Coggeshall Town 3 Stowmarket Town 2

May 6, 2018October 30, 2021 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The final Saturday of the football league season has arrived, a special day in the football calendar because it can mean such a lot, or so little. It can be make or break, or it can be pointless, futile, a complete waste of everyone’s time. Too lazy to search for the least important fixture of the day I opt to go to the nearest, which just happens to be the one at which Coggeshall Town will be presented with the Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties

Premier league trophy, which is in fact a substantial looking cup. But first it will be necessary to endure another ninety minutes of football.
It’s a warm sunny day in early May, blackbirds and sparrows are nesting in my garden and a nesting box for swifts, swallows or house martins has just this morning been put up under the eaves of my house. It’s the May Day Bank Holiday, which people who vote Conservative shouldn’t be allowed to take; hypocrites. Because the weather is warm and fine Mrs Brooks, who has chronic asthma, is able to accompany me today. Anticipating plenty of people wanting to see Coggeshall presented with the league trophy we set off before two o’clock. It’s a slow journey behind a farm tractor but it still only takes about ten minutes.
The sun beats down on the dry and dusty car park at West Street; the Stowmarket team

bus is here, provided by Squirrel’s Coaches on which I like to think an-on board hostess offers passengers nut-based snacks. At the turnstile I hand over a twenty pound note, a pound coin and fifty pence piece. In return I receive £10, a programme and a colour picture of the team that won the league on Tuesday night. Admission is £6 for me and £4 for Mrs Brooks who is over 60. Inside the ground the Coggeshall team appear to be having fun warming up on the pitch.

Radio Essex is here in

female form. Near the main stand we see Jim and Keith; Keith is wearing a T-shirt and shorts, Jim has a coat and a hat. We follow them into the stand to exchange pleasantries; Mrs Brooks hasn’t seen Keith for quite some time, or Jim come to that. Keith is over seventy but points out Olly Murs warming up with the team.
Acquaintances renewed, we head for the bar where Mrs Brooks has a white wine spritzer with soda (£4.00) and I have a pint of Caledonian Brewery Coast to Coast (£3.90), a cold, fizzy beer which I drink very slowly indeed to mitigate its unfortunate repetitive qualities. We step outside to enjoy the Spring sunshine and convivial atmosphere. There are plenty of people on the deck drinking like us and chatting. There is a barbecue set up

around the corner of the dressing rooms beneath a white gazebo. People are stretched out on the grassy bank to the side of the seated stand. This is lovely, a football match crossed with a village fete. “The toilets are fairly good in there” says a Suffolk accent. “ They’re bigger than when I last come” says another in reply.
What looks like a mixture of players from Coggeshall’s Under 9’s and Under 10’s teams lines up at the foot of the steps from the

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

changing rooms to the pitch. Coggeshall’s giant poultry mascot Rocky the Rooster joins them having been led down the steps by his beak. The Stowmarket Town team joins them too. We wait, and wait a bit more. A sort of Haka can be heard from home team dressing room before the Coggeshall team appears and waits on the steps, why they wait is unclear. Eventually however the players step down towards the pitch to be applauded by their ‘guard of honour’. Handshakes ensue and then we’re ready for the game to begin.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Coggeshall kick off aiming towards the club house and in their customary red and black striped shirts with black shorts, very good they look too. Stowmarket Town, kicking towards the West Street vineyard and the town of Coggeshall itself, sadly haven’t put as much thought into their kit today; they wear their home shirts of amber and black stripes, but because their usual shorts would be black like Coggeshall’s they have ‘borrowed’ the red shorts from their away kit. The result is an unholy mess, all they needed was white or amber shorts and they would have looked fine, but instead they look like they got changed in the dark.

Mrs Brooks and I sit on the grass slope between the club house and the main stand. The first notable action is when the ball is booted out and hurtles like a space capsule re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere onto the grassy bank, making a man in a red and blue checked shirt spill his beer. At the far end of the ground six blokes from Stowmarket sing and bang the perimeter fence like the drunks that they probably are. In front of us a golden retriever or labrador, (who really knows the difference?) looks on and barks excitedly when the ball is hoofed out of defence or when the action gets a bit feisty.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

