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SCO Angers 2 Olympique de Marseille 5

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Angers is an historic city in the valley of the River Loire in western France famed for its massive castle, partly built by the early Plantagenet kings of England, which is home to the remarkable fourteenth century Tapestry of the Apocalypse.  Visiting the castle to see the tapestry is one of the reasons why my wife Paulene and I have made the eight hour, seven-hundred- and twenty-three-kilometre drive in our planet saving Citroen e-C4 to be here, but another is that today SCO Angers are playing Olympique Marseille (OM) at the Stade Raymond Kopa in a Ligue 1 fixture.  We have seen Angers play OM before, back in 2015 at the Stade Velodrome in Marseille (Angers won 2-1), but being the type of people who feel strangely compelled to watch football in as many French towns and cities as possible, this is an opportunity not to be missed.  Also, it’s easier to get tickets for Angers v OM than it is get them for Ipswich Town away games, which I have therefore given up on.  Meanwhile, Paulene is the only person in the world to be a fan of both OM and Paris St Germain!

From our hotel near the St Serge University, it’s a two-minute walk to the tram stop where a Ligne A tram takes us to Foch Haras from where we change to an articulated number one bus that makes its way up rue Paul Bert and rue Volney towards Saumuroise, where we alight (fare 1.70 euros) and then take a short walk down rue du Colombier to the Stade Raymond Kopa.  The Stade Raymond Kopa was until 2017 called the Stade Jean Bouin, but since 2019 it has been undergoing its latest upgrade with two new stands being built.  From rue du Colombier Stade Raymond Kopa now looks less like a football stadium and more like a large, perforated, grey metal box, largely because it is. The dark grey reflects the monochrome club colours of SCO Angers but could probably do with a few splashes of white or some groovy signage to jazz it up a little, especially on a grey, cloudy autumn day like today.

It’s about twenty past one and crowds are gathering in the street at the back of the Tribune Saint-Leonard awaiting the arrival of the Angers team who soon step out of a compact black and white coach and skulk into the stadium through an anonymous opening in its grey metal walls.  A crowd of mostly children cheer and wave black and white flags whilst cheerless looking security guards look out from beneath frighteningly short haircuts.  The players are greeted and ushered beyond the grey wall by people in shiny suits wearing huge white plimsolls, which make them resemble the children on the Magic Roundabout.

With the Angers players safely inside the stadium, an air of expectancy still lingers in the street outside and perhaps even increases because the OM team bus is now on its way.  OM are without doubt the biggest club in France but they have no dodgy middle eastern state to bank-roll them and are instead mis-managed by a succession of incompetent owners who ride the football gravy train, sell any decent players, buy in those the top clubs don’t want and build up debts before moving on, leaving in their wake a sort of underfunded, Mediterranean version of Tottenham Hotspur.  But OM supporters are all over France and are faithful to their club, they are also probably masochists.

At last, the blue lights of the police motorcycle escort appear and following behind the OM team bus, which parks up behind the lines of comically grumpy security staff and disgorges its cargo of shifty looking athletes into the grey metal box. We stand next to a man who shouts insults at the players and doesn’t seem to notice the scary looks he receives from a huge security guard standing just a metre away.  With the excitement over, Paulene and I head round the corner to the fanzone, where there is a bouncy castle, a bar, tables and chairs and a trestle table from which an attractive young couple are flogging a limited range of club ‘merch’.  Also here is a collection of balloons arranged in the shape of a heart to promote ‘October Rose’, an annual event in French football to raise awareness of and money for research into breast cancer.  Most clubs produce a special shirt and associated merchandise and have a fixture dedicated to it.  Today, Angers will be wearing their special shirt.  Paulene shows solidarity by buying a pink scarf and we are both given pink ribbons to wear on our coats.  With an hour still until kick off I make a trip to the bar for a 50 cl ‘glass’ of Affligem beer (9 euros for the beer and 1 euro for the re-usable ‘October Rose’ branded cup).  It might be expensive and a bit too cold, but Affligem is a decent enough beer (even if it is now owned by Heineken) which at 6.7% alcohol by volume offers a strength and flavour no one would dare allow football fans in England to enjoy.

Having supped the Affligem, we head into the grey box.  There are no turnstiles, just people with scanners to check your ticket or the QR code on the screen of your mobile phone.  Everyone, everywhere, as at all French football game wishes you “bon match” and everyone is given a polythene flag displaying the SCO Angers club badge.  Inside the grey box it is as grey as it is outside, with the steel frame of the stand painted grey or coated with what looks like a hard, grey pulp or even icing.  The perforated metal walls let in a lot of light however and the concourse is spacious, although the toilets aren’t and streams of people made anxious by full bladders snake out of them.

There are two flights of stairs up to our seats in the lower tier of the Tribune Colombier but conveniently our seats are at the end of the row.  Three unaccompanied youths, who look no more than twelve years old sit in front of us but then move to the seats next to me, and a nervous looking man with dark receding hair and a young boy sit in front of us instead; he gives the three boys a slightly quizzical and disapproving look as if to ask, “Vos meres savent-elles que vous etes ici?” (Do your mothers know you are here?)

