Colchester United 2 Salford City 1

December 24, 2023January 20, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Although I do want to see Col U play Salford City, it is against my will that I am driving to the Colchester Park and Ride car park because, scandalously, there is no public transport to the out in the middle of nowhere Community Stadium, and the one bus service (Shuttle S1) that is within a twenty minute walk might require leaving before the end of the match to get back to the railway station in time for the last train home. When Col U first moved from lovely, ramshackle Layer Road to remote, windswept, Cuckoo Farm there were buses laid on from all points of the compass and from across the road to the Bricklayers Arms, a five-minute walk from the railway station. Despite a lot of talk about being green and saving the planet, no one really cares do they? I’d advise everyone to stop having children now because we’re surely condemning them to a horrible future and probably a lingering death.

But what the heck, ‘tis the eve of the eve of Christmas Eve and Col U are about to play Salford City, the only current members of the Football League that I haven’t seen at some time or other. As I tell Gary, who I had arranged to meet in the Park & Ride car park, I’ve not been to what I still like to call “Layer Road” since October last year, when Col U played Harrogate Town, another Football League club I hadn’t previously seen play. The Colchester Park and Ride car park is a bleak, desolate place and Gary and I walk as swiftly as we can along the barely lit path towards the bridge over the A12. The lighting either side of the path is phenomenally ineffective, illuminating nothing more than a tiny circle around each light and casting no light whatsoever over the path itself, it’s so useless it could have been designed by any or all the UK’s last five Tory Prime Ministers.

The Community Stadium floodlights shine like a beacon along with the neon signs of the nearby McDonald’s and like moths around a flame Colcestrians are drawn to both. Gary and I head for the turnstiles, and I hand him my mobile phone on which there is an e-mail with a ticket and QR code. Waving the phone about in front of something works, and Gary is in; he hands the phone back to me as the turnstile clicks. The e-mail says I would be sent two e-mails, but only one ever arrived. However, it doesn’t matter, there is a second ticket and I wave it about and a green light comes on, I’m in too. Before heading for our seats I pause to collect a free programme for each of us from three neat piles, a woman eyes me suspiciously as if I’m about to set fire to them or steal hers. Despite my misgivings about the location of this football ground and its accessibility, the free programme is a sign of true civilisation, it’s like being in France.

“The teams are in the tunnel” announces the electronic scoreboard, as if this might be an exciting development. “Make some noise” entreats the stadium announcer and from the loudspeakers up in the eaves comes the sound of the splendid “Post horn galop”, which Wikipedia tells us was composed in 1844 by German cornet player Hermann Koenig. Flags are waved in the South Stand and a drum beats to chants of Ole, Ole, Ole, sung in a style that sounds to my admittedly, slightly blocked up ears, like Olde English folk music. The evening is off to a good start.

With the teams lined up it is Col U who get first go with the ball, which they are hoping to put in the goal at the far end of the ground which backs picturesquely onto the A12. Salford are kitted out uninspiringly in all-black, as if they couldn’t be bothered to come up with an original away kit, which they don’t need tonight any way because Salford’s club colours are red and red. The latest incarnation of Col U’s kit is probably one of the worst, with the normally blue stripes of the shirts faded to a washed out grey like they’ve been put on too hot a wash. The pale green goalkeeper’s kit looks similarly carelessly laundered. From their kits alone it’s easy to see why Col U are languishing in 22nd place in the twenty-four team fourth division and Salford are 20th

A couple of elderly latecomers arrive and we have to stand to let them past. One brandishes a plastic bag “Been Christmas shopping have we?” I ask, insolently, implying that’s why I have been inconvenienced. Four minutes gone and Salford win the game’s first corner. The drums are still beating. The scoreboard tells us that tonight’s match is sponsored by the Colchester and East Essex Cricket Club. The first player who has come to my notice is the Col U number 7, a small bloke with floppy hair who seems to fall over a lot. I don’t think he’s diving, he’s just little and not very steady on his legs when a big northerner comes up behind him. “Too easy, too easy” exclaims the bloke behind me as Salford string two passes together and threaten to undo the Col U defence; a timely tackle saves the day. An empty crisp packet blows across the pitch and I notice a possible redeeming feature of Col U’s kit, hooped socks. “ If only we had a target man” says the bloke behind me longingly, adding an unexpected frisson of homo-eroticism to the evening.