It’s twenty past three and Stowmarket’s number seven is booked for a foul; referee Mr Harrison, a very clean cut, angular looking man raises his yellow card slowly, pointedly

and dismissively as if to humiliate and punish at the same time. The first corner of the game follows soon after, falling to Coggeshall, but Stowmarket defend it easily and within a minute take the lead as a low cross from the right is turned into the net by the lunging boot of number nine Ace Howell who has evidently wandered un-noticed into the Coggeshall six yard box. Nearby a woman applies sun screen to her arms and the smell of male body spray is wafted by on the breeze, as it does on warm days.
Seven more minutes pass and a deep Coggeshall cross from the right is knocked back into the path of number eight Conor Hubble who steps effortlessly past one defender, sidesteps another and then wellies the ball into the corner of the Stowmarket goal as if to say “ You didn’t really think we wouldn’t equalise did you?”. The Labrador gets excited. Emboldened by the goal, a few Coggeshall supporters shout randomly. “Ridiculous, ref!” is heard as a free-kick goes the ‘wrong way’ and then “Be strong” as if every now and then players are prone to inexplicable weakness and they need reminding not to be.
The shouts of encouragement seemingly have no influence on the score however, which remains 1-1 as Mr Harrison blows for half time. In the break we speak with Paul who is videoing the game and has taken time out to get something to eat at the barbecue. We then meet our next door neighbour, also called Paul who has arrived ‘hot-foot’ from Harry Potter World. Paul is here with his son Sam, who we don’t see at first, but apparently he cuffs the back of his dad’s head as he walk past. Kids of today, eh?
The second half soon unfolds before us and we stand at the other side of the main stand to get a better view of the Coggeshall goals when they arrive, because going to football is all about being optimistic. Stowmarket are now playing into the sun but stood in the metal bus shelter-like stand at the clubhouse end of the ground their fans are even more vociferous than before, although it could all be down to acoustics. The sun is reflecting

off the corrugated tin roof of the main stand and a bearded man with long grey hair, tied in a ponytail stands by his bicycle and looks on, which you couldn’t do at a poncey Premier League game, or even at Colchester United, and definitely not for six quid.
“Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you” sing the Stowmarket fans, confusingly already singing a song. No one responds, understandably. The Stowmarket fans sing the same song, but alter the words. “Who the fuck, who the fuck, who the fuck is Olly Murs?” is now the refrain. No one helps them out, so they make up their own answer, seamlessly switching from the Welsh hymn tune to the Latin American rhythm and beat of Hector Anulo’s ‘Guantanamera’, and singing “Shit Robbie Williams, You’re just a shit Robbie Williams”.
The second half is as competitive as the first on the pitch, but to some extent the teams are both good enough to be cancelling one another out. May be the stalemate is what is causing the Stowmarket fans behind the goal to make their own entertainment by constantly stretching their musical and lyrical imaginations, if not their talent. They get that end of season ‘here to celebrate’ feel as they call to the team manager and others in the dugout to “give us a wave”, which they obligingly do. It’s about twenty five past four and Stowmarket earn two corners either side of a fine diving save from the Coggeshall goalkeeper James Bransgrove. “Small club in Marks Tey, You’re just a small club in Mark’s Tey” sing the Stow’ Town choir once again employing Hector Anulo’s most famous tune.
Coggeshall are having more possession of the ball and are getting forward more frequently. Nnamdi Nwachuku taunts the Stowmarket full-back Ollie Brown with his pace and tricky footwork. A man in a Tottenham Hotspur shirt also taunts the full-back, repeatedly telling him he is has no pace; happily the full-back plays on with a smile. It’s nearly half past four, Coggeshall have a corner and Nnamdi Nwachuku jumps athletically, firmly heading the ball into the goal net. It might be the last game of the season but it means a lot and the players mob Nnamdi joyfully. “Twenty big minutes” shouts someone nearby in a spirit of encouragement; I wonder if to Stowmarket the minutes will be the same size as usual or smaller.
It is half past four and Stowmarket equalise, their number nine, the almost fictionally named Ace Howell slipping the ball past the Coggeshall goalkeeper, applying a very fine end to a passing move. The goal means a lot to Stowmarket, who have won their previous ten consecutive matches and presumably would like to add an eleventh. Now everyone’s minutes are the same size again. Coggeshall return to the Stowmarket end of the ground and Nnamdi Nwachuku is sandwiched between two Stow’ defenders. “Every time” bawls someone to my right as if the visiting defenders follow Nwachuku around in pairs, one either side of him.
It’s twenty to five now and Coggeshall have another free-kick, somewhere near the half way line. The ball is punted beyond the Stowmarket defence; only Coggeshall substitute Tom Monk reacts; he runs on, brings they ball under control and smashes it past Stow’ goalkeeper who has at least moved, unlike his team mates. With every goal the celebrations increase in excitement; it’s now officially a ‘five goal thriller’ as the lead has swung back and forth. The remaining ten minutes are probably going to be big again, although no one mentions it. Coggeshall almost get a fourth goal as their number four George Cocklin spectacularly hits the cross bar with a beautiful 30 yard shot which drops over the goalkeeper’s head, rattles the cross bar and bounces down on the goal line in the way shots have ever since the 1966 World Cup final, but without being goals.
The game is dragging on, Mr Harrison the referee doesn’t seem keen to stop, but of course eventually he blows for the final time this season. Then we wait and wait and

