Ipswich Town 6 Exeter City 0

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

I remember going to Exeter as a child in the mid 1960’s.  Although it was mid-August it rained and I wore a plastic mac, which was quite the fashion at the time; I held my father’s hand.  I returned a little over thirty years later, again in August to see Ipswich Town and Exeter City summon up a two-goal draw in the first round of the League Cup, but this time the sun shone on a warm dog day evening.  My father wasn’t with me that night.  A week later, Town thrashed ‘the Grecians’ as they are mysteriously known, 5-1 in the second leg back in Ipswich.

Now it’s Spring again, and the sun is shining once more after a cloudy week of going to the dentist, visiting my mother and being amazed at the unknowable brilliance of the current Ipswich Town team, as I watched them thrash Barnsley through the wonder of the interweb.  Today, Ipswich Town play Exeter City in the last home game of the season and a win will see the club promoted back to the second division.  Under a pale blue sky, I trip lightly across the grass, dandelions, daisies, and occasional dog turd of Gippeswyk Park having parked up my planet-saving Citroen e-C4.  In Portman Road I purchase a programme (£3.50) in the modern cashless manner and walk amongst Exeter City supporters dressed as comedy Scots.  I quite like the front cover of the programme today, it features Kieran McKenna blowing a kiss, Sam Morsy staring dreamily off into the distance and Conor Chaplin doing an impression of Norman Wisdom. Around the corner in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, a haze of blue smoke sweeps towards Alderman Road rec, and a mighty throng cheers a large grey bus as it crawls past the frontage of the municipal tram depot.  It’s the team bus, but it could be anyone inside behind those opaquely glazed windows.  Impressed, and yet not, I head for the Arb where the front door is open, inviting me in.  There is a queue at the bar, and it takes a while to get served. As I wait Mick appears from ‘out the back’ to tell me he’s just arrived and hasn’t got a drink, but has a table in the garden with Gary, who does have a drink.  “Bloody Gary’s alright then” says the bald-headed man stood behind me.  Eventually I emerge into the beer garden with two pints of foaming Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8.00) and I join Mick and Gary for conversations about things so unremarkable I can’t remember them except for mention of a racist souvenir Gary saw at the airport in Mumbai, police corruption, the chairman of the BBC, a TV programme about handmade things in Japan and how good the Suffolk Pride tastes to day.

After Gary kindly buys me a further half of the deliciously fresh Suffolk Pride, a half of lager for himself and a packet of cheese and onion crisps for Mick, we talk some more and then at around twenty-five to three depart for Portman Road, finally going our separate ways somewhere in front of the statue of Alf Ramsey, as I head for the lower tier of his stand and Mick and Gary for the posh seats of the West Stand.  As ever, today’s portal to another world is turnstile 62, because of 1962, where the over helpful steward seems to give me a gentle shove through when the light turns green to say my season ticket is valid.

After savouring the still not stale thrill of the blast of hot air over my wet hands from the new hand driers in the gents, I find my seat amongst Pat from Clacton, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood. Fiona isn’t here today due to some very badly planned prior engagement, but in her place is a large man with no hair, who Pat introduces to me as Fiona, I don’t catch his real name, but of course that could be his or her real name.

I am here in time today to cheer the teams onto the pitch and see the referee Mr Oldham snatch up the match ball from its plinth as he leads the procession between lines of banner waving children.  Stadium announcer Stephen Foster reads out the teams and ever-present Phil and I bawl out the Town players surnames in the style of a French football crowd.  Today I can’t help but notice Stephen Foster’s shoes, which I don’t think go with his suit.  But what do I know, he is a Radio Caroline DJ, acquaintance of members of Dr Feelgood and can legitimately claim to be much more “rock and roll” than me.

After Exeter City take the knee, the game begins with Town having first go with the ball and aiming at the goal just a bit to one of side of me and Phil and Pat and Elwood and the man from Stowmarket.  Town are of course in blue and white, whilst disappointingly Exeter sport a messy looking concoction of black and cerise rather than their excellent signature kit of red and white striped shirts and black shorts.  I struggle to understand why a team that wears stripes would not always wear stripes, tsk.

Today, with all available tickets sold, Portman Road is quite noisy, in an everyone chattering loudly at once sort of a way and there are relatively frequent bursts of singing too from the bottom of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  It’s the third minute, a moment’s silence falls and it’s as if there’s a sudden realisation that this cannot be allowed  to happen and a chorus of “ We’ve got super Kieran McKenna…” quickly strikes up, followed by a painfully slow rendition of “When the Town going marching in” which I feel compelled to speed up and so I do,  trying to add a sort of New Orleans jazz feel to it.  “How much have you had to drink?” asks Pat from Clacton. “I’ve only had a pint and a half” I tell her. “Of vodka” adds Fiona.

On the pitch, Town haven’t done much so far, I hope it’s not going to be one of those games where we don’t get into a rhythm.  “I hope we get an early goal” says the bearded, brown-haired young man sitting between me and the man from Stowmarket. It’s the ninth minute, Sam Morsy passes to Conor Chaplin and from the edge of the penalty area he shoots and finds the corner of the net before the Exeter goalkeeper Gary Woods can blink, and Town lead 1-0. That’s a relief, and Pat takes ever-present Phil’s photo as he holds his arms aloft and roars triumphantly with everyone else.

It’s three minutes since Town scored and Exeter have Town pinned back in our half, they even win a corner.  “I want us to be top” says Pat, and echoing that sentiment the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and pockets of people all around the ground sing “We’re gonna win the league, We’re gonna win the league, and they int gonna believe us, and they int gonna believe us..” in what sounds weirdly like a West Midlands accent. “We’re coming for you, We’re coming for you, Norwich City, We’re coming for you” continues the crowd, but in no particular accent this time, and Pat says she hates playing Norwich.  I tell Pat I like it when we beat them.

