SCO Angers 2 Olympique de Marseille 5

October 22, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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.

Ipswich Town 1 Tottenham Hotspur 4

February 23, 2025March 20, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I think it was Christmas 1970 when I was given a Continental Club edition of Subbuteo, which included a team in red and white and one in blue and white. The team in blue and white was of course Ipswich Town and before Christmas 1971 I had acquired a set of cut-out adhesive numbers to stick on their backs so that I could tell which one was Colin Viljoen, which one was Jimmy Roberston and which one was Rod Belfitt. But Subbuteo produced other teams too, and Viljoen, Robertson, Belfitt et al didn’t want to play Manchester United every week and so, because I liked Martin Peters, their plain white and navy-blue kit and all the letter T’s in their name, I acquired a Tottenham Hotspur.

I liked Tottenham Hotspur for a couple of years after that, until one Saturday in October 1973, when Ipswich played them at Portman Road in a rugged goalless draw; Ipswich should have won and Tottenham were the dirtiest team I’d ever seen. After that, I no longer liked Tottenham and soon painted two navy blue vertical stripes on their shirts, and they became Portsmouth.

Today, fifty-two years on and Ipswich are once again playing Tottenham, and a rugged goalless draw will once again suit Tottenham more than Ipswich, but the likelihood of that happening is slim. After losing track of time and having to hurry to the station I find the train to be quite busy, I have to ask a blond woman to budge up so I can sit down. Gary joins me on the train at the next station stop and he tells me of how he has had food poisoning after eating fried chicken from his local chippy. We spot one polar bear as the train descends into Ipswich, and an American man who is with the blond woman and who has come from Los Angeles to see the game asks me “Is that real?” I am tempted to say that they are just people dressed up in bear-suits but take pity on someone from a country in which truth and reality are at risk from being signed away by executive order at any moment.

Sensibly, the ticket barriers are open at Ipswich railway station and a human tide soon washes up Princes Street towards Portman Road where Gary and I both pause to buy a programme (£3.50) and comment on how boring the front cover is thanks to kit manufacturer Umbro and their corporate philistinism, which has kept the work of local designers confined to the inside of the back page and reminds us to tell the Portman Road ruling elite that “you can stick Umbro up your bum bro.”

We arrive at the Arb before Mick, and I buy myself a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and Gary a pint of Lager 43 (£8 something with Camra discount). We sit in the beer garden with the many other match-bound drinkers discussing film, politics, death, religion and eventually Donald Trump. We’ve sunk a second round of drinks by not much after half past two and it’s against our will when we can’t help leaving a little early for the ground. Mick asks me for a score prediction; I tell him I’ve grown so accustomed to crashing disappointment that I can’t foresee anything other than defeat, however badly I want to say we’ll win and however poor I think Tottenham probably are. We go our separate ways at the junction of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, saying our farewells until next time in what might be the shadow of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue if we were in the southern hemisphere.

The queues to get into the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are fulsome, but sensibly again, at turnstiles 59 to 62 supporters are soon syphoned off through a side gate by people with hand held bar code readers, which make them seem as if they’re interrupting their afternoon supermarket shop. 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. The teams are only just coming out onto the pitch. “You’re early “says Fiona. “I know, I didn’t mean to be” I reply, and flames leap up in front of the Cobbold stand. I expect to see roasted seagulls and pigeons fall to the ground as the flames subside. The excitable young stadium announcer reads out the team as if it’s the most important announcement ever made and I mostly manage to bawl out the team surnames as if at a game in Ligue 1, but the excitable young stadium announcer panics towards the end like the youngster that he is and gets out of sync with the scoreboard. As ever, the excitable young stadium announcer who I admit I now find a bit annoying ends his announcement with his usual shout of “Blue Army” , before disappearing into the tunnel with his shorter side kick in the manner of Yogi and Boo Boo, Cheech and Chong or Rene and Renato.