After fifteen minutes we witness the first shot on target, the Salford number seven is guilty however of failing to place it anywhere either side of the Col U goalkeeper who promptly catches it without having to move. Two minutes later and referee, the suspiciously neat Mr Finnie, airs his yellow card for the first time, his victim being Col U’s Arthur Read, a man who in my opinion has the best name of anyone on the pitch; it’s as if he has travelled to us through time and he makes me think of Arthur Seaton in Alan Sillitoe’s novel ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning’. Arthur Seaton would definitely have been first into the book too.

Salford win a free-kick and tension mounts as we wait for it to be taken, but we needn’t have worried as once again it goes straight to the goalkeeper. There follows warm applause, not because of good play, but merely relief. Arthur Read has a shot and earns a corner. “Well done lino” says a voice bizarrely as Col U quickly win another corner. “Where’s Tom Eastman when you need him?” asks the bloke behind me. “Enjoying life at Dagenham” says the bloke next to him, suggesting another side to Dagenham I hadn’t previously imagined. This a strange game, neither side is very good, but they are both trying to play decent football and they are evenly matched, which between the poor passes and lack of a plan makes for quite an absorbing encounter. Col U’s Connor Hall is booked for possibly the least subtle shove off the ball of an opposition player I have ever seen; is this what being ‘an honest professional’ means I wonder?

The game rolls on towards half-time and Salford create the best chance so far as a clever series of no more than two passes puts McAleny through with just the goalkeeper to beat, but he doesn’t. Salford earn their first booking, but only after Mr Finnie walks back and forth a bit as if forensically examining the scene of the foul, whilst also possibly listening to the advice of the home crowd. Col U win another corner; the Salford goalkeeper pats the ball down in a sudden panic and somebody clears it or deflects it high over the goal, possibly Curtis Tilt, whose surname is ideal in a match where action in the penalty area resembles that on a pinball table.

Three minutes remain until half-time when a run down the wing, a low cross, and a half-hearted, indecisive looking nudge-on precede the ball running to Joe Taylor and he shoots with ease past the Salford goalkeeper. Col U lead 1-0 and the final three minutes of the half plus minute of added on time are much more exciting as both teams decide to get a bit of a sweat up before half-time.

With the half-time whistle, Gary and I opt for a change of scenery and retreat beneath the stand, for no reason in particular. I ask Gary if he’d like anything from the catering facilities, but he’s not keen, and nor am I. Fizzy beer and fatty snacks are not enticing and it’s not a particularly cold evening, so hot drinks aren’t needed either. We stand, and talk, and reminisce about Friday evenings at Layer Road in the dim and distant past of Roy McDonagh and Tony Adcock and the Barside. I ask him if he’s ever been to any of the events that are held up here, such as the comedy nights. “I’ve been to Slimming World” he says.

We time our return to our seats to perfection and as we sit down the teams reappear on the pitch. The game is now wonderfully scrappy. Col U’s number seven seems to fall over even more than he did in the first half. We both agree that the far end of the ground is somewhat dingy and it’s not always easy to follow the path of the ball even though it is bright yellow. The scrappiness of the game matches the acoustics of the stadium, hollow shouts and guttural moans echoing off the steel roof, plastic seats, concrete and empty spaces. It might not sound it, but it’s pretty enjoyable, this is what fourth division football is all about, especially when the teams in twenty-second and twentieth positions meet.

Col U make a double substitution; not to be out done so do Salford, for whom Matty Lund replaces Liam Humbles. Lean, 33-year old Lund is described on Wikipedia as a “real good passer of the ball” and he cuts a dash with his grey hair, like a fourth division Zinedine Zidane. Col U earn a corner after a decent shot from the exotic sounding Jayden Fevrier and then a foul by a Salford player provokes chants of “You dirty Northern bastard” from the South Stand, and my evening is almost complete.