It’s the sixteenth minute and Town break down the left, George Hirst sends the ball on to Massimo Luongo, he is inside the penalty area, he runs, he shoots, he scores. Town lead 2-0 and I had a really good view of the ball leaving Massimo’s foot, by-passing Gary Wood and striking the net. This is good.  “How many more goals do we need?” I ask Pat from Clacton. “One more” she says.   There’s time for some choruses of “Stand up if you’re going up” and “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town, the finest football team the world has ever seen” and then Town are breaking down the left again, a low cross is driven towards the goal by Nathan Broadhead and George Hirst scores from close range. Pat can relax and there are still the best part of seventy minutes to play. 

Six minutes later Town carve open the Exeter defence again as Wes Burns chases a through ball into the penalty area, racing the Exeter full-back Jake Caprice who has the perfect surname for someone about to give away a penalty. Nathan Broadhead scores the resultant spot-kick sending the ball high into the roof of the net to Gary Wood ‘s right as Gary foolishly dives low to his left.  I can barely believe this is happening, it is not the Ipswich way, where is the pain, the doubt, the anxiety?  And the moaning, why is nobody moaning?   I had mushrooms with my breakfast this morning and am beginning to wonder who Ocado’s supplier is as four minutes further on two Exeter players jump for the ball and it falls to Conor Chaplin who instinctively half volleys it into the corner of the net. Stephen Foster can’t help himself and once again summons the ghost of 1940’s comedian Tommy Handley by announcing “It’s That Man Again”. Town are winning 5-0 after just 32 minutes.  I had the impression after 52 years of watching Town, that I’d seen it all, but may be I hadn’t.

When with five minutes left until half-time Luke Woolfenden heads over the cross-bar it seems like it’s the first time a goal attempt from Town hasn’t resulted in a goal; two minutes later Harry Clarke shoots wide of the far post and  I’m wondering what’s gone wrong.  Three minutes of added on time are added on.

With half-time I go down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison, and here for her traditional one game a season Ray’s wife Roz. We have nothing to say about the football except that it’s brilliant and that Exeter aren’t really bothering to defend their right-hand side.  Today is Harrison’s nineteenth birthday and Ipswich Town have achieved nothing in his lifetime until today, it must feel like all his birthdays have come at once.

With the start of the second half at six minutes past four, the man from Stowmarket tells me that he thinks Town need to sharpen up for the second half, it’s the type of joke I imagine is being repeated all around the ground.  Two minutes in and it seems the Town’s players didn’t get the joke and a long ball down the right sends Wes Burns into the Exeter penalty area where he lobs the ball over the advancing Gary Woods and into the Exeter goal and Town lead 6-0. Wow.

With the game already convincingly won I half expected the usual mass substitutions to be made at half-time, but there’s no need as Exeter almost score an own goal in the 53rd minute but concede a corner instead.  An hour has nearly drifted into history and the more rowdy Exeter supporters at the back of the Cobbold stand have a mad five minutes as they chant “Six-nil and you still don’t sing” at the over 60s in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and the less tuneful “Football in a library, do-do-do” before rounding off with the questioning “ Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?”, to which we should all answer in effete voices “Will you do?, Will you do? Will you do requests for us?”, but sadly no one does.

The hour passes and Exeter number seven, the interestingly monikered Demetri Mitchell is cautioned by the orange shirted Mr Oldham for vainly diving in a pitiful attempt at winning a penalty.  A booking isn’t really enough punishment for such an offence and referees should carry a wet fish in a bag that they can slap in diving players’ faces to deliver the level of humiliation that the offence deserves.   Demetri’s conduct possibly leads to his imminent substitution as Exeter plot to bring on the players capable of turning around a six-goal deficit. Two minutes later and Town have a corner and Conor Chaplin shoots over the cross bar. “Bloody useless” says Fiona.

It’s soon time for Town’s usual mass substitution, which today, in common with most days in fact, feels like an excuse for standing ovations all round. The attendance is announced by Stephen Foster as 29,334 which, despite there being a whole block of vacant seats next to the Exeter supporters is oddly the largest gate of the season at Portman Road by about 250.  Exeter’s away following is recorded as a very creditable 919.

Exeter win a corner. Sam Morsy plays a through ball to no one in particular. “What was that?” asks the boy behind me “It don’t matter, we’re 6-nil up” replies his dad.   Pat from Clacton tells me she’s not having a jacket potato for her tea tonight, although she’s still having the usual salad with chicken and prawns.  It’s because she’s not sure when she’ll get home, what with the after-match celebrations.  I tell her she could do a baked potato in the microwave in about ten minutes, but Pat tells me she doesn’t own a microwave. “We’re old-fashioned” she says.  The match dribbles away into nothing but noise and smiles and Christian Walton is substituted with Vaclav Hladky so that they can both get the benefit of some applause from a crowd now totally tripped out on goals and promotion.

The final whistle brings the inevitable pitch invasion despite the presence of police, ‘security’ and polite requests not to run onto the pitch.  Pitch invasions have been around a long time, certainly since the days of duffle coats, National Health glasses and Alf Ramsey and there are TV pictures to prove it. Strangely, in our supposedly permissive society the ‘authorities’ seem to be becoming increasingly restrictive.  The pitch invasion does however provide the memorable sight of Sam Morsy being shouldered aloft, so it isn’t all bad.  The town’s most excitable youths soon return to the Sir Bobby Robson stand, whence most of them came and so I hang around for the lap of honour and the player of the year presentations.  Unfortunately, when the players do re-emerge from the dressing room they are accompanied by so many wives, girlfriends, children, family members and others that it is hard to see the players themselves.  The rambling, amorphous mass of humanity drifts around the pitch before stopping between the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the half-way line, and there it stays.  I sing along to Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown but when the PA starts playing Queen I decide I can’t be bothered to wait any longer to see what will probably underwhelm me and I bid my farewells to my fellow ultras until August.

 It has been a most memorable, remarkable afternoon, one that far outstripped my hopes for what it might be and unlike my first encounter with things Exonian it hasn’t rained and no one had to hold my hand.

Ipswich Town 2 Port Vale 1

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It’s been a day of ‘first world’ problems, mostly car related.  I didn’t get to park my planet saving Citroen e-C4 where I usually do to ensure an easy getaway after tonight’s match, at work somebody was late returning a pool car that I was booked to go out in, and a gate that was supposed to be left unlocked for me wasn’t.  As if that wasn’t enough, where I did park my car was beneath a tree and I was later to find that the windscreen had been royally ‘shat upon’ by a bird, possibly one the size of an Albatross, twice. 