It’s Tottenham, in white shirts with navy-blue sleeves and shorts that get first go with the ball, which they quickly boot in the general direction of the telephone exchange. But I’ve barely had time to register that the seat in front of me has no one sitting in it when Ipswich nearly score; Liam Delap bears down on goal, panic ensues in the Tottenham defence, the ball appears as if it might have been bundled over the goal line by Philogene and the linesman raises his flag for an apparent offside. Moments later Delap bears down on goal again but produces a pretty lame, scuffed shot which rolls harmlessly beyond the far post. It’s two-nil to Town, almost. The bloke behind me is getting excited about how Town have got Tottenham rattled. “He ain’t no strength if Omari pushed ‘im off the ball” he says as Town win the ball back in the Tottenham half, and then a free-kick is headed against the goal post by Liam Delap, who completes his hat-trick, or he would have done if any of his attempts had gone in the goal.

So much early excitement and it looks like Town are going to win handsomely as the Cobbold stand is bathed in soft, late winter sunlight. “Hello, Hello, We are the Tottenham boys” sing the Tottenham fans revealing possibly, not unexpected sexist attitudes, or more encouragingly that Tottenham girls now comfortably identify as boys if they feel like it. Fifteen minutes are lost to history and Tottenham’s Brennan Johnson is the first player to see the yellow of the referee’s cards. “Oh when the Spurs, Go marching in” sing the Tottenham fans miserably as if they might at any moment burst into tears or slit their own throats, but then their team unexpectedly scores. The best pass of the game so far, some jinking about by Son Heung-min, a low cross and Johnson arrives on time to convert a simple chance.

As supporters of a team that has already lost eight home games it’s a situation we are well acquainted with and is like water off a duck’s back. Within minutes Town have a corner and I am bawling “Come on You Blues” in glorious isolation. Delap shoots and again doesn’t score but the game then takes a surreal turn as alarmingly the Tottenham fans sing “Can’t smile without you” by Barry Manilow, before Son again gets past Godfrey on the left and provides a pass for Johnson to sweep into the Town net and Tottenham lead 2-0. I had hoped for better, and the mood is not lifted as Pat reveals that she has had sciatica all week and has been taking Ibuprofen and Paracetemol. “The hard stuff” says Fiona, and Pat does seem a bit spaced out as she admits that much more of this and her thoughts will turn to the jacket potato she’s going to have for her tea. I can’t help wondering if she hasn’t thought of the jacket potato already, which is why she mentioned it.

In the Cobbold stand, the now jubilant Tottenham fans sing “Nice one Sonny, Nice one Son, Nice one Sonny, Let’s ‘ave another one” stirring unhappy memories of “Nice One Cyril”, which phenomenally reached No14 in the UK singles chart in 1973, although more happily it was released for the League Cup final in which Tottenham beat Norwich City, and it wasn’t by Chas and Dave. In an apparently unrelated incident, Jack Clarke is the first Town player to be booked, probably just to even things up. A Spurs player meanwhile, is down on the ground receiving treatment. “Oh, just dig a hole” I say, having lost my carefree, happy-go-lucky outlook. “That’s an old song” says Fiona.

Four minutes later, and our depression lifts a little as Leif Davis squares the ball for Omari Hutchinson to sweep into the Tottenham goal and cruelly restore hope.

The final nine minutes of the half and three minutes of added-on time play out with Ben Godfrey getting booked, Alex Palmer making a save, Tottenham winning a corner and an obese woman walking down to the front of the stand and then back carrying a pie, a bottle of Coca Cola and a bar of chocolate. Having not had any lunch myself, at half-time I eat a Slovakian Mila wafer and chocolate bar from the Sainsbury’s World Food aisle, but not before I’ve gone down to the front of the stand and spoken with Dave the steward, Ray and his grandson Harrison.

When the football resumes, Luke Woolfenden is on as substitute for Godfrey, who it seems has been excused. Only seven minutes elapse before another substitution is made with a limping Jens Cajuste replaced by Jack Taylor, who fortunately is moving normally. “Edison House Group” says the illuminated advertisement display between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I think of the bubble-gum pop stylings of ”Love grows where my Rosemary goes”, before Town win a corner and have a goal by Luke Woolfenden disallowed for an apparent offside.