When the game begins it is OM who get first go with the ball, which they are aiming at the goal in front of the Tribune Colombier, which is the fullest of the four stands and is where Paulene and I are sitting.  Somewhere far behind us is the suburb of Trelaze where the number one bus that we caught was heading.  Today, OM are wearing a change kit of all navy blue whilst Angers are not in their usual black and white stripes that make them look like a classy, Gallic Harwich & Parkeston FC but instead wear their special, all-white with a pink splodge on the front, ‘October Rose’ kit.

The ball is quickly booted into touch from kick off as if OM never really wanted first go with it anyway.  Over to our left in the end of the otherwise mostly empty Tribune Jean Bouin the OM ultras are in full voice, waving banners and jumping about, as they have been since we arrived. “Marseille! Tum de tum, Te dum dum! Marseille!” they chant, according to the scribble in my notebook.   It is OM who have the first shot on goal when after nine minutes Igor Paixo strikes the ball wide of an Angers post at the end of a coherent passing move.  Two minutes later, and as I am afflicted by wafts of body spray from the nervous looking man with a receding hairline sat in front of me, Anthony Lopes the Angers goalkeeper gesticulates unhappily at the players in front of him.  A pattern begins to emerge as another good passing move from OM in the twelfth minute ends with Tochukwu Nnadi also shooting wide.

Angers haven’t featured much so far but this of course means that in the fourteenth minute a cross from the left sails over the head of Angers’ Lilian Raolisoa only for it to strike an OM defender deflect back onto Raolisoa and into the goal knocking Raolisoa over in the process.  It’s a comedy goal as many that OM concede are, but it gives Angers a surprise one-nil lead, nevertheless.  “Allez Angervins” chant the home crowd and the nervous looking man in front stands up to wave his polythene flag and jump up and down, and he encourages the boy to do so too. Perhaps he’s not so nervous after all.

A goal down, some of the OM players begin to roll around on the floor when the opportunity arises but the referee Monsieur Jeremie Pignard ignores them quite brilliantly and as the first half of the first half fades into the past OM shoot wide again and then do nothing memorable with the game’s first corner before Angers make an inevitable quick break away, only for Amine El Ouazzani to shoot spectacularly high and wide of the OM goal.

The first third of the match is over and to mark the occasion Raolisoa slices a clearance to give OM a second corner, but OM only proceed to miss a couple more chances and Paixao has a header easily saved by Lopes when he probably should have scored. Another OM corner is then easily cleared before finally, with seven minutes left until half time, a cross from Timothy Weah is headed firmly but simply into the Angers net from close range by bearded OM captain Himad Abdelli.  “Ole, Ole, Ole” chant the OM fans to the tune of the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine”. In all the stands OM fans stand up to cheer and unlike in England where people are outraged when an “away” supporter sits in the “home” end, no one seems that bothered, but then unlike the English, the French like to save their anger for the things that matter, like liberty and equality.

Three minutes remain until half time and OM up the corner count again when Lopes saves another shot, this time from Amine Gouiri. From the resultant corner, despite being 1.83m in height Nouhoum Kamissoko seems to go un-noticed by the Angers players and he heads firmly into the middle of the goal and OM lead 2-1.  A minute of added on time is added on but nothing changes except for a lot of cheering from pre-pubescent voices; Paulene suggests that someone has just found a stash of sugar.

Half-time is a time to vent some spent Affligem, buy a bottle of water (3 euros) and see the Angers mascot, Scoty the Panda swagger onto the pitch in a somewhat surly manner with feet at ‘ten to two’, perform some perfunctory task and then frighten a couple of children and swagger back into the stand.  My father, a naval man, would have said he walks like a “dockyard matey”.  We had hoped to meet Scoty in the fanzone but we’re not so disappointed that we didn’t now, he just looks like a fat middle-aged bloke in tracky bottoms with a panda head on; added to which the pink splodge on the front of his October Rose shirt makes him look like he’s been stabbed or is coughing up blood.

It is a minute past four when the football resumes, and OM are now sending the ball towards the cathedral and castle in the city centre and the Angers ultras in the Tribune Coubertin. OM quickly win another corner and Lopes saves from Nnadi, before with the new half twelve minutes old Angers make a first substitution, swapping the wonderfully named Louis Mouton (it means Louis Sheep but sounds like Louis Vuitton) for the equally wonderfully named Prosper Peter (just nice alliteration).   The impact is immediate as Amine Gouiri runs at the Angers defence and into the penalty area and has his ankle tapped by Yassin Belkhdim and Monsieur Pignard awards a penalty.  Gouiri’s penalty is saved but Lopes can only parry the shot and Gouiri scores from the re-bound. It’s 3-1 to OM.

The game moves into its final third and Paulene and I resign ourselves to the nervous looking man with the receding hair and child not returning, he left at the end of half-time and hasn’t been seen since. I didn’t like the smell of his body spray anyway, so am quite pleased.  Prosper Peter is looking alert for Angers as his name suggests to me he should be, and as the game moves on through the sixty-fifth and sixty-sixth minutes he heads wide and then delicately flicks a cross onto the OM cross bar.  Angers’ Emmanuel Biumla then fouls Gouiri and consequently sees Mr Pignard’s yellow card before the OM ultras embark on a chorus of “Aux Armes, Nous Sommes les marseillais, Et nous allons gagner, Allez l’OM!” (To arms, We are the Marseillais, And we are going to win, Go OM!) and the OM fans scattered throughout the rest of the stadium attempt to echo the chant.