It is with a sense of relief therefore that I leave work at about a quarter to five and in the spirit of enjoying the spice of life, which I have been told is variety, I unusually head for the bar of the Briarbank Brewery, making a short stop along the way at Out of Time Records in nearby Fore Street to check if they have any recordings by Robyn Hitchcock that I don’t already possess, they don’t.  A short while later at the Briarbank I am drinking a slightly cloudy, but nevertheless tasty pint of their own Samuel Harvey VC (£4.20) and tucking into a baked potato with Coronation Chicken and dressed salad (£7.50). Sat on my own, I read tonight’s programme (£3.50), which I bought at the club shop earlier; I find it quite boring and poorly laid out, with some of the stats on page 9 and others on pages 64 and 65, when there shouldn’t even be pages 64 and 65. Also, great bloke that he is, who other than perhaps Mrs McKenna wants a two-page centre spread of Keiran? We all know what he looks like by now, don’t we?  The headline to page 29 however, reads in red capital letters “Notice of Intention to Exhume”.  I didn’t think that with our wealthy new owners we were that desperate for decent players and in fact it turns out we’re not, it’s because thirty-four deceased people have had their ashes sprinkled on the pitch and now the pitch is to be replaced, so they will be off with it.

With time rattling on past six o’clock, I depart from the Briarbank and take a walk across town to The Arb, because pre-match rituals must not be broken. This evening I don’t notice the empty shops, but instead all I see are the many fabulous buildings that line the town’s streets, Ipswich is one helluva of place if you want it to be.  At The Arb, I select a pint of Titanic Plum Porter but don’t catch how much it cost me because I was talking to a bloke stood at the bar who I met when at work.  I head for  the beer garden to once again sit alone because Mick is working this evening. On a table to my right sit four well-spoken young men who are laughing about their future careers before going through a list of all the Premier league teams they think are ’shit’.  To my left, three slightly older but still very young women talk about how good or poor they are at their jobs and what somebody else earns.  On a table across the garden an owlish looking man sips what is probably lager.  He is alone until he is joined by a very well buttoned up man with a beard and flat cap and then another bearded man, who shakes their hands, and then a grey-haired man who only drinks a half, looks like he smiles a lot and could be one of the younger bloke’s dad.  The man in the flat cap calls the owlish man ‘mate’.   

With my glass empty I have nothing better to do than leave for Portman Road. As I leave the bar, I do so in the company of about six other blokes all going to the match, I overtake them outside the museum and walk on at my own pace, joining the gathering crowd in the fading light of a grey evening, all of us drawn towards the towering white floodlights. At the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I enter through turnstile 62, because that was the year Town were Premier League Champions. I miss the human contact of handing my season ticket to the turnstile operator, but this is the post-modern world.

As ever, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket and ever-present Phil who never misses a game are all here already, it makes me feel like they’ve been saving my seat for me; of course they haven’t but I reckon they’d beat off anyone who tried to sit there.  “Be loud, be proud” says stadium announcer Stephen Foster, sounding as if he’s the compere at a Gay Pride event, and he tells us that the game is always special under the lights, and it is.  Behind Stephen the pitch is being irrigated by fountains of water that make me think of the FC Versailles, who are currently fifth in the French third division.

Town get first go with the ball and kick towards me, Pat, Fiona, Phil and the man from Stowmarket.  Admirably, Port Vale are sporting their proper kit of white shirts and black shorts, even if the messy design on their shoulders and sleeves makes them look like the kit bag was accidentally backed over by the team bus.  But I can’t not like Port Vale, the only team in the Football League named after the house where the club’s founders had met; fortunately, the bloke who lived at Chez Nous only had a very small living room.

Within 25 seconds Freddie Ladapo is flicking a header beyond the far post and I feel confident that another multi-goal extravaganza awaits.  Up in the Cobbold stand however, the Port Vale fans are in good voice even if it’s hard to make out exactly what they are singing.  As he takes a goal kick the Port Vale goalkeeper slips on the heavily watered turf and the home crowd cheers like we’ve scored a goal. Town are mostly in the Port Vale half, but these Valiants are packed densely in front of them, impervious to the through balls that did for those other Valiants who proved less so on Saturday.  Once again, the Port Vale goalkeeper slips over to the home crowds’ cheers, and I think how he must regret his decision to wear roller skates instead of football boots, tonight of all nights.

Just six minutes have gone and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” chants Phil and I do too, repeatedly, but our encouragement isn’t enough.  “I’ve got my big coat on tonight” says Pat, not feeling the deepening cold, but obviously aware of it.  We’d already scored by this time on Saturday I foolishly can’t help thinking. “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna, he knows exactly what we need…” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand lower tier, but some of them don’t quite manage the tricky scanning of the first line, they need to rehearse more.  It’s the twelfth minute and Town are dominating but not penetrating the Port Vale force field. The Sir Bobby Robson stand resort to Mary’s Boy Child in the hope that Christmas will come early and Port Vale will gift wrap a goal, it doesn’t and they don’t.  The Vale fans sing “Oh when the Whites going marching in…” and give an object lesson in how to deliver this song, starting slowly but then speeding up to add impetus and even staying with it to repeat it all over again. I attribute it to their diet of oatcakes.  Then their team have a breakaway and a shot on goal which inspires chants of “Vale, Vale, Vale”, pronounced8 “Vay-al, Vay-al, Vay-al”. It’s a stirring sound of which I am quite envious.

Almost a third of the first half has left us and Nathan Broadbent dribbles towards the Vale goal only to win another corner.  Phil and I chant loudly again but our support flounders on solid defending,  only to be heard again as a Broadhead cross wins a further corner, which is again cleared by some big bloke in a white shirt with grubby looking shoulders.   With Town’s early onslaught subsiding a bit, the home crowd are becoming quiet and thoughtful when they ought to be loud and lairy.  On the touchline Kieran Mckenna has sensibly opted for his brown anorak-cum-puffa jacket tonight, he’s obviously on the same wavelength as Pat from Clacton, or they saw the same weather forecast.  Another Port Vale throw-in and referee Mr Lewis remonstrates with a Port Vale player telling him to get a wriggle on.  Conor Chaplin lashes a shot into the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand but the crowd is quiet with the exception of the Blue Action group up the corner. When Port Vale win a corner there are just fifteen minutes left until half-time and  we are treated to more lovely peels of “ Vale, Vale, Vale”.

