speak to his assistant about it. Then, with twenty minutes of the half gone Oakley equalise, Idris Namisi nipping in to poke a cross over the goal line from close range.

As it has progressed, the game has become increasingly fractious, with a number of Acorns players being quite aggressive, whilst Barking players have acted out fouls where none has been made, sometimes squealing and moaning for additional effect.  All this has been against a  background of some of the most  liberal use of the word ‘fuck’ I have ever heard and I wonder what people do during the week to make them so angry on a Saturday.

Things don’t improve when at twenty-seven minutes to five Emineke is sent off for a ‘professional’ (or, as this is only the Essex Senior League perhaps ‘semi-professional’) foul, and The Acorns are awarded a penalty, which the balding and bearded Darren Mills takes and Daniel Purdue saves, diving excellently to his right.  “How many more fucking chances do we get?” moans The Acorns’ number three Adie Cant.  “Calm the fuck down” shouts the coach “Fuckin’ ‘ell”. It’s as if Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s Derek and Clive had had an afternoon out at the football.

With the aftermath of the penalty, the worst of the afternoon’s fractiousness is over and much  of the final twenty minutes plays out against the back-drop of a glorious, blood red sunset,   A friendly man wearing a day-glo gilet bearing the words ‘LO Media Officer’ on the back, talks to me briefly and asks if I’m a ground hopper, “Not really” I tell him, “ I usually watch Ipswich”,  although I don’t let on that for forty years I’ve kept a list of every game I’ve ever been to.  He’s soon photographing the main stand against the sunset however, and the match plays out shifting freely from end to end,  but with neither side looking much like scoring the winning goal. Meanwhile, I wonder at the name of a local fish and chip shop, Pieseas Chippy, which is advertised at the pitch side.

The final whistle blows at eight minutes to five and an appreciative crowd applaud the efforts of both teams in a match which whilst mostly not a thing of beauty, apart from the sunset, has been entertaining and hard fought.  I think a draw is a fair result although home fans might not agree, and as I head for my car I hear a man muttering to himself about the ‘village team’ holding the team from the city (Wikipedia tells us that in 2011 Barking had a population of 59,011) as if the moral victory belongs to Little Oakley.  Perhaps it does, but even if it doesn’t it’s been a lovely afternoon out.

Stanway Rovers 0 Maldon & Tiptree 0

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It’s the third day of August and the domestic football season is yawning and stretching after a  long sleep throughout June and July.  However, in the same way that an early morning shower, or a nice cup of tea, will bring enjoyment and refreshment at the start of another day, so the FA Cup also invigorates and refreshes and quickly brings a sense of purpose, and today is the start of this season’s FA Cup (although some games were played last night).  The ‘proper’ rounds of the FA Cup of course do not begin until the league clubs enter in November, and non-league football clubs have to qualify to get into the ‘proper’ FA Cup and so obsessed with hierarchy is the Football Association that before the first qualifying round there is a preliminary round, and before that is the extra preliminary round, and that’s what’s happening today.  It’s as if the FA is saying to the smallest clubs, at the lowest levels of the league pyramid “You are nothing and you have no money, so whilst we’ll let you play in the FA Cup, it won’t be the ‘proper’ FA Cup”   Worse still, some clubs, those below Step Nine, aren’t even allowed to enter the extra-preliminary round. 

I have toyed with the idea of attending any number of possible FA Cup fixtures today with Long Melford, Cornard United, FC Clacton, Basildon United, Little Oakley, Stowmarket Town, Heybridge Swifts, Ipswich Wanderers and even Harleston Town all having home ties that I could surely get to.  But as a lazy person who economises on effort wherever possible, I eventually choose the fixture that is closest to my house and therefore easiest to get to.   I briefly consider catching the bus, but the service is only hourly and whilst I would arrive in plenty of time for kick-off, I can’t be certain that I would make it back to the bus stop in time after the final whistle.  So it is that I set off forty minutes after the bus, just before half-past two, in my planet saving Citroen eC4 to travel the 5.76 kilometres to New Farm Road and ‘The Hawthorns’ where at three-o’clock Stanway Rovers of the Essex Senior league will be playing Maldon & Tiptree of the Pitching-In Isthmian League North.