More substitutions follow, Tottenham bring on former Canary Maddison to boos from the home crowd and a chorus of “He’s only a poor little budgie…”, whilst the bloke behind me exclaims “As long as he don’t score, I don’t give a shit now”. Tottenham win a corner, Town win a corner, chants of “Come On You Spurs” and “Come On You Blues” are followed by those of “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee”, and then the same again but louder as Mr Robinson ups his game by awarding a random drop ball to Tottenham. Then it’s 3-1 to Tottenham and there’s only thirteen minutes left.

Today’s attendance is announced as 30,003 by the excitable young announcer , who as usual thanks us for our “incredible” support, something that he does with such monotonous regularity that if he weren’t so excitable he would probably now swap the word “incredible” for “usual”. Kalvin Phillips becomes the second Town player to be hurt and unable to carry on, but despite the deepening gloom in the stands the match is being played out under a beautiful blue sky dappled with puffy clouds. “Hot Sausage Co” reads the electronic advertisement hoardings. A fourth Tottenham goal leads to more rancour and “The referee’s a wanker” is chanted enthusiastically as Town win a late corner and the words “Home of the XL vent shipping container” appear on the electronic advertising hoardings to accompany a reprise of “When the Spurs go marching in” before a fruitless eight minutes of added-on time, is added on, fruitlessly.

The final whistle witnesses several sharp exits from the stands of those who of course haven’t already left, whilst others hang on to boo Mr Robinson, or applaud the team, who overall have not played badly, and have for all but four brief, but somewhat decisive spells of play matched their opponents. Sadly, I no longer have my Subbuteo teams, but if did Idon’t think I’d be painting out the blue stripes I painted onto those Tottenham shirts any time soon.

Ipswich Town 4 Buxton 0

November 30, 2022November 13, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Once upon a time, five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon in November in suburban England would have been the time to be thinking about sitting down to eat toasted teacakes or buttered crumpets with a pot of tea and perhaps a slice of Battenburg or Dundee cake. In our modern times of course, anything goes, and we are free from the strictures of Sunday tea and can now watch football whenever we want, or whenever someone in China, Canada, Bolivia, Cuba, Cyprus, Guadeloupe, Israel, Latvia, Nicaragua, St Kitts and Nevis, Switzerland, Thailand, US Virgin Islands, Uruguay or Vietnam, to name just a few, wants to show it on the telly in their far-off Ipswich Town supporting country. Today therefore, for the benefit of viewers of TV channels such as Star+, ESPN Play Caribbean, Nova Sport 1, Bilibili and Astro SuperSport, I am pleased to attend my first ever 5 o’clock kick-off football match and forego my usual relaxing Sunday evening at home in which I try and savour the final few hours of the weekend before the drudgery of another working week.

The TV viewers of Brunei and Ecuador etcetera are as discerning as you or I and naturally would not watch any old rubbish, which is why today’s match is special; today Ipswich Town play Buxton in the second round of the FA Cup. Buxton F.C. are in the National League North, the sixth tier of the league pyramid, although oddly the game is not being shown in Egypt. Sixth ‘tierness’ is a status Buxton share with the likes of Banbury United, Blyth Spartans, Bradford Park Avenue and other clubs many of which don’t begin with the letter ‘B’, like Spennymoor Town. I recall visiting Buxton on a family holiday to the Peak District in 1976, and then again in 1986 when I was best man at a friend’s wedding there; I spent the night in a caravan that looked like it had travelled forward in time from the 1950’s; of course it had done, but just a day at a time.