With a Nathan Broadhead shot and yet another corner the home’s crowd’s ardour revives and chants of “Blue and White Army” and accompanying rhythmic clapping roll from stand to stand.  “The crowd are nervous” Pat tells us. “Well, you are” replies Fiona.  Just to lighten the mood and try to curry favour with the home crowd so we don’t all him a bastard,  referee Mr Lewis books the Port Vale goalkeeper Aidan Stone for dithering too much over a goal kick.  A minimum of two more minutes will be played  Stephen Foster tells us, and I tell Fiona it’s a shame it looks like all the goals are going to be ‘up the other end‘ tonight.  She says she doesn’t mind as long as they’re only Town goals.  Then Port Vale’s oddly named Malvind Benning takes what can only have been a speculative shot and scores. Town trail 1-0 and it’s half time. Bugger.  

 Putting a brave face on matters I go down to the front of the stand to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison.  We bemoan Town’s failure to shoot from distance, but don’t have any other complaints.  We talk of our friend Val’s wedding in Las Vegas and discuss where we’ve been in the United States. Ray has been a few places, but excluding airports and the shore of a lake somewhere in the wilds of Montana I’ve only been to New York, but I ‘do’ the accent to prove it.

At seven minutes past nine the football returns, and I’m almost thrilled to hear the words “I’m Edward Ebenezer, Jeremiah Brown…” emanating from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but it doesn’t last, sadly.  Nevertheless, Town are back on the attack again and win three more corners in the first seven minutes. Sixty seconds further on and Wes Burns delivers a low cross and Nathan Broadhead sweeps it majestically inside the far post beyond a stretching, diving Aiden Stone  and Town have equalised.  The relief of the crowd is immense, now all we want is another goal, or two, or three.

George Hirst replaces Freddie Ladapo and heads past a post with his first touch, before the teams trade corners and Conor Chaplin shoots over the cross bar for a second time. Mr Lewis seeks more Brownie points by flourishing his yellow card in the direction of Vale’s William Forrester with less tan twenty minutes to go.  But Town still aren’t winning and I’m reminded of an evening almost exactly thirty-one years ago when Town needed to beat Grimsby Town to clinch promotion but could only manage a goalless draw.  Stephen Foster announces tonight’s attendance as being 27,696 with 296 supporting Port Vale.   It’s remarkable to think there are more people here for this match than saw the Portman Road leg of the UEFA Cup final in 1981.  On the Clacton supporters bus the winner of the guess the crowd competition is the chairman, Chris with 27,960, although Stewart is nearly awarded the prize because 27,426 looks closer, but actually isn’t.  Pat is disappointed that the guesses attributed to the blue tit and the squirrel in someone’s garden were sadly too high. I tell Fiona that’s the trouble with squirrels and blue tits, they over estimate things; it’s why none of the them work for the office of national statistics.

A seventy-fourth minute corner goes to waste and Pat threatens to get her figure of the masturbating monkey out of her hand-bag; it’s a lucky charm that she bought in Cambodia and apparently Town would always score when she got him out.  She says she won’t show him around though, because he’s rude.  We can’t tell if the monkey has anything to do with it, but Luke Woolfenden  steps forward and shoots narrowly wide of the top right hand corner of the goal. Fifteen minutes remain.

Eleven minutes remain and Kyle Edwards replaces Leif Davis, and  not to be outdone Port vale make a change too. Then Town are awarded a penalty. Twice in a few seconds the shout goes up from the stands for a handball and on the second shout Mr Lewis spots the chance to atone for previous sins against Ipswich Town and awards it.  “Two penalties!” says the bloke behind me “and he nearly didn’t give either of them” and he ‘s right, there is an uncomfortable delay before Mr Lewis weirdly stoops and point to the penalty spot.  Almost inevitably, the Port Vale players argue as staunchly as they have defended but even more weirdly Conor Chaplin is the player to get booked as we stand and wait patiently for the Port Vale players to just shut up and for Nathan Broadhead to apply the coup de grace, rifling the ball behind the left-hand post and bulging the side netting. It has to be one of the most significant penalties for Town at Portman Road in thirty years, possibly more, and the roar from the crowd says it is.

With five minutes left of normal time Janoi Doncaien replaces Nathan Broadhead to restore the defence to attack balance and the crowd sings “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go”.  The sound is a roar, if only a brief one,  but it is magnificent for a moment or two, as life often is.  Full-time turns up and with it six minutes of added on time, and with Plymouth Argyle apparently drawing in Shropshire Ipswich are top of the league; and so the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson put the fact to music with the help of the best known work in the oeuvre of the Gap Band,  the lyrically mysterious “Oops outside your head”, although if comparing the hits of 1979 it was certainly preferable to Lena Martell’s “One day at a time”.  “We don’t know if we are (top of the league) yet” says the bloke behind me wisely, preferring to wait until the final whistles have blown everywhere to indulge in such boastfulness.  Fiona says something about the time that was passing too quickly now passing too slowly but oddly I don’t find it so tonight and almost before I know it Mr Lewis has blown his whistle for the last time this evening and another essential three points have been won.

Thankfully perhaps, for the time being , when all the final whistles are blown, Ipswich are not top of the league; that can keep for the first weekend in May, when it really matters.  For now, there is a wave around the stadium of the sort of relief and release that Pat from Clacton’s monkey could probably tell us about if he spoke and she hadn’t already made her way out to the Clacton supporters’ bus.  Despite being elated  I don’t linger either,  hoping in vain that I will make a smart exit in my planet saving, bird-shit splattered Citroen.

Ipswich Town 6 Charlton Athletic 0

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After working just four days last week, I have had the pleasure of working just three days this week and now, once again, it’s time for more football.  Can life get any better?