It’s been a sultry morning under cloudy skies, but now the sun is shining as I edge through the car park and am directed by a man in a dayglo tabard into what is possibly the last available parking space.  The car park is like Brighton beach without the nudists, and pebbles crunch under foot as having left my car I head for the club house and the bar, where I am delighted to see real ale for sale.  With kick-off only twenty minutes away I buy just a half a pint of Colchester Brewery “Romans go home”, which of course they did at the beginning of the 5th century.   At £2.30 it seems rather expensive but the beer is tasty and I quaff it quickly before I trudge back across the beach between the cars to the turnstile, where a queue has formed, largely due to the time taken for someone up ahead to pay by debit card, although cash is also accepted.  To heighten and prolong my sense of eager anticipation and impatience to see the game, and that of the people behind me, I too pay by card (£8.00).

Stepping inside the ‘stadium’ I exercise a visual stock take and don’t think the place has changed much since I was last here, which was on a cold day in December 2013 to see Stanway Rovers lose improbably by a single goal to mighty Wivenhoe Town.  There may now be a few more bus shelter style stands and a couple less portacabins but that’s about it.  What does differ from eleven years ago is that there are no programmes on sale today but a faded, laminated A4 poster displays a QR code for digital programmes, although these turn out to be last season’s, not today’s game.  I ask a man in a dayglo gilet if there is a programme today; he doesn’t know, although trying to help he asks another man in a dayglo gilet who doesn’t know either but responds in a manner which suggests it’s nothing to do with him and he prefers not to answer questions about anything.

Time passes as Nineties dance music plays over the public address system, which turns out to be two large roof mounted speakers, one on its side, that look like they’ve been liberated from an ageing hi-fi system.  The music stops abruptly as the two teams appear from the corner near the turnstile to process onto the pitch and go through all the usual handshaking before forming separate huddles and then lining up to await the ‘parp’ of the referee’s whistle. The Stanway number eleven has one leg of his shorts rolled up over his thigh as if to ‘show a bit of leg’. Slightly late, at two minutes past three, the match begins with Maldon & Tiptree getting first go with the ball, which they boot towards the car park end.  The visiting team are wearing a frighteningly dull kit of pale grey shirts and slightly darker grey shorts; it makes them looked like all life and natural colour has been drained out of them as if by some previously unknown Essex coast vampire.  Maldon’s home kit is one of red and blue stripes like Barcelona of the Spanish La Liga or Stade Malherbe Caen of French Ligue 2 and it’s a mystery why they’re not wearing it as it would not clash with Stanway’s yellow shirts and black shorts. Perhaps the home kit is in the wash, or maybe they are wearing it and that vampire is real.

The opening stages of the game seem tense and cautious.  “Mick, right shoulder” shouts the home goalkeeper. “’old ‘im” bawls someone else “Get over!”.  It’s a relief when the ball leaves the pitch and hits a man with a jade-coloured jumper draped over his shoulders.  I walk down the ground behind the dugouts past a man with a golden retriever dog.  I overhear a snatch of conversation “Tooting Broadway Witherspoons (sic) is right across the road” explains someone. I stand between the dugouts “Joe, Joe, can we?” implores one of the Stanway coaches curiously as he stands momentarily with hands on hips in his black nylon tracksuit. “Come On Ref!”

At twelve minutes past three the Stanway number four heads wide of the Maldon goal.  The opinion in the Stanway dugout is that he “needed” to score that.  As if to almost  prove them right Maldon are almost immediately on the attack and win two corners in quick succession.  A Maldon player dribbles the ball cleverly between two opponents.  “Nice feet” says a man near me, who is possibly a chiropodist.   Stanway almost score almost again as a back-header skims off a crown and is tipped away acrobatically by the Maldon goalkeeper.

Keen to experience the game from all around the Hawthorns I move to the corner of the ground where the slope on the site affords me an unexpectedly elevated view across the gently, but nevertheless worryingly rolling, undulating pitch.  Above me a blackberry bush hangs down over the fence and I spend the remainder of the half feasting on plump, ripe blackberries which are being warmed by the mid-afternoon sun.   By half-time I have eaten more blackberries than I have ever eaten before whilst watching a football match.  It’s now twenty-five past three and the somewhat lumbering, balding and clearly bearded referee calls for a drinks break.  The Stanway substitutes trot about in front of me, stretching and discussing football boots; apparently, one of them owns a pair “…like the Trent Alexander Arnold ones”.