Today might be a special match day in some ways, what with the impending thrill of knock-out cup football and the kick-off time being moved for the benefit of unknown Venezuelan and Costa Rican couch potatoes, but mostly it’s not, and after parking up my trusty Citroen C3, I am soon crossing the threshold of the Arbor House (formerly The Arboretum) like I do before every match. Today, I purchase a pint of Woodforde’s Norfolk Nog (£4.10) which makes me feel slightly traitorous, but I soon recover before joining Mick in the pub garden. Being a damp, dreary day there is just one other drinker in the garden and he soon departs leaving us to talk about our beers, (Mick is drinking Mauldon’s Moletrap) buying an electric car, the world from a Marxist perspective, this year’s local government pay deal and the reality of cities like Cambridge, Oxford and Brighton away from the colleges and the candy floss. After a further single malt whisky for Mick and a half of Woodforde’s Hiberno (£6.80) for me, which leads to a discussion about whether Hibernia was the Roman name for Scotland or Ireland (it was Ireland), we head off into the quiet of a Sunday evening in Ipswich. I remark how it’s so quiet that it doesn’t feel like we’re going to a football match; more like we’re going to evensong, which leads Mick to confess to having been an altar boy at Orford church in the far off days before he hit the hippie trail to Morocco. It’s not until we get to Civic Drive that we see anyone else who is obviously heading for the match. If LS Lowry had been from Ipswich and gone out with his easel on a night like this he’d have had to have painted something else. But behind the Sir Bobby Robson stand, a long queue snakes along the back of the stand towards the turnstiles beyond. Mick and I are wise however to the propensity some people have for joining the first queue they see, and we walk on further towards the corporation bus depot. At the last turnstile (No58), we attach ourselves to a queue of about five other people and are soon stepping out across the artificial grass towards the entrance to the palatial Block Y of the Magnus west stand.

We take our seats just as the teams are walking onto the pitch past Crazee the mascot and a mysterious reindeer; we stand to applaud and stay on our feet as there is a minute’s applause for the recently deceased David Johnson, arguably Town’s third best-ever centre-forward after Paul Mariner and Ray Crawford. We will later learn that there are fewer than 10,000 of us in Portman Road this evening, but there is nevertheless a frisson of excitement around the ground as a fine drizzle starts to fall and the game begins with Town kicking off towards what was Churchman’s when David Johnson last played here. Buxton are wearing a kit of white shirts and dark blue shorts giving them the air of a poor man’s Tottenham Hotspur, and oddly they have no players of colour.

The opening minutes are dull as Town accelerate slowly through several gears like a very large articulated lorry before finding their desired passing rhythm. The fragile enthusiasm of the home crowd quickly dissipates and it’s open season for the Buxton fans to begin singing “We’ve got more fans than you” before gaining in confidence with a chorus of “Your support is fucking shit” and then asking the ultimate, damning question “Is this a library?”. Naively perhaps, I didn’t expect the followers of non-league Buxton to sing the same tired, unimaginative old songs as followers of Football League teams and it sets me to wondering if the folk that occupy the end of the upper tier of the Cobbold Stand aren’t actually just the same people every fortnight but wearing different colour replica shirts. Thoughts like this can make you question the very nature of reality.

Although Buxton might be dominating the singing with their off the shelf wit, on the pitch their team are barely getting sight of the ball, let alone a touch. Such is Town’s superiority in keeping the ball that the Buxton fans are reduced to cheering enthusiastically when they win a throw-in. When Buxton do win the ball Ipswich invariably win it straight back. But nevertheless, the first fifteen minutes or so are a bit dull. Mick yawns. The bloke behind me starts to pray audibly that something will happen. “Here we go” he says optimistically whenever a Town player takes the ball forward more than a couple of paces. Patient passing football to draw the opposition onto you and create spaces to move into is all very well, but this is the FA Cup for which the watch words are surely “Up and at ’em”.