Once again I park up my planet saving Citroen eC4, but because I am a little late today I take a brisker walk than usual across a freshly mown Gippeswyk Park beneath blue skies and puffs of white cloud. A loan magpie hops across the grass and fellow walkers converge on the gate onto Ancaster Road. The Sir Bobby Robson Bridge follows Ranelagh Road and Ancaster Road just as expected and finally after Constantine Road and the Corporation tram depot I reach Sir Alf Ramsey Way and finally Portman Road. It’s safe to say I would have been surprised, not to say a little worried if it hadn’t been so.  Relieved, I buy a programme (£3.50) at one of the dinky blue booths.  In front of me two men discuss how many programmes they need and pay by card. The large man in the booth very carefully, almost too carefully perhaps,  counts out three programmes and hands them over,  and then it’s my turn. I also pay in the modern cashless manner but the touch screen doesn’t work and I have to type in my pin number.

Tucking my programme away in the inside pocket of my twenty year-old Ipswich Town branded fleece, I walk on to The Arb where Mick’s bike is chained to the railings outside the art gallery opposite.  It’s  not a shock therefore to find Mick stood at the bar when I burst through the door in the manner of Kramer in the TV comedy Seinfeld, except of course I only do that in my imagination. Mick kindly buys me a pint of a limited edition Belgian dark ale from the Moon Gazer brewery, it has a two word name, the second word is ‘Haas’, I don’t recall the first word, I have no idea how much it cost either.  We repair to the beer garden and have to sit in the ‘overflow’ that used to be a very small car park.  I suggest sitting in the shade, but Mick prefers that we sit in the sun, I tell him okay, but that I haven’t brought my sunblock; I notice a  woman smile as I say this, but I do have fair skin.  Once we are sat down Mick tells me of how he fell whilst lifting a large pot and has badly bruised his hip and of his recent trip to Antwerp.  We discuss how we both much prefer Gent (or is it Ghent?) to Bruges, about Mick’s former partner getting married in Las Vegas later today (we will both watch the ceremony on-line),  the pitiful and worrying state of American politics and I tell him about the mysterious grey and black ice cream van that plies its trade in the street where I live; Mick immediately ‘gets it’ that these are not ice cream van colours.

After last week’s long queues at the turnstiles to the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, we leave a little earlier than usual and feeling pessimistic as we reach Portman Road, I walk the long way round along Sir Alf Ramsey Way and Constantine Road and Russell Road  just in case there is a queue again, but happily there isn’t. The access to the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand is a guarded by a row of bouncers all dressed in black, I walk round the end of their line and towards turnstile 62.  Half way to the turnstile another bouncer raises a loud haler to his mouth, but as I’m the only person here he seems to think better of it and simply tells me to walk on to the far end, which oddly I was already doing.  At the turnstile I am given instructions on holding my season ticket card up to the reader and pushing my way through the turnstile when the screen says ‘Enter’. As the word ‘Enter’ appears I receive a small, encouraging shove from my instructor as if he may be thought I didn’t know that to move through the turnstile I would have to take a step forward.

Having drained off some of the ‘Belgian’ dark ale and washed my hands I enjoy the force of the new hand dryers before arriving on the lower tier of the stand where Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, young Elwood and ever-present Phil who never misses a game are all here; it’s a ‘full house’.  There are four minutes to go until kick-off; I am pleased that I haven’t arrived too early despite cutting short our time at The Arb, but can enthusiastically assist stadium announcer Stephen Foster read out the teams, bawling out each of the Town players’ surnames like French football crowds do.

A young boy called Hughie, or possibly Huey screams “Come On You Blues” into the smartly dressed Stephen Foster’s microphone and we all join in with a rendition of The Beatles’ Hey Jude.  As John, Paul, George and Ringo fade away the game begins, and Town and more specifically Conor Chaplin get first go with the ball and are sending it mostly in my direction, although hopefully a bit off to my right where the goal is. Town are of course in blue and white and today’s opposition Charlton Athletic are wearing white shirts and black shorts, a bit like a poor man’s Hereford United , but of course they should be wearing their proper red shirts because as every owner of a Subbuteo Table Soccer Continental Club Edition  knows, blue and red do not clash, even if you’re colour blind.

Town start the match in a blur of attacking play and win corner after corner after corner, all accompanied by chants of “Come On You Blues” from me and from ever-present Phil and even from some other people whose identity I don’t know.  Pat from Clacton admits to feeling nervous, but from the very start this seems like fun today. Up goes a shout  of “Handball” from what sounds like a good fifteen thousand voices as Nathan Broadhead dribbles through the Charlton defence.  “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” chant the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand in a mood of anticipatory celebration. It’s all Ipswich, but after four minutes Albie Morgan, who sounds like he could have played for Charlton in the 1920’s, dares to have a shot at the Ipswich goal which Christian Walton needs to catch. 

“Four-two and you fucked it up” chant the Charlton fans living in the past and reminiscing about last October when their team was becalmed in mid-table just like it is now.  Continuing to struggle to find anything positive to sing about their team, the south Londoners proceed to let us know to the tune of Sloop John B that “Ipswich is a shithole, I wanna go home.”  It must be tough coming to a town like Ipswich with its historic dock, medieval churches, river and adjacent SSSI’s, large parks and hundreds of listed buildings when you come from Plumstead or Sidcup, which of course are regularly compared with the likes of Barcelona, Paris and Rome as ‘best places to live’.

By way of punishment for dissing Ipswich , fate decrees that after just eight minutes the ball is played in from the left to Sam Morsy, who passes it forward to Conor Chaplin, who as ever, unerringly finds the goal net with a neat shot and Town lead 1-0.  A loud chant of “ E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go” rolls around the ground. Charlton supporters will not dare abuse Ipswich again, but although we do not yet know it, their punishment is not quite complete.  