More substitutions are made by Angers and this time the effect is positive as three minutes later they win a corner and in defending it Nnadi wrestles Carlens Arcus to the ground and Mr Pignard awards a penalty to Angers, which Amine El Ouazzani quickly and confidently despatches past Jeffrey de Lange, who effectively steps out of the way of the kick, and the score is 3-2. Nnadi is booked.  “Lo lo lo, Allez les SCO’s” sing the home supporters optimistically, and then sing it again  and again, and again. “Faites du bruit” (Make some noise) announces the scoreboard simultaneously advertising a barbers’ shop called ‘Point-Cut’, and they do.

The final ten minutes approach and there is hope for an unlikely Angers comeback as OM make a couple of substitutions. “Allez les SCO’s” continue the home supporters but once again the substitutions seemingly have instant results and a square ball across the edge of the penalty area from Nnadi is soon expertly stroked into the Angers goal beyond Lopes by Amine Harit to make the score 4-2 to OM. A minute later and the score is 5-2 as a lobbed ball forward from Egan-Riley is headed back by Weah and drops to Paixao who strokes the ball into the net in a similar manner to Amine Harit but from about five metres nearer to the goal.

It doesn’t seem likely that Angers will make any sort of comeback now although OM have often shown themselves to be more than capable of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory in the past.  Both teams eke out the remaining five or six minutes or normal time with more substitutions and another six minutes of added-on time are added on too, but with a steady rain now falling the score remains unaltered.

With the final whistle the OM players go over to their ecstatic ultras to share a rare success and milk the moment in the likely knowledge that disappointment and frustration are never far away.  It’s been an entertaining game in terms of the number of goal scored and OM games are always fun if only for the presence of their fans who Paulene as a Pompey fan considers she has a strong affinity with.  Happy therefore, Paulene and I steal away into the deepening gloom of the damp October evening and walk back up rue Volney and rue Paul Bert to the tram stop and the ride back to our hotel.  Tomorrow we return home.

Stade Lavallois 3 Clermont Foot 3

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The French town of Laval is home to about 50,000 people, about 300 kilometres west of Paris and is the capital of the Mayenne departement, roughly in the bit of France where Normandy, Brittany and what was the historic County and later Duchy of Anjou all meet.  Back in the Middle Ages it became rich on textiles and linen but nowadays is big in dairy products. The medieval dukes of Anjou made the city of Angers their capital and conveniently for me and my wife Paulene we are staying most of this week there, and it is only seventy odd kilometres south of Laval, which means that with Stade Lavallois taking on Clermont Foot 63 tonight it shouldn’t be too taxing a drive up the D775 and D962 to experience some Friday night football in the French second division, more properly known as Ligue 2.

It’s been a bright, unseasonably warm and sunny morning beneath a pale blue autumn sky.  But cloud has begun to roll in and having re-charged the battery of our planet saving Citroen e-C4 at a handily located Carrefour supermarket, it’s looking distinctly grey by the time we set off for Laval around four o’clock and once on our way there are soon raindrops streaking the Citroen’s windscreen.  By the time we reach Laval, after a somewhat tortuous journey along two lane roads and across numerous roundabouts, the rain is easing off but the rush hour traffic is building up.  We make it to the Stade Francis le Basser before the Avenue Pierre de Coubertain in which it is situated is closed to traffic for the match, and park up just long enough for me to run to the guichets to discover what tickets are available.  There are places in the small Popular Stand for 9 euros, places in the Tribune Presidentielle for 25 euros, or places in the Tribune Credit Mutuelle for 18 euros.  Believing in moderation in all things I buy two of the 18-euro seats and ask the woman in the booth where is good to park. She shrugs her shoulders and says “Anywhere”.

There are still almost three hours until kick-off, so we head in hope for the centre of town but get stuck in traffic.  Eventually, parking up in a bijou multi-storey car park near the river we search out the sights of Laval on foot and foolishly follow signs for the tourist information office, which turns out to be away down several grey streets completely in the opposite direction to the castle and Hotel de Ville, which seem likely to be the main attractions. To add to our misery, by the time we reach it, the tourist information office is shut.  Gloomily, we find our way back to the car park and cursing Laval a little head back out to the Avenue Pierre de Coubertin where our luck changes and we find a free parking space just down the road from the stadium.  The gates are not yet open but a good size crowd of people of all ages mixes with passing pedestrians and a few policemen and queues at two food stalls to buy and munch on combinations of French sticks, sausages and chips.  Not wanting to feel left out I buy a Merguez sausage sandwich too, the chewing of which successfully fills me and the time until the gates open.