“Shall we sing, shall we sing , shall we sing a song for you?” ask the Buxtonians through the medium of Cwm Rhondda, which seems appropriate if this is evensong. Sufficiently goaded by the Buxtonians up in the Cobbold stand, a few of the occupants of the Sir Bobby Robson stand summon a limp rendition of “Come On You Blues” before a more lively burst of rhythmic clapping emerges and even a few extroverts around me in the Magnus west stand join in . The first half is half over, but Town are now into their passing stride and are putting in crosses and looking likely to score. “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” chants what used to be the North Stand. “Come on ref” moans the woolly-hatted geriatric next to me for some reason I haven’t spotted. Beyond the dark sloping roof of the Magnus Stand the fine steady drizzle looks like steam. The first Buxton player is booked and then referee Mr Ross Joyce gets into his stride too and records the name of Town’s first Welsh Scandinavian Geordie, Leif Davis in his little notebook too. It looks like a second Buxton player has got away with a foul on Kyle Edwards but it’s as if Mr Joyce is thinking to himself, “No, I think I will book him after all” and shows a slightly belated yellow card.

The last third of the half begins and the game has blossomed into something quite enjoyable as Town dominate and create chances but still haven’t scored. But then Wes Burns speeds off down the right , crosses the ball low to Conor Chaplin who skips to one side and sends a darting angled shot into the bottom right hand corner of the Buxton goal from about 12 metres out; it’s a trademark Conor Chaplin goal. Four minutes later Kyle Edwards races into the penalty area, ball at his feet and Buxton players flailing around him before releasing a low cross, which Gassan Ahadme turns into a goal from very close range.

This is how things should be and I can only wonder why 9,000 voices aren’t singing “Wemb-er-ley, Wemb-er-ley, we’re the famous Ipswich town and we’re going to Wemb-er-ley”, but they’re not. With the half-time whistle I descend into the bowels of the stand to drain off some Woodforde’s beer whist Mick queues for a vegan pie which he is impressed to find comes with a wooden spork.

The second half is a breeze. Sam Morsy earns his customary booking to help keep the third division title race alive for Plymouth and Sheffield Wednesday and a pair of young players get their opportunity to play as Leif Davis and Cameron Humphreys are substituted for Tawanda Chirewa and Albie Armin. The drizzle persists. Buxton bring on a substitute with the memorable name of Harry Bunn and Town add two more goals, another typical, but more spectacular strike from Conor Chaplin and a less characteristic one-on-one shot into the corner from Kayden Jackson, but a fine goal nonetheless. Four-nil is the perfect score for this match, reflecting Town’s complete domination and superiority but not causing unwarranted and undeserved humiliation for Buxton.

With the final whistle Mick and I stay briefly to applaud before making the long way down to the ground and out into the damp, drizzly night. “Well worth a fiver wasn’t it”, I tell Mick who agrees, but feels guilty that his seat was half the price of mine. I tell him it’s not his fault I’m so young and he asks me when I will get my pension. “Four more years” I tell him, stupidly channelling Richard Nixon. But at least Town are into the third round of the Cup and TV viewers all over the planet know it. “Wemb-er-ley! Wemb-er-ley!” they must be singing.

Coggeshall Town 2 Felixstowe & Walton United 1

April 22, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s Easter and it is unseasonably warm. The mercury hit 23 degrees in my back garden yesterday and today could be warmer. In holiday mood and beneath a clear blue sky my wife Paulene and I set off in our trusty Citroen C3 on the short journey to Coggeshall to watch Coggeshall Town play Felixstowe & Walton United in the Bostik League, Division One North. We are taking the scenic route today in order to drop off Easter eggs for the grandsons; I feel like the Easter Bunny.

On arrival at their house, their father Colin is slouched watching Tottenham Hotspur on the telly, he responds mono- syllabically to our attempts at conversation. Tottenham are losing, I quietly hope that they continue to do so. Grandson Harvey is as loquacious as his father, but does let Paulene know as economically as possible that it’s the same type of Easter egg we bought him last year.