As my blue and white scarf suddenly seems to try and make a break for it having become dangerously lop-sided across my shoulders in all the excitement, chants of “ Norwich City, we’re coming for you” ring out  followed by the inevitable out of season rendition of Harry Belafonte’s “ Mary’s Boy Child” which does something to almost make Wizzard’s 1973  wish that it could be Christmas every day come true.  Nearly fifteen minutes of the game are now in the past and I notice that not only is the Charlton goalkeeper wearing a kit of pale yellow but he is also wearing a mask, he looks like a somewhat weird super-hero, ‘Primrose Man’ perhaps.  Seagulls wheel above the pitch and settle on the cross-girder of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and then Town lead 2-0, Conor Chaplin being put through with space and time on his side to score comfortably.  “It’s that man again” announces Stephen Foster, obscurely referencing a BBC radio comedy show from 1940’s which starred Tommy Handley; no wonder BBC Radio Suffolk retired him.

There’s barely a cloud in the sky now and the afternoon has turned blue all over.  Twenty minutes have passed and it’s time someone went down injured so that the players can get some remedial coaching and a drink. The oddly named Macauley Bonne, who is today wearing the number eight shirt for  Charlton obliges and everyone else heads for the touchline.  When play resumes I notice the Charlton number four George Dobson, who has slicked back hair in the style of someone who would probably  remember Tommy Handley. Odd.

The match is heading into its second third and Town’s initial impetus and energy has dissipated a bit and the ball is less frequently being propelled at the Charlton goal.  The situation has changed so much that the oddly named Macauley Bonne forces a very smart and essential  save from Christian Walton with a header, and another former Town player, Scott Fraser has a shot which goes not very far past a post.  Charlton have gained in confidence but waste it in over-zealous tackles,  although when the 1940’s crooner Dobson goes through fetlocks of Conor Chaplin it amazingly rings no alarms with referee Mr Samuel Barrott who incredibly waves play-on as if physical assault was a natural part of the game.

When Charlton’s Michael Hector fouls George Hirst a few minutes later there are the inevitable ironic cheers, which are even more ironic because Hirst was actually grabbing hold of Hector around his back at the same time.  The Sir Bobby Robson stand lower tier are in ebullient mood and begin to chant “Stand up if you’re going up”, which is all very well for them because they never sit down, but it’s a bit of a chore for us over-sixties in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  A lad in the row in front has been relaying the latest scores from the exotic sounding Pirelli Stadium, Burton-On-Trent, where Sheffield Wednesday had been trailing by two goals to one. The lad turns around to tell us that the score is now 3-1 to Burton.  “No, stop it” says Pat from Clacton, still feeling anxious.

The final minute of the half brings another corner to Town and a final chance to sing “Come On You Blues” with the players in close proximity.  The chants fail to make a difference and with two minutes of added time Mr Barrott books Luke Woolfenden for handball when the ball bounces awkwardly up at him in the no-man’s land of the centre of the Town half. Mr Barrott is proving to be deserving of any jeers which find their way through the applause for the Town as everyone vacates the pitch for half-time.

As ever, I spend half-time speaking with Ray and his grandson Harrison.  Ray thinks the oddly named Macauley Bonne is a decent enough player; I’m less enthusiastic, but Ray does concede that in the first half of last season the ball did just tend to fall for him. Bluey the mascot is wandering about near us and I encourage Ray to have his photograph taken with the strangely proportioned, luminously white  equine bi-ped, but disappointingly he’s not keen.

The football resumes at five past four and Wes Burns is soon receiving treatment but happily recovers whilst Charlton fans sing something undecipherable about a ‘shit Ed Sheeran’. It’s a controversial view in this world of all-pervading pap-pop, but I didn’t know there was any other sort.  I imagine, however, that they were probably serenading a Town fan with ginger hair in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, because that is how football fan ‘humour’ works.

Town win a corner, even Cameron Burgess has a shot but although he has wandered up from what is kind of ‘left-back’, his shot says he’s no Mick Mills.  Mr Barrott gets to be Achilles as he books Hector who has hectored Massimo Luongo too much, and then the substitutions begin with Stephen Foster seemingly introducing Charlton’s Steven Sessegnon as Steven Sessessignon, which is easily done.  The oddly named Macauley Bonne is replaced to applause from the home crowd.  Half an hour remains and Town should make the result certain as Conor Chaplain sets up George Hirst, but he sweeps the ball beyond the far post despite having a vast expanse of open goal to aim at .

Pat from Clacton is still a bag of nerves and a third goal would prove handy as Jesurun Rak-Sakyi escapes the attention of Leif Davis and runs into the penalty area  before falling to the ground and busting a couple of break dance moves as he bounces back up to protest that he should have been awarded a penalty.  A new edginess has entered the game and there is soon a fracas with pushing and shoving amongst a whole gang of players; the upshot is that Charlton’s Dobson is booked, possibly for trying to flick Brylcreem at people.  Janoi Donacien replaces Harry Clarke, Mr Barrott adds to his collection of names with Charlton’s Ryan Innis, who is nowhere near as good value as Neil Innes was.  A minute later the long awaited third goal arrives as Conor Chaplin claims a hat-trick after tucking away a pass from Nathan Broadhead after Massimo Luongo had dinked in a subtle cross to the far post.

The game is now won and the usual mass substitutions follow. As soon as these are complete Town score a fourth with Sam Morsy winning a tackle, striding forward and playing a wide pass to Freddie Ladapo who scores with probably his first touch of the ball.  Town win another corner and I say to Fiona that we haven’t scored five goals in a game this season. Stephen Foster announces the attendance as 29,011 with an ‘away contingent’ of 1113.  “Oh when the Town go marching in” sings the crowd a little more joyfully than usual and for a moment the volume is enough for the sound to echo around the stands.   

The eighty-fourth minute brings a fifth goal as Freddie Ladapo cuts the ball to one side and lashes it into the top left hand corner of Charlton’s goal and as the back pages of newspapers sometimes said, Town ‘Go knap’.  Football supporters are nothing if not greedy for goals and I think of past thrashings of hapless visitors when Town would score a hatful and the crowd would chant for more.  “We want six” I think to myself, but I don’t shout out my thought fearful that anyone nearby could be afflicted with a ‘Carry On’ or 1970’s sense of humour and snigger “We want sex” and I don’t, not in front of all these people. Two minutes later and Freddie is through on goal again and seeking a hat-trick, but Innis sacrifices the final few minutes of his participation in the game as he knocks Freddie over and faces the not necessarily inevitable sight of Mr Barrott’s red card; happily Mr Barrott adds to our entertainment for the afternoon; five goals and a player sent off, it could only be bettered if the opposition were Norwich City.   The free-kick sails above the Charlton cross bar and four minutes of additional time appear over the horizon.   Four  minutes isn’t long, but it’s enough to let Kayden Jackson run and pull-back a low cross, for Kyle Edwards to send it against the far post and for Leif Davis to thrash the rebounding ball into the roof of the Charlton net.