Once through the security checks and virtual turnstile, where everyone wishes us “bon match”, we are soon at the hatch in the side of a small hut that is the club boutique, inside which are a couple who are probably older than me. She stands behind a table on which various items of football club ‘merch’ are displayed; he wears a cardigan and takes the money. Behind her, amongst the replica shirts hangs a tiger suit.  I select a petit fanion (pennant) for my pointless collection of the same whilst Paulene chooses between a lion in a t-shirt and a bright orange tiger for her collection of club mascots; she picks the tiger because the lion looks a bit dowdy.  Clutching our purchases we make for our seats only to meet the real-life mascot who is extremely tall and thin and is possibly a lion but is the blinding, almost day-glo tango colour of the tiger minus his stripes.  Significantly, Stade Laval’s club colours are orange and black and Paulene poses for a photo with the mascot who I will later discover is called Tangoal.  Post-impressionist painter Henri Rousseau was born in Laval, and I take comfort and amusement from the possibility that the lions and tigers in some of his paintings are the inspiration for Tangoal, or may be even the other way round.

Upon arrival at our seats half-way up Block C of the Tribune Credit Mutuelle, we find that they are wet.  There doesn’t appear to be a hole in the roof of the stand, and we guess the rain must have just blown in quite a long way.  We wipe the seats with a linen shopping bag Paulene happens to have about her and sit down to absorb the view of the stadium with its two small stands flanking a big one opposite, and no stands at either end, just a large white hospitality tent to our right and a fierce orange sunset taking place behind it, although it’s not quite as shockingly colourful as Tangoal the mascot.  The PA system meanwhile belts out a club song which sounds like it’s travelled here from the 1970’s and contains the words “Allez Laval” and “Prenez la balle, gardez la balle”; it is accompanied by the stamping of feet from the crowd whilst the bloke in the seat in front of me seems to be exuding a pungent body spray.  Thankfully, the song finishes and the teams are announced by a typically enthusiastic announcer and whilst the crowd are almost as enthusiastic as he is when shouting out the surname of the goalkeeper Maxime Hautbois, they quickly seem to lose that enthusiasm as the remainder of the team is introduced, to the point that I begin to wonder if the supporters even know who some of the players are.

Eventually the teams process onto the pitch and echoed by a chorus of childish voices, the neon scoreboard and the stadium announcer count down, “three-two-one” like some sort of Gallic Ted Rogers and the game begins.  Clermont Foot get first go with the ball, which they boot in the general direction of the big white tent and the burning sunset beyond.  The supporters in the Tribune Credit Mutuelle stamp their feet wildly on the pre-fabricated floor of the stand making an impressively intimidating sound, well it made me feel uneasy anyway. “Whoa-oh-oh, La La, La, La La, La-La” chant the youths in the Popular stand behind the banner that reads ‘Laval Crew’. 

Although Laval win three corners in the first twenty minutes, Clermont perhaps have more possession.  Overall, however, the standard of play is poor as befits a fixture between the two teams that are bottom and second from bottom of the league.  Most passes tend to end up with opposition players.  Paulene asks me if this match might lead me to re-consider my verdict that our seven-year-old grandson is unlikely to have a future as a professional footballer; but no, as a footballer he really does stink.  Twenty-three minutes pass and Clermont win a corner. An occasional drummer strikes up somewhere in front of us and off to our left but then seems to realise the corner is to the opposition and he/she suddenly stops.

Just as my interest is waning and I begin counting the Clermont fans in the dimly lit left-hand stand opposite (I think there are ten), a measured cross from the right from Clermont’s number seventy-seven Enzo Cantero is met by the huge, almost horizontal, flying figure of the towering centre-forward wearing the number ninety shirt, the improbably named Christ Okou, who heads the ball past the startled Maxime Hautbois from about 5 metres out. Clermont lead 1-0.

Unfortunately, the goal doesn’t inspire either team to play any better and Paulene and I are soon discussing the colour of Clermont’s kit; I can’t decide if it’s black or very dark grey.  Paulene thinks it’s green, but the Clermont Foot website reveals that their third kit is dark grey, a colour, apparently inspired by that of the dark Volvic volcanic rock that defines the Auvergne region and much of Clermont-Ferrand’s historic architecture.  The game is a third over and Clermont’s number twenty-eight, Ivan M’Bahia becomes the first player this evening to be booked; a small man, he turns and struts away with his head held high as if he had perhaps read and been oddly inspired by the promotional guff about the third kit on the club website.

Seven minutes remain until half-time and another attempted Laval attack sees Clermont’s number seven Florian Bianchini breaking away at speed from within his own half towards the Laval goal; he checks, lays the ball off to Christ Okou, who bundles it back to him and he then proceeds to curl it at pace into the far corner of the goal from about a metre outside the penalty area.  Clermont’s lead is thereby doubled.  It’s a cracking goal, which even a few home supporters seem to appreciate, although for many more it’s a reason to boo their own team.   A minute of added-on time is played during which Clermont win another corner and then the half-time whistle is met with more booing from the Laval supporters who seem to have higher expectations of the team that is bottom of the league, but then Clermont have so far not won a match all season.

It’s not much past nine o’clock when the second half begins with Laval making a substitution and then booting the ball directly into touch, as if they were playing rugby.    Two minutes later Laval trail 3-0 as Christ Okou latches onto a poor back-header from Laval’s Jules Gaudin, breaks through the middle of the Laval defence, swivels clumsily and sends a shot heading beyond the far goal post, only for the Gaudin to hopelessly finish the move he began by slamming the ball high into the roof of his own goal net from close range.  The goal is met with outrage by many Laval ‘supporters’ some of whom rise from their seats and storm for the exits as if the goal was a terrible affront to them and they deserve better, or they had heard a fire alarm.  I think I hear some of them snort with indignation.