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

wait for the presentation of the league championship trophy. Tables and billboards are put in place. A stack of what look like small shoe boxes sit by the trophy. Bottles of Prosecco are stood on the tables. The players of both teams loaf about on the turf, the Stowmarket players look increasingly bored. Finally, a short announcement precedes each player each receiving a shoe box as his name is announced to generous applause and then the Coggeshall captain Luke Wilson lifts the trophy in a brief orgasm of streamers and pyrotechnics. Joy and happiness abounds, but for us the afternoon is finished and we go home for a barbecue of our own, leaving others to stay and celebrate.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Coggeshall Town 4 Ely City 1

March 23, 2018March 23, 2018 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

-“Paul says he’s going to watch Coggeshall tonight, do you want to go?”
-“Ooh, I dunno, I hadn’t planned on going, it’s a bit cold. What will you do? Won’t you be lonely here on your own?”
-“I’ll sit here for a bit then just go to bed and read”
-“Oh, okay then, tell him yes”
So it was that I was easily swayed, despite obvious concerns about my wife’s mental well-being; but it turns out she’s not as angst ridden and depressed as me. A half an hour later after wrapping up warm, it is with a glad heart that I ring my neighbour’s door bell and having said hello and goodbye to his wife Sarah we’re away in his white Ford SUV type thing, eventually making best use of its high frame to negotiate the impressively rutted car park of ‘The Crops’, now mainly known as West Street, the home ground of Coggeshall Town.
The glare of the floodlights spills over the car park, and through the half-light Paul spots Olly Murs moving a metal barrier a couple of feet so that the bloke he is with can park a large Audi. At the turnstile Geoff the turnstile operator is his usual cheery and welcoming self. Paul says hello and asks how his boy Mikey is; it turns out Mikey isn’t his boy at all, but the son of a friend. A queue forms at the turnstile as Paul and Geoff natter . Admission is £6 each but there are no programmes, although Geoff says if he can find one about he’ll get it to me., which is nice of him.
As we walk the path towards the club house the teams are already out, warming up and