After the sixth goal there’s no time for anything else other than the sound of Mr Barrott’s whistle to end the game.  It’s been an awful lot of fun, we’ve truly had Charlton on the run. It’s been an afternoon full of oooohs and aaaahs and cheers and chants and it’s been bloody marvellous.  I think it has laid the ghost of that 4-4 draw at The Valley in October, Charlton certainly weren’t going to come back for a draw in time added on today.  

Cheltenham Town 1 Ipswich Town 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I’m not sure I have ever been to Cheltenham before. If I did ever rock up here, most likely during a family holiday in the 1960’s or 1970’s, I don’t remember it, although for what it’s worth I know I have been to nearby Gloucester. Today however, I am definitely in Cheltenham after a roughly ninety-minute, 120-kilometre drive from Chineham near Basingstoke, where I have craftily engineered a weekend stay with step-son number three and his family in order to both make my wife happy and to ensure I don’t have so far to travel in Bank Holiday Monday traffic.

It’s been a pleasant enough drive in my planet-saving Citroen e-C4, despite Hampshire being wet and grey when I set off passing signs for Aldermaston and Greenham Common, locations that loom large in the history of British people bothering to protest about things. But by the time I was skirting Swindon, the sun was successfully dodging the clouds and as I descended Leckhampton Hill and the appallingly pitted, broken surface of the Old Bath Road, Cheltenham lay stretched out invitingly below.  It’s only about a quarter past twelve, so having parked up in a street that could easily double for somewhere on Ipswich’s Gainsborough or Racecourse estates I visit the Cheltenham Town club shop to check out the essential club-branded pencils, rulers, teddy bears and fridge magnets.  After not entirely unexpectedly bumping into ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and a man called ‘Cookie’, who gives me the news that he had to have his gall bladder removed, I leave the lounge-diner sized ‘boutique’ with its artexed ceiling, clutching a match programme (£3.00), and a pennant (£7.99) to add to the collection that hangs above the cistern in my upstairs toilet.

‘Cookie’ is heading off in search of a local chip shop, but having placed my purchases in the Citroen I make for the town centre in search of the elegant Regency architecture for which Cheltenham is known.  Although Ipswich and Cheltenham are of a similar size, they mostly look very different.  Whilst Cheltenham became fashionable in the late eighteenth century, after the visit of King George III to its spa, the ensuing years before the construction of the wet dock seemed to pass Ipswich by, and Lord Nelson even shipped his wife off to the town, probably because Ipswich was the sort of place where he and  Lady Emma Hamilton and everyone else could forget about her.  So, Ipswich stayed mostly medieval, whilst Cheltenham went all John Nash and Jane Austen, and so they remain.  But whilst Cheltenham looks and sounds a bit ‘poncey’ on the surface, with its ladies’ College, tasteful terraces, and various festivals firmly aimed at a middle-class audience, like everywhere else it has its underside because someone has to clean the well-off people’s toilets, fix their Audis and deal their cocaine.

I discover that there are indeed plenty of Regency buildings in Cheltenham, but they’re not really to my taste, a bit too pretty and neat. I prefer the stained concrete of the 1970’s Post Office building to the warm Cotswold stone.  I also prefer Marks & Spencer chicken and bacon sandwiches (£3.75) and a bottle of orange juice (£2.00) to chip shop fare.  Having eaten the sandwiches and drunk half the juice, whilst sat on a bench under the plane trees on The Promenade, I wander idly about finding statues of Gustav Holst (born in Cheltenham) and a hare sat next to the Minotaur, (no idea why). After a while I decide it’s time to re-trace some of my steps and head back towards what is currently known as the Completely-Suzuki Stadium, but in simpler times was just the Victory Stadium or Whaddon Road.

Whaddon Road is a suburban street with a recreation ground, bowling green, a groovy 1960’s Evangelical Presbyterian church, a small parade of shops and a football ground sat amongst twentieth century houses.  The football ground sits beyond a large car park and betrays its non-league roots with a cluster of modest, ugly, cheap-looking buildings set about what looks like a pre-World War Two main stand, although my copy of ‘Football Grounds from the Air, Then and Now’ tells us it was built as recently as 1963. Red painted signs and sponsors’ logos abound. I queue at Gate 2 and the QR code of my ticket is read by a friendly man with a mobile phone; I click through an aged red turnstile that must pre-date the swinging sixties.  Inside the ground, bright sunlight streams through the skylight in the four-urinal gents toilet, which smells surprisingly sweet and better than many after shaves.  I ascend a flight of stairs and find myself at the front of the stand looking down on a terrace.  A walkway passes through the directors’ box; if any directors had been sat in the front row with legs outstretched I might have tripped over their feet.

I carry on to the middle of the stand past rows of original, wooden, tip-up seats. “Are you Row C seat 34?” I say to a large coated, bearded man in the seat next to mine. “I am” he says. “Well, I’m seat 35” I tell him, “Pleased to meet you”.  When I sit down, I find the leg room so tiny that I am wedged into the seat.  “It’s a bit tight, isn’t it” I say to my neighbour. “It is if you’re tall” he says, being generous to the 1960’s architect, “But very good for your posture”.  He’s right, there is no option but to sit bolt upright.  In a sort of window box on the front of the stand sit a row of half a dozen blokes with lap-tops and earphones.  The seats in front of us fill up.  A man shows the QR code on his phone to the man sat next to him. “When he scanned this, it said the ticket had already been used” says the man, shrugging his shoulders. “I says I don’t know why. So he let me in anyway, said he couldn’t be arsed to query it”.