It feels like the game is already over, despite a fifty-second minute shot at goal for Laval and a corner eleven minutes later; but then Laval make three substitutions, at least one of which is booed by the home crowd, who clearly have favourites amongst the squad, but not many.  One of these substitutions will prove significant, although within a minute a Clermont shot on the break earns the away team another corner.  In the seats immediately in front of me sit two rows of probable grandfathers; there has to be over four-hundred years of footballing spectating here; they likely remember back when Laval were in Ligue 1 and knocked Dynamo Kiev out of the UEFA cup.

It’s the seventy-second minute and suddenly a cross from the right is met by the head of Laval substitute Aboubakary Kante and the score is 1-3.  The home crowd cheers and rattles the floor of the Tribune Credit Mutuelle again.  Stade Lavallois have started to play and perhaps in response Clermont make two changes, one of which is to take off Christ Okou who, as a man trying to live up to that first name needs to, has been involved in all three Clermont goals.  Ten minutes later, another right wing cross and Kante heads towards goal again, but this time the goal will need to be about four metres high for the header to bother the scoreline. In a quieter moment I count the Clermont fans again and now think there might be twelve of them that have made the five hundred and twenty kilometre trip up from Clermont-Ferrand.

Eighty-four minutes have departed and for what it’s worth Laval have yet another corner.  Another three minutes clear off into history taking another Laval substitution with them and it’s Kante who again has an attempt on goal, a shot which is well saved by Theo Guivarch in the Clermont goal. Full-time is fast approaching and Clermont, perhaps ill-advisedly make another two substitutions, one of which causes confusion as the referee Monsieur Soulimane Chamel seems to only allow one of the substitutes onto the pitch.  With Clermont temporarily down to ten men Laval take a free kick, Kante heads towards goal, Guivarch saves but the ball hits his right hand goal post, bounces and across the goal and Side Bane knocks it over the goal line from no distance at all.  All of a sudden, the score is 2-3 and we are being told that there will five minutes of added on time.

As it turns out, Laval only need another minute to equalise as number seven Chafik Gourichy twists and turns his way into the penalty area, shoots, and the ball is deflected up into the air to become an angled cross which Kante once again heads into the goal from close range to conclude an unexpected and remarkable comeback to the din of more stamping feet rattling the fabric of the stand. “Allez Laval!  Allez Laval!” chant the somewhat fickle crowd. With the final whistle we make our way out into the chilly night and back to our planet saving Citroen and the drive back to Angers where we will reflect upon a Clermont performance which began like a volcano but then solidified.

Ipswich Town 3 Leicester City 1

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The English Football League Cup, as it was originally called back when participating in or watching the sport of football was more important than just the money that could be extracted from people in the process, is a curious competition.  The French abandoned their version of it, the Coupe de la Ligue, a few seasons ago, and I’m pretty sure the Germans, Italians, Spanish, Dutch and Belgians have never even had one.  But the Scots have one and it seems that in Britain we are suckers for a secondary cup competition, and as if to prove the point non-league football has tertiary, quaternary and probably quinary cup competitions too; more than you can shake a floodlight on a stick at in fact, floodlights on sticks being essential on the late summer and autumn evenings when these early round cup ties are played.

I liked the League Cup more in the past, before the invention or discovery of “energy drinks”, when the early rounds were over two legs, guaranteeing away trips to exotic locations such as Torquay, Wigan, Exeter and Stockport.  But despite Ipswich having reached the semi-finals four times (losing all of them of course) I do wonder “what is the point?”, and possibly so did the Town XIs that in recent years lost at home to Newport County, and Colchester United.   Famously, for former Town manager Mick McCarthy, it was a badge of honour to exit all cup competitions as soon as possible.  Tonight, Town have drawn five times finalists and three times winners of the competition, third division Leicester City.

It’s been a bright, warm, late August day beneath a clear blue sky, although I’ve been mostly indoors, eking out the final sixteen days of my working life.  Just before five o’clock I catch the train to Ipswich, which might be on time, and Gary joins me at the next station stop to talk of couples in which one partner is much older than the other and to look for polar bears; we spot two, both not surprisingly and reassuringly in Wherstead.  On arrival in Ipswich, the train draws unexpectedly into Platform Two, but it doesn’t worry us unduly and we stroll calmly across the forecourt-cum-plaza and up Princes Street towards ‘the Arb’, where I am first to the bar to order a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself (£10.70 with Camra discount). We retire to the beer garden and a table where we can sit without the sun in our eyes.    Gary wears his replica 2026/27 season Ipswich Town away shirt this evening and I remark that this cream top with narrow black and red bands appears to be a popular choice for the mature gentleman, with at least two other grey-haired old duffers sporting one in the beer garden this evening. As expected, time passes and Gary buys a second round of drinks, a repeat of the first.  We talk of TV quiz shows and attending the Chappel beer festival and I ask Gary if he is no longer on his diet; he isn’t.  Gary doesn’t manage to finish his second pint of Estrella Galicia before we decide to leave for Portman Road and judging by the loud fart he emitted earlier as we walked here, for which he did apologise, I think he’s probably a bit dyspeptic this evening.