When the match resumes Maldon pass the ball amongst their centre backs, in the style of England, until number six carefully side foots the ball into touch.   It’s three thirty-eight, and a Maldon free-kick thumps the head of the Stanway number eight, who was in a defensive wall but now lies prone on the grass; the game is stopped while he receives treatment and then leaves the pitch.  In due course he returns, but oddly now has his shorts rolled up over his thighs like the number eleven.

The match is not of the highest quality and the ball regularly sails aimlessly through the upper atmosphere and on one occasion into a neighbouring garden.  At eleven minutes to four however Maldon’s number nine shoots and only a low diving save from the Stanway goalkeeper prevents a goal. From the resultant corner however, the ball is fired out into the car park and hopefully avoids my Citroen; the high fence behind the goal doesn’t seem to be quite high enough.  The half ends with me reflecting on the names on the advertisement boards and questioning whether  Planned Environmental Services have a rival company called Un-planned Environmental Services.  Finally, I find myself disappointed that neither club seems to have neither a band of noisy teenage Ultras or one of ageing but witty malcontents.

With half time I head to the tea bar where I invest in a pound’s worth of tea and two pounds’ worth of sausage roll, which comes with a free paper napkin.   I don’t think the sausage roll is as good as the ones at Coggeshall Town, although it is cheaper, but it is definitely better than the ones from Greggs. Having eaten my sausage roll I move to the two-step terrace cum bus shelter  behind the goal at the car park end and strangely overhear more people talking about Tooting Broadway. I finish my tea and the teams amble out only to line up and then have to wait for the referee and his two linesmen, one of whom has a beard, whilst the other is older and has a bit of a pot belly.

It is eight minutes past four as the football resumes and unexpectedly a small man in a polo shirt with a tie draped around his shoulders begins to bawl Yellow Army, Yellow Army, Yellow Army several times.  I see from my phone that the current temperature is twenty-four degrees and then the man in the dayglo gilet who I asked about the programme appears and tells me that there is currently an ‘error’ with the programme.  I wonder if the error is that no one produced one as Maldon win successive corners and I get the impression that they are the slightly more dominant team.

Continuing my odyssey I walk a little further round the ground and on to the fourth side where there is a small pre-fabricated stand containing the only seats in the stadium.  I am suddenly struck with the thought that Stanway Rovers seem to have an uncharacteristically small number of players with visible tattoos before I spot what looks like my friend Gary in the seats.  Approaching the stand, I confirm that the reason the person I see looks like Gary is because it is Gary, and I decide to sit down in the seat in front of him just as Maldon’s number four is booked by the referee for a misdemeanour I didn’t see fully because I was concentrating on identifying Gary. 

As Stanway make their first substitution, Gary tells me how his mother has been ill and in hospital. It’s now twenty-three minutes to five and the game remains tense, cautious and lacking in goalmouth action with both teams either defending well or just lacking the ability to score a goal, I’m not sure which. At seventeen minutes to five some football suddenly breaks out as Maldon’s number nine dribbles down the right flank leaving three Stanway players in his wake before putting in a low cross.  The cross unfortunately runs behind the Maldon player’s team-mates, but their number seven manages to get to the ball and turn, but then sends his shot over the goal, the fence and into the premises of Collier and Catchpole, the independent local builders’ merchants.

The clock is running down, it’s nine minutes to five and my thoughts are turning to what I might have for tea as a Stanway shot rolls rapidly towards goal and this time it is necessary for the Maldon goalkeeper to make a save.  Gary and I chat as we watch and I learn from him that the concessionary admission price at Stanway applies to over sixties, not over sixty-fives, so I’ve spent three pounds more to get in than I needed to.  It’s two minutes to five as another football sails out of the ground and into one of the neighbouring properties, but a minute later the game is over; the final score nil-nil.

The game over and with no conclusion except that there will be replay at Maldon, Gary and I quickly vacate our seats, leaving together as he heads for the toilet, and I make for my Citroen.  Briefly deconstructing the game in the style of football pundits, I think the match was a bit of a non-event, but Gary thinks the second half was better than the first. 