More substitutions follow for Col U with about twenty minutes still left to enjoy and endure. Goalscorer Taylor is replaced by John Akinde, an enormous man with no hair who stirs memories of former Wycombe Wanderer Ade Akinbiyi, and is so popular with the crowd that he only has to boot the ball off the pitch for people to cheer. Col U have been the better team in the second half without making the chances to prove it, but full-time is approaching and the anxiety of holding onto the win elicits chants of “Come on Col U, Come on Col U”. An eighty seventh minute Curtis Tilt cross and a powerful header over the cross-bar by Matt Smith don’t help, but then unexpectedly Akinde delivers a precise through ball, Chay Cooper is away beyond the Salford defence and passes the ball beyond Cairns the Salford ‘keeper. Col U lead 2-0 and if anyone wants to leave early for that stupidly early last bus, they probably can.

But the modern game produces things like six minutes of added on time, even in the fourth division and within a minute Salford are back in the game as McAleny turns and produces an instant shot into the top corner of the Col U goal from over 20 metres out. It’s a spectacular goal, the sort that people prone to exaggeration might say was worth the entrance money alone. The remaining minutes are tense. Akinde is the fifth and final Col U player to be booked by the overly neat Mr Finnie and a final substitution of Will Greenidge for Fevrier is made. “Fuck off Greenidge” shouts a committed fan, and one of the possible reasons why Col U are struggling becomes apparent. But the final minutes are played out and all that happens is that I notice the Salford number three has the name John on the back of his shirt, I wonder for a moment if he is a Brazilian like Fred and Oscar, but the back of the programme tells me he is Welsh, and his first name is Declan, which oddly sounds Irish.

The final whistle brings a rare victory for Col U and applause from the crowd. As we head back to our cars I confess to Gary that I quite enjoyed the match and I think he did too. “But was it worth £21.00?” I ask him. “No” says Gary without hesitation and in the context of what we used to pay to see at Layer Road forty years ago I don’t suppose it was.

Ipswich Town 1 Birmingham City 1

April 15, 2019August 15, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today could be an auspicious occasion; today could be the day that Ipswich Town confirms its transition from the second division to the third division of English football. Towen ‘did their bit’ on Wednesday evening by losing at Brentford, but other clubs let them down by failing to win and make themselves un-catchable. Today however, anything but a win will mean Towen will play next season in the third tier and pretty much no one who isn’t at least seventy years old can remember that happening before. It’s nice that such a landmark can be achieved at Portman Road, in front of our own fans, and not on some ‘foreign field’ where mis-guided fools would only gloat.

I set off for the match in positive mood therefore, still believing in a miracle but also resigned to a fate that has been writ large on most walls since late October of 2018. It’s been a morning of sunshine and showers and cotton wool clouds are now heaped up in a pale blue sky, a corny metaphor for the darkness and light of life and football. The characteristic smell of settled dust on a damp pavement rises up with the warmth of the April sun. The railway station platform is busy with all types of people, Ipswich Town supporters, women in their early forties on a ‘girls’ outing, an unhappy looking hippy, teenagers taking selfies and a family of Birmingham City supporters. The train is on time. A poster catches my eye, “Delay, Repay, With Less Delay” it says, carefully avoiding to mention anything about ‘fewer delays’; it will prove prescient.

Arriving at Colchester, the train stops and the doors open. “What? Sorry, it’s cancelled?” shouts a guard down the platform giving unintended forewarning of what has happened. It transpires that a freight train has broken down further up the track; the train I arrived on disgorges its passengers and departs empty. Twenty minutes later the next train arrives and the same chain of events unfolds, although the guard doesn’t shout down the platform this time. If there’s a good thing about train delays it’s that people talk to one another, if only to share their annoyance and anxiety. People in club colours glance at other people in club colours. With both Ipswich and today’s opponents both wearing blue and white those glances are asking “Is he one of us?” A middle aged man with a monotone voice asks me how long it takes to drive to Ipswich. I guess he’s thinking of getting a taxi, or stealing a car. He’s a Birmingham fan who has travelled up from Torquay; he doesn’t go to home games, only away ones and it seems that he’s just as keen on visiting all ninety-two league grounds as following ‘The Blues’. I would speak to him more, but he’s a bit boring.