In Portman Road, at one of the booths that look as if they might sell ice creams but don’t, we each buy a programme after I first ask how much they cost.  I am prepared to pay £3 but not £4 for a programme and whilst Gary points out that the £4 programme is probably better value for money in terms of pages, I tell him that the programmes are full of “old rubbish” anyway, so I am therefore happy to pay proportionately more for less.  Tonight’s programme has an interesting and unusual front cover depicting an unlikely scene of a flying carthorse about to knock over the League Cup with its front right hoof whilst an upset looking fox takes evasive action.

The queues to be checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal are shorter than on Saturday and move more quickly, and we are soon breezing through the commemorative turnstile, No 62 and ascending multiple flights of metal stairs to our seats in the top tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, where the public address system is so loud I imagine it might be possible to successfully sue the club for causing hearing damage.  When the teams eventually appear from the ‘tunnel’ I don’t notice them at first because of the absence of the usual accompanying balls of flame, confirming this fixtures’ status as something more akin to a meaningless pre-season friendly.  The game begins with Leicester City having first go with the ball, which they try and kick mostly in the general direction of Vets4Pets on Handford Road, where they are bracing themselves for a sudden influx of squashed foxes, and carthorses with bruised fetlocks.

Leicester are parading a necessary change kit of burgundy, maroon or possibly dark red shirts ,with white shorts.  Ipswich are adorned in their signature blue shirts and white shorts. It might be my failing eyesight but momentarily from time to time, when they’re at the far end of the pitch, I can’t tell the two teams apart.  Ipswich start well and Chuba Akpom is shooting wide of the goal within thirty-five seconds, with a noisy crowd fully behind him.  But the joie de vivre doesn’t last long and before ten minutes are up the Leicester fans are asking “Is this a library?” through the medium of opera.

Fifteen minutes of our lives have been lost to history and the game is dull. All around me people sit impassively, staring ahead, not speaking.  The sky above the Sir Bobby Robson stand is pale blue but growing darker and a faint red smudge can be seen through the metal girder above the roof as the sun goes down. Three or four silhouetted seagulls ‘bust some shapes’ on the roof the West Stand as if auditioning for the opening credits to a new Bond movie. A man in a smart suit, who looks like Ken from the BBC tv sitcom Citizen Smith, appears at the top of the steps into the top tier of the stand and then turns around and goes back down the steps.  “Sorry mate” says a girl in her teens to a man in his seventies as she gets him to stand up as she returns to her seat having perhaps been for a pee.

Twenty-four minutes have been lived and lost and something vaguely football-like happens, the home crowd stirs from its slumber. “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here” chant the Leicester fans to the tune of Cwm Rhondda; I wish they’d forget they were here too.  Town win a corner and then another and Dara O’Shea’s header is saved by Leicester goalkeeper Stolarczyk. There are now ten minutes left until half-time and Town win a third corner before Leicester get one too, courtesy of an interrupted shot from Conor Chaplin and with five minutes remaining Leicester’s Olabade Aluko is the first player to feel the wrath of referee Mr Lewis Smith and his bright yellow card after a foul on Eggy.  Mr Lewis is clearly now making his own entertainment and awards a corner to Leicester to punish Town goalkeeper Christian Walton for apparent time-wasting.  Leicester proceed to take more time over the corner kick than Walton took over the goal-kick, which if the laws of the game are to be consistent should I think mean that Town now get awarded a goal-kick for Leicester’s time-wasting.   Eventually, the corner kick is headed over the Town cross bar before a minute becomes as much time as the officials dare to add on.

With the half-time whistle, Gary and I descend into the bowels of the stand, or at least its chest cavity, where we meet Gary’s nephew Dan, who is here with his wife Sarah, but she is still sat in her seat up in the moderately fresh evening air. Down here in the guts of the stand the air smells positively stale and a bit sweaty to be honest, not pleasant at all.

At ten to nine the players return to the pitch to once again attempt to find the secret to entertaining football and possibly a goal. Quickly, Town succeed, but the ‘goal’ is deemed offside, a particularly harsh decision, even if correct; like taking food away from a starving man because the best before date was yesterday.  Meanwhile, the Leicester supporters chant “He’s one of our own, He’s one of our own” about some youth or other in their team and I question if that’s really a good thing, before wondering what it is of their own that he is one of? A juvenile delinquent? Sex offender?  Leicester city councillor? 

The game moves on, plagued for a while by the ball mysteriously being deemed to have gone out of play and by offsides not visible to the naked eye.  The final third of the match looms up out of the night and the Leicester fans offer a cheery, allegro rendition of “When the blues go marching in”, which compares very favourably to the dirge-like version of the same song favoured by the Town supporters.  When the hours mark arrives, Leicester flinch and make the first substitutions, Within two minutes Town take the lead as for the first time Jack Clarke has plenty of space down the left to run into before his accurate low cross is swept masterfully into the corner of the Leicester goal by Eggy, a player whose goalscoring ability is kept largely hidden when he is used as a winger who only passes the ball back and to the side.