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

huddling conspiratorially as if someone is telling a really dark secret or a filthy joke. Paul and I stop a little beyond the stand above what looks like a rabbit burrow and the game soon kicks off. Coggeshall are wearing their customary , attractive kit of red and black striped shirts with black shorts. Tonight’s opponents are Ely City, the only medieval cathedral city in the Eastern Counties Premier League. Coggeshall are second in the league table with a goal difference of plus 93 whilst Ely (nickname The Robins) are bobbing along in mid-table somewhere. Ely are wearing an unusual all-green kit, rendered all the more unusual by red flashes under the armpits. If kits count for anything it’s already 1-0 to Coggeshall.
The game begins frenetically and with a lot of shouting and swearing. “Don’t let ‘em settle”, “Fuckin’ get into ‘em” are the early cries along with inevitable “Second ball!” It’s a very Anglo-Saxon approach, which no doubt does a huge disservice to the somewhat forgotten, more artistic Anglo-Saxons responsible for all the lovely brooches and buckles. The harsh voices ring out through the cold night air. Ten minutes gone and Coggeshall have the first shot; number ten Ross Wall bearing down on goal from the right only to scuff his shot into the side netting.
Coggeshall seem in a hurry, but lack accuracy as a result and Ely are doing alright. It’s two minutes past eight and a ball to the left, then a ball over the top of the Coggeshall defence is struck deftly with the outside of his boot high into the Coggeshall goal by the Ely number nine Dan Brown, which is a great name for a bloke playing for a team from a medieval cathedral city. It’s to be hoped he’ll be drinking his half-time cuppa from some sort of grail. It’s a very fine goal indeed and a bunch of four or five well insulated people in front of us cheer and clap as if they have come all the way from Ely, and they probably have.
Ely are happily surprised, Coggeshall a bit taken aback, but as the first half proceeds it seems Ely are worth their lead. In their haste Coggeshall are forgetting to do anything in midfield and Ely are able have a decent amount of possession and prevent them from establishing any sort of passing rhythm. Five minutes later and the Ely ‘keeper is heard to shout “Keep going”, which seems a bit desperate when there’s still seventy minutes left; it’s a bit early to have considered not being able to carry on.
Further up the pitch the language is more colourful, or whatever colour the word “fuckin” is. “Fuckin’ ‘ell lino” someone exclaims and then Coggeshall captain Luke Wilson announces “That was a fuckin’ elbow”, he then repeats himself before running up to referee George Byrne to say “Ref, that was a fuckin’ elbow” , just in case he was in any doubt that it was a “fuckin’ elbow”.
They’re not playing well but Coggeshall have had a few corners and are still getting chances to score; Wall first sends the ball past the other post and then has it saved by the Ely goalkeeper Ben Mayhew. Number nine Nnamdi Nwachuku swings his foot limply at the ball and misses it when he has just Ben Mayhew between him and the goal. “It’s coming” says a bloke on the path near us. He then says it again. There is a belief that if something is said enough it becomes reality and mysteriously this comes true as eventually Wall has a shot from about 10 metres out and several deflections later the ball flies past a startled Ben Mayhew off a nearby team mate and into the net. It’s about twenty past eight now and before half-time Paul volunteers to get us both a pounds worth of tea, which we have our hands cupped around as the players leave the field to encouraging shouts from both sets of supporters. Everybody can be happy and enjoy their tea, because no one is losing.
My winter clothing (a pair of wool socks, a pair of football of socks (Portsmouth), a T-shirt, a long sleeve cotton football shirt (Brighton & Hove Albion), a woolly jumper, overcoat, scarf (Clermont Foot) and woolly hat (Ipswich Town)) is either very effective or it can’t be that cold because I don’t go into the clubhouse at half time, but instead stand with Paul and natter to Jimmy who plays guitar and to Keith who is retired and used to work in a bank. The hot tea must help mind.
The second half is soon with us and we wander to the other end of the ground to get a better view of the Coggeshall goals when they go in. Initially, nothing changes and Ely continue to be the better team in midfield, which gives them a chance. The Ely number eleven Josh Sewell is particularly good, despite looking like he may be carrying a few extra pounds, and he dances over and around the ball, dribbling and turning like a footballer should. The portly footballer, always a midfielder or occasionally a full-back is a joy to watch and every team should have one.
Coggeshall are still regularly getting forward however, although some of their supporters seem to have gained a somewhat unattractive sense of entitlement. “Jesus Chr-i-st” is the refrain as defender from the cathedral city team executes a tackle in the penalty area and a Coggeshall forward goes down; a barrage of gor-blimey complaining ensues. Two minutes later however, it’s all forgotten, although not by me obviously, as a cross from the left is deftly but firmly headed past Mayhew by Wall. The goal jogs the collective Coggeshall Town memory and they start to play properly in midfield too. Ten minutes later and Nwachuku cuts back and then unexpectedly hooks a shot from a narrow angle into the far top corner of the goal. He looks very pleased with himself, which in the circumstances is understandable, it was a pretty good goal.
Ely probably won’t come back from this but it doesn’t stop them trying. Coggeshall find it necessary to concede free-kicks to stop them and captain Luke Wilson is cautioned for his trouble by the gangly Mr Byrne, who with his very long neck is a strangely imposing figure as he holds his yellow card aloft. Meanwhile Wilson’s foul and caution cause apoplexy with one of tracky-bottomed members of the Ely management duo , who seems aggrieved that Wilson has not been sent off. In a fit of temper he kicks the woodwork of the dug-out and generally stomps about embarrassingly, displaying a regrettable absence of Corinthian spirit. The referee’s assistants are Kenneth Reeves and Jack Willmore and the bald one in the tight shirt who looks like he is probably Kenneth Reeves goes and has a word.
There is no let up in the competiveness or swearing which becomes more bizarre “Someone fuckin’ do it for me” shouts an unidentified player. It’s as if tonight someone has told the players not to bother about the Eastern Counties League’s “Keep it down for the kids” initiative to curb bad language; after all there are no programmes tonight carrying the reminder to everyone and it’s a school night anyway. Just before half past nine Wall scores a fourth as the ball drops to him conveniently just six metres from goal and he boots it into the roof of the net.
The result is settled but the entertainment continues and there is still time for Ely’s Tom Williams to clatter into a Coggeshall player from behind and get the benefit of Mr Byrne’s extended card bearing right arm. As the assaulted Coggeshall player lies prone on the ground the ball is kicked at him, or it at least hits him, even if not intentionally. “R-e-f, R-e-f, R-e-f” someone whines. “He fuckin’ kicked the ball at him”, “R-e-f , he fuckin’ kicked the ball at him, R-e-f” . I imagine the whiner’s mum had to put up with the same when he was younger. “M-u-m, m-u-m, m-u-m, she pulled a face at me mum” and then his teachers “ M-i-ss, M-i-ss, M-i-ss, can I go to the toilet?” Meanwhile the Ely goalkeeper leaves his goal to join in with the squabbling and do a “Yap, yap, yap” mime with his be-gloved right hand; he looks like he’s brought along a glove puppet and I am reminded of the late Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop.
The ensuing free-kick brings no further goals and with the cold having now penetrated my shoes, both pairs of socks and ascended up them to just below my knees, Mr Byrne’s final whistle is excellent relief. Paul and I turn smartly to the exit, I wave to Jimmy the guitarist and we are heading for Paul’s white Ford and the short trip home. As Paul reverses the Ford onto his driveway we reflect on a fine evening’s entertainment. Might do that again sometime.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Coggeshall Town 5 Wivenhoe Town 0