When the 13:48 to Ipswich arrives on platform two; it’s not cancelled and it departs twenty minutes later with the track ahead now clear. The voice of the lady train driver apologises for the delay and warns that a few more minutes are as yet likely to be added to the journey. “But we will arrive in Ipswich eventually, hopefully” she adds, with a final note of caution. Arriving in Ipswich at about twenty-five to three it is too late to go to St Jude’s Tavern and I have already texted Mick to cancel our planned triste; as he says in his reply “ …it would not be a social interlude, just necking a pint…”

Ipswich is busy, but weirdly the Station Hotel, which is reserved for away supporters, is empty. Outside a couple of bouncers relax and have a ciggy and talk to two of the unusually large number of police who are out on the streets today. I join the herd crossing the bridge opposite the station and heading for Portman Road. On a banner attached to a lamp post a blue cartoon Octopus called Digby urges everyone to love their streets and not drop litter; so I don’t. Birmingham accents assault my ears. “Excuse may” I hear one say politely as a prelude to asking where the away supporters end is. There’s nothing for me here so I move towards turnstile five where there is no queue. The glasses-wearing turnstile operator doesn’t look up as I hand him my season ticket card, he scans its bar code and hands it back to me. “Thank you” I say enthusiastically and with genuine gratitude, like I imagine Watch With Mother’s Mr Benn would, if he ever went to football match.

I speak with Dave the steward with whom I used to work and then make for my seat near ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and Pat from Clacton. Today Phil is featured in the programme because it is 25 years since he last missed a Town game. Greetings, handshakes and presentations over, the game begins in brilliant sunshine beneath azure skies with Ipswich in their blue and white shirts besmirched by the naff logo of an on-line gambling organisation, kicking the ball in my direction. Birmingham City are sporting a kit of bright yellow shirts and socks with blue shorts, they could be confused with Sweden, Newmarket Town or may be Sochaux-Montbéliard from French Ligue 2. I am reminded of the first time I ever saw Ipswich play away (2nd April, 1977 at Maine Road Manchester), we wore yellow and blue; all away kits seemed to be yellow and something in the 70’s, except the ones that weren’t.

The visiting Brummies in the Cobbold Stand are first to burst into song with a rendition of the maudlin Harry Lauder number ‘Keep right on to the end of the road’. “That used to be our song, here at Ipswich” Pat tells me sounding a bit miffed and implying that Birmingham had pinched it. According to the Birmingham City club website, it has been their anthem since 1956. As if taking offence at Pat’s accusation, the Birmingham fans’ tone changes and they start to sing ‘You’re going down, you’re going down, you’re going down’, which is at once both a little uncharitable and a case of ‘stating the bleedin’ obvious’. There is no mention that Birmingham City have cheated their way to staying up by spending more money than league rules allow; Birmingham have been deducted nine points although even if they were re-allocated to Town it probably wouldn’t save us.

On the pitch Birmingham are already looking better than Ipswich and just to make the point, with little more than five minutes played Birmingham’s Lukas Jutkiewicz scores from very close range as if Ipswich were playing without any defenders at all, something they have practised all season. I leap from my seat cheering, I’m not sure why, I think it was the excitement of the start of the game spilling over and perhaps a sense that I’m fed up with waiting to be in the third division. Ever-present Phil and Elwood look at me disappointedly.