From here, the game picks up, as Town win another corner, Cedric Kipre is booked and the crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand get far more enthused about the ejection of a couple of Leicester fans from the Cobbold stand than anything that has happened on the pitch. Quickly however, Leicester win a corner and equalise with a header from Aluko, who no one had bothered to mark.   “Premier League, You’re ‘avin’ a laff” chant the Leicester fans to the tune of Tom Hark in their curious east Midland’s dialect.  They’re not wrong, Mark Ashton and Co  are ‘laffing’ all the way to the bank, for the time being anyway.

As the game enters its final twenty minutes Town take the lead again and in fine style, Nunez instinctively squeezing the ball in off a post from outside the penalty box, and then with Town 2-1 up Wes Burns arrives as substitute for Leicester to much adulation.  Happily, Burns makes no impression on the game at all and as the final ten minutes turn up, we are told that there are 21,559 of us here tonight, Town make more substitutions and weirdly a few people suddenly shout “Blue Army” as if they are afflicted with Tourette’s syndrome.

Two minutes of normal time remain and for the second time this evening Chuba Akpom is through on goal with just the Leicester goalkeeper to beat.  Last time his shot rolled beyond the far post, this time it is saved.  Akpom needs Jack Clarke to teach him how to the curl his shots around the ‘keeper and inside the far post.  Ipswich have another corner for what it’s worth. “Come On Leicester” implore the visiting fans, who presumably wouldn’t mind having to stay late to watch penalty kicks. 

I’m getting ready to get up as the final minute lands from eternity and as if Portman Road has been strangely blessed something rather wonderful happens as from the mundane surroundings of the centre circle Nunez looks up and lobs the ball high into the night air towards Norwich Road.  The ball comes down off the underside of the Leicester City cross bar and into the goal net with Stolarczyk not being able to work out its trajectory before his team are 3-1 down.  It’s a magnificent goal, one of those that might have people questioning one another as to whether they would have been happy to pay a tenner just to see that and then go home. 

Anyone who does arrive very late only in time to see that goal, gets to see six minutes of added on time as well, but despite some end-to-end action there are no more goals and ultimately Ipswich are relatively comfortably through to the third round of the League Cup.  If Mick McCarthy were dead, he’d be turning in his grave. 

Mystery Under Sevens 1 Rain & Wind 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

As much as I like football, when the football leagues of England, France and Wales in which I take an interest come to an end sometime in May each year, I tend to breathe a sigh of relief and prepare to enjoy a welcome period of rest and recovery.  For the best part of two months, I revel in the opportunity not to be a hostage to hope every weekend or suffer the pain of seeing those hopes dashed by referees, assistant referees, video assistant referees, goal posts, cross bars and opposition centre forwards. 

Of course, there is the World Cup this summer, but thanks to Gianni Infantino and Donald J Trump I shall be boycotting that; I never much liked circuses and no one in their right mind has any truck with fascists.   But casual, no strings attached football always remains alluring and when my stepson’s wife says come on down to Hampshire for the weekend to see the grandchildren, and the boy will be playing in a football tournament, my wife Paulene is already packing a bag and charging the car and I’m too daft not to say I would love to, but I’ve already arranged to stay in and wash my hair.

The tournament is on Saturday, and Friday is a bright, sunny day as we stop off on the way for a gentle wander around the Henry Moore sculpture park in Much Hadham near Harlow.  We even enjoy a picnic at one of those Yogi Bear -style wooden tables, and rocking up in Basingstoke, we sit outside at the local shopping centre drinking coffee and watching the world go by as we wait for our planet saving Citroen e C4 to recover a more or less full battery at the EV charging points in the Tesco car park.

After curry, beer, wine and a late night, on Saturday morning we awake to sun streaming round the sides of the bedroom curtains but then at breakfast there’s a heavy shower, a pattern that repeats itself until gone noon when the sun, fed up with playing gooseberry takes off his sou’wester and retreats indoors for the rest of the day, leaving the rain and wind to get it on alone.  Shortly after one o’clock, following a journey of recklessly broken speed limits through a smattering of picturesque, semi-rural Hampshire villages, my stepson (the guilty driver), grandson and I (Paulene has cried off because the damp atmosphere will inflame her asthma) arrive at a village social club where the car park is full and we have to walk back in the rain from the village school a few hundred yards up the road.  Beside the social club there is a dripping canopy under which a slightly unhappy looking man is not doing a roaring trade in barbecued hot dogs and burgers, and where I along with a small community of parents take shelter from the weather amongst the acrid curls and smell of barbecue smoke.  Beyond the canopy are three mini football pitches, set-up across a single full-size pitch

There were supposed to be six teams in the tournament today, but it seems likely that one had too many weak swimmers and decided that discretion being the better part of valour they would stay indoors and plot their return to action on a day when drowning would be less of a risk.  As if in some sort of under 7’s Hampshire-based Champions League, each team will play each other twice with the top two sides eventually meeting in a play-off final.  

 The matches begin promptly at half past one, I think, with the grandson’s team being one of two representing his local club and wearing an all-blue kit with yellow trim. The first match is on the pitch at the top of the field against a team in purple shirts and black shorts who very quickly create the impression that several of their players know what they’re doing.  ‘The Purples’ as I quickly come to think of them dominate the ten-minute match and deservedly win 2-0, with their number twelve impressively fulfilling a sort of roving wing back role and claiming both goals in similar fashion, ghosting in from the right-hand side like a miniature Achraf Hakimi.