January 28, 2018January 29, 2018 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It is Friday and at last after four consecutive games at Portman Road, the chance to enjoy the relaxed, happy atmosphere of local non-league football and the associated audible swearing from the players and coaches. It’s a typically cold winter’s evening and just a short drive to Coggeshall from my house. The streets of Coggeshall are quiet and dark, but the fluorescent light of the local Co-op shines like a beacon drawing me in to buy dairy-free white chocolate for dairy intolerant Mrs Brooks, who is unable to come out on a cold night like tonight because her asthma won’t allow it. I’d hate to miss the game because I was stuck in the back of an ambulance with her; in sickness and in health etc.
Back on the road the narrow streets of Coggeshall are suddenly busy with traffic coming in the opposite direction so progress is slow, but at length I turn into the rough car park where a sizeable collection of automobiles is bathed in the soft light spilling out beyond the ‘stadium’ from the floodlights. Football in the evening is all about the lights.

There is a queue at the turnstile, not really because of large numbers of people wanting to get in but more because the fella on the gate likes to have a chat with everyone and entreat them to ‘enjoy the match’; he has a beer and a fag on the go and says it’s nice to see me again as I hand over a tenner and the odd 50p to cover the £6 entry and £1.50 programme and already I feel pleased to be here.
Just inside the stadium tonight a local Nimby group called PAIN (Parishes Against Incinerator) have a table set up and are collecting signatures from anyone wanting to object to plans to build an incinerator at nearby Rivenhall. Seeing as Rivenhall straddles the river of carbon monoxide and diesel particulates that is the A12 my initial reaction is that a little ‘cleaned up’ smoke from a very tall chimney would be rather lovely by comparison and it seems preferable to landfill, but I don’t know the full facts; I don’t sign up but take a page of tightly typed A4 to learn more.

Heading along the path towards the clubhouse I meet four Wivenhoe fans I know; four of the self-styled SOBS (Sad Old Bastards) who have followed ‘The Dragons’ through thin and thin since the 1990’s. One of them jokes about coming to visit the home of one of the nouveau-riche of non-league. These guys don’t care overly that Wivenhoe are bottom of the league with a goal difference of minus 66 after 30 games (Coggeshall are fourth with a goal difference of plus 66 after 26 games), they just like football and having a good time watching it; I see them as Messiahs, placed on earth to show supporters of professional clubs the error of their football supporting ways. Further along the path I meet Paul my next door neighbour and then speak with Miguel, brother of Ipswich Town’s Tristan Nydam and a player and youth coach for Wivenhoe.
The clubhouse is busy and people stand around by the changing rooms drinking tea,

coffee and beer and scoffing sausage rolls, waiting for the teams to emerge from the ship-lap clad changing rooms. I look at the team sheet, pinned to the outside wall. I like the names Ross de Brick and Kyan Gulliver who, along with Gary C Birdett, sound like they might have been in a 1960’s American ‘garage’ band. Amusingly, long serving Wivenhoe

centre-half Tim Dennis has been re-named on the team sheet as Dennis Timothy.