A goal down, Ipswich don’t improve and Birmingham look quicker, stronger and more skilful. The old boy and girl behind me moan about Collin Quaner when he loses the ball and his boot “He int kicked anything yet, how the hell’s his shoe come off” says one of them nastily. Myles Kenlock shoots not far over the Birmingham cross bar but it’s a rare foray forward for Town. I pass the time wondering if Birmingham’s full-back Colin who crossed the ball for the goal is Brazilian like Fred, Oscar and Cris; in fact he’s French, his first name is Maxime and it turns out he was born in Ipswich’s twin town of Arras; he’s ‘one of our own’, sort of. Despite early enthusiasm, the atmosphere amongst Town fans has cooled and the sunshine has been lost to cloud and rain showers. “Is this a library?” sing the Brummies enjoying some Italian opera before showing their less artistically appreciative side and singing “You’re support is fucking shit”. Eventually Town win a corner, Myles Kenlock again, and then another but we don’t do enough to puncture the Brummie fans’ sense of superiority as they chant in praise of Mick McCarthy and then claim they are relegating us. Birmingham City fans indeed know all about relegation their team having achieved it eight times since 1979, double the number of Town’s seasons of utter and abject failure in the same period.

It’s been a poor half from Town with four of our players also being shown a yellow card by the referee, Mr Jeremy Simpson, whose skin is sadly not also yellow like that of his cartoon namesakes. Half-time arrives as a bit of a relief and Ray stops to chat on his way to use the facilities. He tells me that he will be seeing Rod Stewart here in the summer and hopes it’s more entertaining. It’s Ray’s wife Roz who is the Rod Stewart fan, not Ray, he is more ‘into’ Jethro Tull and Yes. I ask him if will be seeing Hawkwind at the Corn Exchange in November; probably not. With no pre-match beer to drain off I remain in the stands and eat a Panda brand liquorice bar whilst enjoying the ornamental fountain-like display from the pitch sprinklers. I flick through the programme and seek amusement in the names of the Birmingham City players. Che Adams is a good name I decide and speculate that Mr and Mrs Adams are Communist Party members and have another son called Vladimir Ilich. The game resumes at six minutes past four.

Almost immediately Ipswich score, Gwion Edwards volleying in a cross from Kayden Jackson who has replaced the ineffective ‘boy’ Dozzell. Birmingham have defended like Ipswich, it’s almost like the two teams have come out for the second half wearing each other’s kits and so it continues with Ipswich now the better team and looking more likely to score again, although of course they don’t. The Ipswich supporters re-discover their voice and sing “Allez-Allez-Allez” or “Ole, Ole, Ole” I’m not sure which; personally I prefer the Allez, Allez, Allez version. The sunshine returns illuminating the verdant pitch, billowing white clouds are heaped up in the bright blue sky above the stands creating a scene worthy of an Art Deco poster. This is probably the most beautiful afternoon of the season so far, even if it is cold. “One Bobby Robson, there’s only one Bobby Robson” sing the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand slightly confusingly given that he’s been dead almost ten years. There’s something almost Neolithic about this reverence for ancestors. There’s no mention of Sir Alf Ramsey, but then he’s been dead nearly twenty years.

Next to me Pat is pleading for Town to score, to win, in between trying to persuade me to travel to games on the Clacton supporters’ bus. Today’s crowd of 17,248 with 1, 582 from Birmingham and Torquay is announced and Pat checks who’s won the sweepstake on the bus; then she checks again, paranoid about getting it wrong. Mr Simpson books Toto N’Siala who has replaced James Collins and for Birmingham City Jacques Maghoma replaces Kerim Mrabti meaning that probably for the first time ever there are two Congolese players on the Portman Road pitch. With time running out Myles Kenlock and Gwion Edwards both have shots blocked and little Alan Judge has one saved. Town ought to score, but it’s as if fate won’t allow it and finally Ipswich’s least favourite Simpson’s character calls time on the game and Town’s residency in Division Two.

There are emotional scenes before everyone goes home, with the players being applauded from the field after a few have sat down on the pitch in the traditional unhappy looking pose associated with defeat in defining games. Relegation has been certain for months now, but the final confirmation is so final that my heart and the back of my throat still ache a little. Ho-hum. I never liked the Championship anyway, with all its wannabe Premier League teams. I’m happy to return to our roots.