So far, so disappointing and to continue with the theme the next game will be at the other end of the field with the spectating area facing into the teeth of the gale.  Apparently, this next fixture will be akin to a local derby as the two local teams play one another and if we’re unlucky, we may even get to hear someone mention “bragging rights”.    The grandson’s team’s poor showing in their opening fixture looks to be continuing as they soon fall behind to a long-range goal from a large boy in glasses who also happens to be the son of one of the coaches.  But largely, if not entirely through the efforts of their two best players, a diminutive but tenacious dribbler who sports blond hair tied back if not in a man-bun, then in a boy-bun, and a solid, steam roller of a boy, they rally to win by two goals to one.

It’s slightly uphill back again to the top of the field but the trek helps keep our blood circulating usefully and when we get there the wind and rain will be at our backs and battering not us, but the mature trees and hedgerow that mark the boundary with the agriculture beyond.  By the time I’ve struggled through the storm I find I have missed kick-off but a lady who I think is the mother of by far the biggest boy in the team, helpfully tells me that it’s still goalless.  Sadly, it doesn’t stay goalless for long and even more sadly for the grandson, it is his turn to play in goal.  What follows is his team’s heaviest defeat of the afternoon, a stonking 4-0 reverse to a green-shirted team from Reading.  In another one-sided game I can’t even report that the boy made a string of fine saves, he didn’t, and mostly only seemed to notice the ball if it came straight at him.

With spirits now more than just dampened we trudge back to the other end of the field for the final game in the first set of fixtures, which is against a team who sport an all-royal blue kit with extremely natty white trim and a club badge which is a blatant Reading FC knock-off but with added silhouettes of a ruin and World War Two fighter planes.  Because of the colour clash however, the other team wear orange tabards.  After their pasting in the previous game the grandson’s team surprisingly fare much better, scraping a goalless draw, although much of this is down to the goal being filled by the impressively big boy mentioned above, who in terms of mass is like any two other boys rolled into one.

With the tournament now at ‘half-time’ I reflect on what I have learned so far, which is mainly that the grandson is unlikely to have a career in professional or even amateur football unless a quirky rule change decrees that every team must include a slightly dreamy player who needs to take a run-up whenever he kicks the ball.  Otherwise, I am only reminded of what I already knew, that under sevens football mostly consists of a knot of children hounding the ball as those of greatest ability dribble with it; oh, and some kids have plainly watched Match of the Day whilst others haven’t.  I am intrigued to think what adult football would be like if played in this style and wonder if this is actually what the game was like back in the days when the likes of the Royal Engineers and Old Carthusians contested FA Cup finals.

My reverie is interrupted by the start of the  grandson’s team’s return encounter with ‘The Purples’, whose  real name I now know, courtesy of the daughter-in-law.  Oddly for a youth football team from Berkshire, this team’s badge looks uncannily like that of Plymouth Argyle, and I worry that some dislocated ‘Janner’ is subverting young minds into becoming ‘Pilgrims’.  Happily, the grandson seems immune to anything much to do with football, although his team goes on to perform much better in their latest encounter, losing by just a single goal to nil, and that was only from a long range shot when no one was paying attention.

Back down the field, it’s now time again to play the grandson’s club’s other team, the only side so far incapable of avoiding defeat to the grandson’s team. Slightly surprisingly the boy’s team proceed to win for a second time and by a barely believable four goals to nil.  Flushed with success, the victors head back up the field to renew their acquaintance with the team in green and with the grandson again in goal.  After going a goal down, we all think this version of the village team have claimed a creditable one-all draw when the boy who resembles a steamroller scores a late ‘equaliser’.  But checking the scores at the end of the match the result has been recorded as a 2-1 win for the greens.  Rumour has it that the greens’ coach had said to the teenage referee “so we won that one 2-1 then?” and not really knowing what the score was the callow youth agreed. But hey, what’s the occasional misreported result between soggy seven-year-olds? And in these conditions qualifying to play another game would be a mixed blessing.

For the grandson’s team the tournament ends with a three-nil defeat to the still nattily dressed team in all blue, with all the goals being scored by a blond lad who appears to me to have a prematurely receding hairline.  With the game over, we head for the welcome shelter of the canopy where the smell of barbecued, reclaimed meat products still lingers.  Although it would be nice to go straight home to dry out, we wait for the end of the play-off final after which all the players of all five teams will receive a medal for their participation. Perhaps unsurprisingly the final is between the Purples and the Greens, the two teams whose coaches, to my stepson’s amusement seem most eager for their teams to do well.  

With medals having been presented, I venture out from under the canopy to meet and congratulate the grandson and take his photograph with his medal.  I am however quickly warned off by the daughter-in-law who advises me that he is not in a good frame of mind being unhappily wet and tired.  The grandson returns home with his mum whilst I bring the afternoon to a more satisfactory conclusion by heading off with my stepson to buy beer and this evening’s dinner.

The following day as my wife Paulene and I bid farewell, the daughter-in-law says she hopes I enjoyed the football.  Seeing the blank expression on my face she adds with a laugh my anticipated response “What football?”.  Ho hum, I think I will now wait patiently until August.

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.