With no conclusive result, no programme and having paid three quid more to get in than I needed to, it hasn’t been the best afternoon, but then again the sun has shone, I had a decent half of beer, a decent cup of tea, an ok sausage roll and most memorably of all more blackberries than I’ve ever eaten before at a football match.  It must be the magic of the Cup.  

Colchester United 2 Harrogate Town 1

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It’s the first day of the second weekend in October and in the space of a week the leaves on the trees have begun to turn to shades of yellow and brown; it’s autumn and it’s cool.  I had wanted to head north to Morecambe today following Ipswich Town, but fate conspired to leave me without a car this morning and a hoped-for message that would have seen me ‘get a lift’ never arrived.  But like Ray Davies I like my football on a Saturday and so I have sought my fun elsewhere.  Local non-league football is always an attraction and Halstead Town, both Stanway Rovers and Stanway Pegasus, Little Oakley and Coggeshall United are all at home this afternoon but sticking two fingers up to the cost of living crisis I choose Colchester United versus Harrogate Town.  As some people collect vinyl records, Smurfs or infectious diseases so I collect Football League teams (well sort of) and I’ve never seen Harrogate Town.  It should be an “interesting” match, with the teams being third and fourth from bottom of the fourth division, but at least Col U should have a chance of winning.

Since Colchester United stopped running shuttle buses to their ridiculously remote stadium at Cuckoo Farm I have only been to see them there once, I used to be a regular. The Colchester United website now makes no reference to getting to the Community Stadium by public transport, the implication being that you can only get there by car, which is scandalous given the urgent need to reduce traffic congestion and pollution.   We are all doomed, but nevertheless I book a space on-line for my trusty Citroen C3 at the ‘Park and Walk’ car park (£3.00), which is over the A12 from the stadium, and make the short drive towards oblivion.   

It’s a pleasant walk from the car park beneath pale blue afternoon skies punctuated with fluffy clouds, over the roaring A12 to United Way and its vacant expanses of tarmac haunted by the ghosts of terminally delayed shuttle buses.  At the ground, I visit the club shop to marvel at the pencils, mugs, cuddly toys and fridge magnets; this is Colchester’s Fitzwilliam Museum.  I pick up a programme in the shop and am pleasantly surprised to find that these are still free, “It’s like being in France” I tell the woman at the counter.  Mysteriously, the cover of the programme is printed with the words “£3.00 where sold” and I wonder where that might be. Outside, I take a wander, easily resisting the temptation to pay £4.00 for a plastic cup of fizzy ‘IPA’ from the Legends Bar, although the alfresco Yogi Bear-style tables look inviting and £4.00 a pint is actually very cheap for a football ground.  Up a shaded corner sits the Harrogate Town team bus, provided by a local company with the fabulously Yorkshire name of ‘Murgatroyd’; it’s a name straight out of “Last of the Summer Wine”, and I imagine the Harrogate team running out to the theme tune at home games.

My fascination with the outside of the Community Stadium is soon exhausted and I head inside the stadium, successfully scanning my ticket and pushing through the turnstile at the third or fourth attempt; computer technology frequently succeeds in belittling me like this and I expect I shall meet my eventual demise at the hands of artificial intelligence.  I drift past the poorly patronised food stand beneath the stand, with its alluring smell of hot cooking oil and grease and find my way to my seat, which is sufficiently close to the foot of the stairs for the safety rail to be annoyingly in my field of vision.  Over the PA system, ‘Lost in music’ by Sister Sledge is followed by Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Don’t Stop’ and I wonder if I’m not back at Layer Road in 1979 waiting to see Mick Packer, Steve Leslie and Trevor Lee strut their stuff.  Some of the people sat around about me look as if they would have been getting the benefit of a ticket at the concessionary price even back then.

“The teams are in the tunnel” announces the voice of the PA system excitedly to no reaction whatsoever from the crowd.  The teams soon emerge and as they line up for the usual pre-match pleasantries my view of them is almost totally obscured by the rail and the steward zealously guarding it.  Quickly, a couple of old boys sarcastically ask him if he’s going to stand there for the whole match, whilst also telling him to retreat into the stairwell, which he obligingly does; but I think he’s here to see the match as much as we are.