With Easter eggs delivered we obligingly pop to the Co-op as their advertisements tell us to, so that I can draw some cash and Paulene can buy chocolate of her own; non-dairy chocolate, white vanilla by i-choc; Paulene is dairy intolerant. Leaving the treasures of the Co-op behind us we complete the third leg of our journey, heading along West Street before turning left in to the bouncy car park of what was once known colourfully as ‘The Crops’, but has boringly been re-christened the West
Street Ground; how dull. Our Citroen C3 wishes it was a 2CV. A steward directs me to pull up close “to that one over there” a large Vauxhall. We disembark and a car load of Felixstowe followers park up next to us in another, smaller Vauxhall. At the turnstile I hand over two ten pound notes and receive £3.50 is change (Adult £10, Pensioner £5, programme £1.50). “Enjoy the match” says the turnstile operator “You too” I tell him “If you get to see it”. Oddly, the cost of entry has gone up a pound since I last was here for the FA Cup tie versus Witham in August last year, maybe FA Cup ties are just cheaper

We walk along the concrete path to the clubhouse, looking down upon the pitch on to which water sprinklers gently play. The path along the ‘top of the ground’, behind the main stand is one of the things I like best about “The Crops”. In the clubhouse Tottenham are still on the telly and they’re still losing. To celebrate I order a glass of Rose and a pint of Adnams Ghostship (£7.90 for the two); disappointingly the Ghostship is of the fizzy variety, but at least it’s not Greene King.

Drinks in hands we step back outside and sit at a “Yogi Bear–style picnic table”, I order a sausage roll (£3.50) from the ‘tea-hatch’. £3.50 might seem a lot for a sausage roll but there is more sausage meat in this sausage roll than in all the sausage rolls ever sold by Greggs put together; and this is real sausage meat, not a weird pink paste. I exaggerate perhaps, but not much. In truth, there is perhaps so much sausage meat that I would recommend bringing a small selection of pickles to help it down and add further to your enjoyment.

A steady stream of locals and visiting Felixstowe supporters make their way to the clubhouse from the turnstile and car park beyond, along the concrete path. Eventually I finish my sausage roll and we decide to take shelter from the sun in the shade of the main stand, which the Coggeshall Town website tells us was erected in 1964. We find seats near the middle of the stand at the very back, two seats behind Keith and Jim, who are in the front row and kindly share their team sheets with us.

Keith and Jim went to watch Colchester United play Grimsby Town yesterday; Keith nearly fell asleep he tells us. A friend of Keith and Jim arrives and hands out bars of chocolate, explaining that he won’t be at the game next week.

The teams are announced over one of the clearest sounding PA systems I have ever heard at a football ground and the teams line-up for the ritual shaking of hands; “See, home team on the left, away team on the right” points out Paulene, giving closure to a conversation we had over dinner a few days ago. It’s something I had never noticed, perhaps because I don’t care enough.

Coggeshall kick-off in the direction of the clubhouse and Braintree far beyond, wearing their red and black striped shirts with black shorts and red socks; it’s a fine looking kit. Sartorially however, Felixstowe do their best to match them with an attractive away ensemble of pale blue and white striped shirts with white shorts; if the two-teams swapped shorts and Coggeshall bleached their socks it would look like AC Milan v Argentina. Felixstowe, known as The Seasiders, aim in the direction of the car park and downtown Coggeshall, with its clock tower and the Co-op. Coggeshall, or The Seedgrowers as they are known informally are swift going forward and dominate the early stages.

Felixstowe don’t look much good. The play is rough and the Felixstowe No3, Henry Barley goes down two or three times, much to the disgust of some of the home crowd. “Pussy” shouts one, “Watch him, he doesn’t fancy it anymore” says the man next to me, “It’s a man’s game” calls another. “Erm no, Aussie Rules is a man’s game” says Paulene as a quiet aside, just to me. So far the game has mostly been Coggeshall’s Nnamdi Nwachuku and Michael Gyasi harrying the Felixstowe defence with their speed and nifty footwork. Seventeen minutes pass, Coggeshall piece together a few passes down the right and a cross finds No8 Tevan Allen; he is on his own at the near post. With time on his hands Tevan kicks the ball up in the air and then, as it drops back down to head height, executes a spectacular overhead kick sending it into the far corner of the goal. It is a remarkable goal, even more so if the initial kick up in the air was intended rather than being a case of not quite controlling the ball, but the latter sadly seems more likely. Tevan celebrates appropriately.