It is 7.45 and the game begins with Coggeshall in their red and black striped shorts and black shorts kicking towards the clubhouse; Wivenhoe are in all blue. It’s all quite keenly contested but Coggeshall are clearly the more talented side and just before 8 o’clock number seven Tom Monk hooks a shot into the top corner of the Wivenhoe goal from about 20 metres. I stand on the grassy bank that looks down on the pitch with Jonny, one of the SOBS; we talk about football and Jonny tells me about an interesting book he has read called The Chimp Paradox which is about how our minds work. Jonny’s advice is to get a copy and rip out about the first thirty pages, read them and throw the rest away because it gets repetitive after that. Twenty-four minutes of the game have passed and ‘The Seedgrowers’ number nine, Nnamdi Nwatchuku shoots across the Wivenhoe goalkeeper from a narrowish angle to put Coggeshall 2-0 up. .Six minutes later Nnamdi scores again; the most spectacular goal of the night, a shot from 20 metres-odd into the top right hand corner of the goal. Seven minutes after that and Coggeshall score a fourth goal and Jonny and I have no need for a telescope as we get a perfect view of a free-kick, which is swept over the defensive wall and just inside the far post by number eight Conor Hubble.
Half-time comes and I join the queue for a pounds worth of tea. “Man United are winning 1-0” says a bloke in front of me to his ponytailed friend. “Fuck, it’s Cup weekend innit” says the ponytail. The bloke in front of me gets a Twix and the teams are returning to the pitch just as I get my tea and add a splash of milk from a six pint plastic bottle of Cravendale. The girl behind me in the queue asks “Can I get a tea and a coffee?” That’s an odd use of English I think to myself. If I was the young girl in the tea bar I think I would reply that she can have a tea and coffee, but I will get them for her. I don’t often think about being a young girl in a tea bar, but know that the girl in this tea bar needs some help at half-time because there is still a queue for teas and sausage rolls
Wivenhoe have a substitute on for the second half, but within five minutes they are five-nil down as Coggeshall substitute Aaron Cosgrove scores from not too far out at an oblique angle. I am now standing with Bob and Rich’, two more SOBS who I know from my own days watching Wivenhoe, but then I wander off to talk to Paul my next door neighbour and just watch the game from different perspectives, because I can. Behind the goal that backs on to the car park a group of six or seven nine or ten year old girls muck about and do handstands, they’re here to see teeny bopper heart throb Olly Murs, who is on the Coggeshall bench but not named as a substitute; his uncle runs the place.
Despite being second best by some way, some of the Wivenhoe players seem very committed to the cause and they shout and remonstrate with one another as things inevitably go wrong; at one point it looks like they might come to blows. There is much waving of arms and shouting and I’m struck by the fact that the only word I can really make out from any of these animated conversations is “fuck”. One or two players also seem to spend quite a bit of time lying very still on the damp turf. Fortunately they

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

recover and play on, but it can’t be good for them. A Wivenhoe player lies prone in his own penalty area but the game carries on. When the Wivenhoe goalkeeper eventually gets to boot the ball into touch the game is stopped and Wivenhoe’s ginger-haired number four proceeds to berate the referee Mr Andrew Gray angrily; I am amazed he is not booked, many a more sensitive referee would have sent him off for such front.
One of the Wivenhoe defenders is a large man and although it is a cold night he appears to be sweating more than his team mates and his visibly damp shirt clings to his back unpleasantly. Wivenhoe rarely venture beyond their own half in any numbers but they are now managing to plug the gaps a bit more successfully, although Coggeshall still miss several ‘sitters’. At one point a Coggeshall shot smacks against the cross bar and rebounds down bouncing close to the goal line. None of the players appeal for a goal and play just carries on, but a couple of blokes stood up on the concrete path are adamant the ball was over the line; who needs goal line technology when there are a couple of blokes with beers stood forty yards away.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Surprisingly, no more goals are scored, although the contest is still kean with plenty of neat football played, particularly by Coggeshall who have looked very good tonight, despite not scoring as many goals as they often do against the weaker teams in the division. I have returned to stand with Rich’ and Bob, who has offered me a mint which I am sucking upon as Mr Gray blows his whistle for the final time. We hang around as the players leave the field and wait to have our photos taken with Olly Murs. I talk to another Paul who the programme says is Coggeshall’s Football Analyst/Media Manager before finally heading out into the car park. On my way out I wander through the now empty stand, erected in 1964, and look at the signs and foam padding, placed on the stanchions to protect the skulls of people taller than five foot four. Outside on the grassy bank there are rabbit droppings. I head into the car park with a car load of SOBS who are still in good spirits, we wish each other well ‘until the next time’. It’s been a good evening.