Colchester United get first go with the ball as the match begins and they attempt to aim at the goal closest to the town itself, which is over 3.5 kilometres away.  The U’s are wearing their traditional kit of blue and white striped shirts with white shorts and blue socks, and very smart it is too, particularly with just three broad blue stripes, although the red numbers on the backs of their shirts are mostly illegible.  Harrogate are regrettably one of the increasing number of teams that feel compelled to wear a funereal all-black away kit, despite there being no colour clash whatsoever between their yellow and black home kit and the U’s blue and white.   On the plus side, today is the first home league game for Col U’s new manager Matt Bloomfield, who joins the long list of former Ipswich Town players and managers at ‘Layer Road’, albeit that he only played one game for Town

“Col U” bang-bang-bang is the noise off to my right as the heirs to the Barside and Layer Road end get behind their team with a chant and the aid of a drum that sounds like a large cardboard box.  “Oooh, they’re in black, another bad sign and we’re kicking the wrong way” says the old bloke behind me cheerily like some soothsayer who might have told fortunes for Queen Boudicca.  “Only about bloody ten of ‘em” he continues, commenting on the Harrogate supporters in the opposite stand. “Got bloody cars in Yorkshire in’t they?”  He then proceeds to count them coming to a total of twenty-one.  Regrettably, I can’t resist doing the same and make the total twenty-five, although I don’t tell him.

“Blue and white army, de-de-de-de-dur” chant the home fans behind the goal as if they’ve either forgotten half the words or just couldn’t be bothered to think up any more.  “Hit the bloody thing” calls the old bloke behind me as Col U get into the Harrogate penalty area.  So far, so scruffy, it’s hard to  believe Col U beat Ipswich in the  League Cup earlier in the season.  “New manager’s made a difference, don’t you think” says someone behind the bloke behind me, perhaps only half in jest.  “Give him a chance, we’ve only had five minutes” says the voice of reason next to him, not quite getting the ’joke’.   “Who’s the wanker in the black” chant the Col U fans behind the goal, which is as close to wit as most football chants ever come.

When football is not of a high quality there comes a tipping point where this increases the likelihood of goals due to mistakes or ineptness, and happily this is what happens next.  A punt forward by Tom Dallison sails over the head of a Harrogate defender, who was either stood in the wrong place or didn’t jump high enough, and lands at the feet of Kwesi Appiah who is left with an unimpeded 20 odd metre run towards goal; he easily evades the Harrogate goalkeeper and runs the ball into an empty net whilst looking slightly surprised and possibly embarrassed.  Col U lead 1-0.

With Col U winning I relax and realise I haven’t seen the Col U mascot Eddie the Eagle, I hope he hasn’t succumbed to bird flu.  Col U are the better team with more attacking ideas, I hesitate to call it ‘verve’. “Go on push him” shouts the bloke next to me as Appiah chases another punt forward and the Harrogate defender who is ahead of him. Unfortunately, Appiah takes the bloke at his word and physically pushes the defender, inevitably conceding a free-kick.   The game is 25% gone and Frank Nouble heads a cross against the inside of a goal post, but it defies the laws of physics, and the angle of refraction somehow falls short of the angle of incidence and the ball stays out of the goal.  “There’s been more action in this first twenty minutes than in the whole season” says the bloke behind me sounding uncharacteristically positive.

I count the Harrogate fans again and it looks like there are thirty of them now, if they go on like this there might be forty of them by full-time; it seems unlikely though.  Perhaps aware of their swelling support, the Harrogate team begin to get something of a game together and win a corner and then another as Harrogate’s Armstrong, a bearded man with his hair tied back dangles a foot at the ball by way of an attempt on goal.   At first referee Mr Hicks give no decision and looks to his linesman. When the linesman signals goal-kick Mr Hicks awards the corner. “That’s teamwork” says the bloke next to me.

With ten minutes to go until half-time, Harrogate’s Joe Mattock has the honour of being the first player to be booked as he fouls the mouthy and theatrical Appiah.  Col U are strongest down the flanks and two minutes later a low cross from Junior Tchamadeu evades everyone in the penalty area expect Frank Nouble who is lurking beyond the far post and strikes the ball firmly into he goal to give Col U a 2-0 lead.  “Ole, Ole, Ole” chant the crowd behind the goal, simultaneously celebrating the goal and re-living holidays on the Costa Brava.