With the breakthrough made, Coggeshall will surely go on score more. But no, with the breakthrough made Felixstowe improve and begin to get forward themselves, often on ‘the break’ with their No9, the heftily built Liam Hillyard, a sort of non-league version of former Ipswich Town player Martyn Waghorn, making the runs into the penalty area. The game stagnates a bit as it becomes more even, with neither side playing particuarly well. The referee Mr Karl Sear makes himself unpopular with the home supporters because he doesn’t book any Felixstowe players, only talks to them, whilst also awarding Felixstowe several free-kicks, seemingly for not much at all.

My attention wanders and I admire a rusty hole in the corrugated iron roof of the stand; ventilation is just what’s needed on a warm day like today.
With a fraction more than five minutes until half-time, Liam Hillyard breaks down the right for Felixstowe, he confuses the Coggeshall defenders sufficiently to pass the ball across the penalty area to Henry Barley who looks to have taken the ball too close to goal before booting it high into the net from an acute angle. After the comments made towards him earlier, Henry Barley might allow himself a wry smile (geddit?).

Things look bleak for Coggeshall; having failed to make the most of their advantage they have now lost it. But football as a game apart from being old is nothing if not funny and soon The Seedgrowers win a free kick. The ball is struck hopefully into the penalty area, players jump and the ball hits random body parts, boots are swung in the direction of the moving ball but none makes proper contact, a Felixstowe player sends the ball towards his own goalkeeper, two Felixstowe defenders go to aim a kick but politely leave it to one another; tired and bemused by its long journey across the penalty area the ball gives itself up to a surprised Nnamdi Nwachuku who happily scores a close-range goal as ropey as the Seedgrowers’ first goal was spectacular. The goal is greeted almost with jeers and laughter, but it still counts and it makes Nnamdi and this little corner of Coggeshall very happy.
Half-time soon follows and we leave our seats; Paulene to use the facilities, me to take our coats back to the car, we really won’t need them today. “Are you leaving?” asks Keith. I reassure him that
I’ll be back for the second half.

Returning from the Citroen I meet my next door neighbour Paul and his eldest son Matthew on the concrete path as they head to the car park end that Coggeshall will be attacking in the second half. Paul has captured the glory of Coggeshall’s second goal on his mobile phone, I think the best bit is where the two Felixstowe defenders let each other boot the ball and neither does. On the grass bank below the concrete path is Colin with his wife Tessa and grandson Harvey and Paulene; I join them in the sunshine and eat a coconut based flapjack that I bought at the Co-op and on which the chocolate has melted. I get just four out of ten in the “Seedgrowers’ half-time quiz” in the programme; how is any one supposed to know that Jamie Carragher has the middle names Lee and Duncan? The second half begins.

The expectation amongst those around me is that Coggeshall will score a third goal, but it doesn’t happen. The game becomes niggly and fractious with lots of swear words; Coggeshall Town is the place to come for sweary football. I kick back and stretch out on the grass enjoying the warmth of the Spring sunshine and the stillness of the afternoon, the peacefulness only punctuated by angry curses from players and supporters and frantic scribbling in his notebook by referee Mr Sear who books six players, three from each team including both Coggeshall goalscorers. Some decent chances to score are missed by both teams and Felixstowe perhaps have the best ones, but if you’d never been to a football match before and had come along because you’d heard about “the beautiful game”, you’d think Pele was a liar. The final act sees Felixstowe’s Callum Bennet sent off by Mr Sears for a poorly thought-out tackle, although conveniently for Bennett he didn’t have far to go because he committed the foul quite close to the corner of the field and the steps to the changing room; so it wasn’t all bad.

With the final whistle I reflect upon what has been a beautiful afternoon in the sun before we head back to the clubhouse for another drink; it’s that kind of a day. I look out for Jim and Keith as the ground empties but don’t see them, I worry that Keith thinks I didn’t return for the second half, which would make me no better than Pele.

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

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.