Four minutes of added on time are announced. “Where’d he get that from?” asks the bloke behind me but no one answers.  “You officials are a joke” shouts someone else when a possible handball is ignored and then Harrogate have their first shot on target, but it’s easily caught by Sam Hornby in the Col U goal.

With the half-time whistle I stand up to stretch my legs, and devour a Nature Valley Canadian Maple Syrup Crunchy bar as I check the half-time scores and discover that Ipswich are losing 1-0 at Morecambe. 

With the re-start of the game Harrogate replace Joe Mattock with Warren Burrell, I agree with the bloke beside me that Mattock had looked like he might get sent off if he wasn’t substituted, such was his enthusiasm.  Harrogate’s kick-off for the second half doesn’t show much hope for their approach as the ball is tapped back from the centre spot and then launched straight into touch as if just trying to gain distance from their own goal.  The other half-time substitute for Harrogate, Josh Falkingham fouls Appiah and quickly becomes the second player to be booked by Mr Hicks. “You dirty northern bastards” chant the Col U fans behind the goal, to my shame it’s a chant which, as someone who has never lived north of Ipswich, I have always found enjoyable.

Col U soon win another free-kick, but in the Harrogate half;  Mr Hicks sprays a line on the pitch ten yards from where the foul was given but  there is not a Harrogate player within ten yards of it. When Col U come to take the kick, they play it backwards.  “Go on boy, open your legs” cries the bloke next to me as Tchamadeu breaks forward again down the wing, I try not to look. Behind the goal the home fans have moved the choice of music in the stadium from the 1970’s to the 1980’s as they launch into a rendition of Depeche Mode’s ‘I just can’t get enough’.  They switch to ‘You don’t know what you’re doing’ as Mr Hicks brandishes his yellow card in the direction of Col U’s Cole Skuse.  As the sun goes down,  over half of the pitch is now in shadow and I’ve got cold hands.

Not quite an hour of the match has gone and as happened when Col U scored their first goal, a moment in which any ability a player has suddenly deserts him occurs again.  This time Hornby’s seemingly easy clearance barely leaves the ground and travels directly to Harrogate’s Daniel Grant who strides forward, and slips the ball through to Pattison who shoots the ball into the far corner of the Colchester goal, the score is 2-1.  Weirdly, the Harrogate fans do not appear to celebrate; if they do they do it quickly and quietly, but then, it might not be possible to hear them because they are so well spread throughout the away fans enclosure in groups of no more than two or three, it’s almost as if they don’t get on or are embarrassed to be seen with one another.

Harrogate win another corner from which McArdle heads over the cross-bar and then they make another pair of substitutions.  When a Harrogate player is injured and stays down he’s attended to by the physio who is a woman.  At least one person in the stand behind the goal feels it’s appropriate to produce a wolf whistle and the bloke behind me suggests that the injured player will be looking into her eyes and telling her the pain is in his groin area.  It is sobering to find there are people who still think like this.

The last twenty-five minutes of the match play out in a series of free-kicks, the occasional corner, the evening up of the number of yellow cards shown and some more substitutions, three for Col U and one for Harrogate.  Col U’s defending gets more desperate with Luke Chambers hoofing the ball inelegantly even when he doesn’t have to, like he did for Ipswich in his latter days. When Col U win a free-kick the bloke behind me suggests they bring on Freddie Sears who has already been substituted. “It’s what they do in America” he says, attempting to justify his stupid comment, with an equally stupid one. 

In the final ten minutes of normal time Luke Chambers is booked, almost wilfully it appears, and Alex Newby and Luke Hannant miss simple looking chances in quick succession that could have secured the win for Col U. Perhaps the biggest surprise of the afternoon is the nine minutes of added on time that is to be played, but this might just be because in previous years four minutes has always been what we’ve come to expect.

With the final whistle there is applause, the crowd has clearly enjoyed the win even if it wasn’t the greatest game ever played. Often however a game between two evenly matched teams will be perfectly watchable regardless of how good they are; Col U and Harrogate were evenly matched today but Col U were the better team and deserved their victory.  I head off back over the A12 to the car park and learn that Ipswich have come from behind to beat Morecambe 2-1 and all is right with the world.