Eventually, the teams appear from beneath us somewhere off to our left. The ska classic ‘The Liquidator’ by The Harry J All Stars plays over the PA system and singularly fails to provoke any response from the crowd, except for a bloke behind me who occasionally claps in time to the beat.  The referee breaks up the Ipswich team huddle, which had been going on for a while, and the game begins. In the corner of the ground the electronic scoreboard reads “1st half”, just in case anyone is experiencing déjà vu or is any doubt that the game has only just begun. Ipswich get first go with the ball and are kicking roughly in the direction of the town; the Cheltenham racecourse is somewhere off behind Christian Walton’s goal. Both teams wear their ‘proper’ first choice ‘home’ kits as they should do when there is no clash of colours. My raincoat, which I’m glad to say I haven’t really needed, is trapped under the tip up seat of a balding man in seat 36, I ask him if he’d mind getting up for a moment to free my coat; smilingly he obliges.

“Ole, Ole, Ole” sing the Town fans off to my right, whilst opposite in the corner of the brilliantly named Colin Farmer Stand, a Cheltenham fan beats a drum. Six-minutes pass and Town win a corner after a Wes Burns cross is met by George Hirst and deflected away. George Hirst is involved in an ongoing battle with his marker Tom Bradbury who has hold of Hirst’s shirt and won’t let it go.  Hirst has to try and beat him off as he runs across the pitch.  This is taking man to man marking to extremes and Bradbury seems obsessed with his task beyond all reason and is rightfully booked by referee Mr  Stocksbridge,  who because he has a fine head of grey hair, makes me think of Alan Woodward of 1970’s Sheffield United, and by association the wonderfully monikered Len Badger. Sam Morsy takes a shot which is comfortably saved.  It might be Easter Monday, but the Town fans won’t give up on Harry Belafonte’s “Mary’s Boy Child” as they imagine a far-off time when Town still played Norwich on Boxing Day.  Easter, Christmas, Passover, Ramadan, it’s all the same to some people.

The afternoon is bright,  but a strong wind is blowing from the direction of the town holding up any high kicks from Christian Walton.  Town are happy to pass the ball about between Morsy, Woolfenden, Burgess and Clarke and draw Cheltenham on to them. When a pass is intercepted Cheltenham win a corner and Walton has to make a sharp save from a header.  White cloud populates the blue skies above the Cotswold Hills that form a dramatic back drop to the low stands opposite. It’s a blustery afternoon of coarse shouts, harsh voices and jeers which are carried on the wind whenever a pass goes astray or a player goes to ground.  Wes Burns runs at the Cheltenham defence and shoots, but straight at the goalkeeper.  Eighteen minutes have gone and a decent passing move around the Cheltenham penalty area releases Marcus Harness, he has just the goalkeeper in front of him but shoots wide; he could and probably should have scored.  Conor Chaplin then shoots high over the bar from another low Wes Burns cross.  “Come On Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chant the Town fans as frustration and nerves bite.  “Come On Norwich” calls someone off to my right sounding like he thinks he is being witty; perhaps just saying ‘Norwich’ is enough to get a laugh in these parts, although I can’t hear much evidence of it.

The half is half over and after several failed attempts at tackles and clearing the ball by Town players, Cheltenham’s Alfie May gets free on the left and sends the ball across the face of the Town goal;  only nifty footwork from Leif Davis averts embarrassment.  Town aren’t playing badly but they’re not playing that well either, despite having most of the possession.  Perhaps the wind and condition of the pitch are having an impact, or perhaps Cheltenham’s harrying is working.  On the touchline, the Cheltenham manager is at times like an irritable toddler, in contrast to Kieran McKenna who, in his black roll neck jumper and slacks looks like he could be about to sit back and listen to some mellow jazz.   But occasionally his frustration shows itself and at one point a bit of white shirt breaks loose between his jumper and waistband. Thirty-six minutes gone and Sam Morsy is booked for a trip. Four minutes later there is more mayhem in the Town penalty area as for a second time the ball escapes Town control and crosses the face of the goal before Luke Woolfenden lashes it away for a corner.  The half expires, but two minutes of time are added on and the screen in the corner reads ‘2 Added Time,’ just so anyone who suddenly woke up and looked at the screen would know it would soon be time for a half-time cuppa.

With half-time there is a mass exodus from the stand down a flight of stairs between me and the director’s box.  I finish off my orange juice, taking care to dispose of the plastic bottle in a large bin at the side of the press box, then take a wander down the stairs; I find myself out in the car park. Unimpressed, and curious, but not that curious to see where everyone went, I return to my seat and await the second half.

Kyle Edwards has replaced Marcus Harness and Cheltenham swap one anonymous midfielder for another so as not to feel left out. The attendance is announced as 5,445, which means the ground is only three quarters full. In the corner, the electronic scoreboard reads “2nd Half”,  presumably as proof that football is a always a game of two halves.

Unsportingly, Cheltenham soon win a corner, and then another, and five minutes later another.  Conor Chaplin shoots wide as Town restore order and behind me a single person claps.  “Come On Ipswich” roar the Town supporters sensing that the early Cheltenham pressure has been weathered and when on fifty-five minutes Town win their own corner it is met with an enthusiastic cheer and a chorus of “Come On You Blues”, which is repeated almost five times, which in the modern age is probably a record.  By the time the kick comes to be taken however, the stadium is a tin box of silent anticipation.

Ipswich are now on top, but not so much that I haven’t noticed that there are Leylandii peaking over the roof of the home terrace, known as the Prestbury Road end.  Another corner to Town and more chants of “Come On You Blues”, then George Hirst makes space and launches an angled, rising shot against the cross bar when the goal beneath it was gaping. An hour of football has gone forever, but in the corner of the ground the scoreboard no longer says “2nd half”. Momentarily, I worry about space and time, but am quickly reassured by the wide range of modular sofas and comfortable chairs that appear on the screen in a lengthy advertisement for the local branch of FABB Furniture. Kyle Edwards makes a run towards goal and produces a bending shot that doesn’t have enough bend not to miss the goal. Cheltenham make a double substitution with blokes called Caleb and Aiden replacing Lewis and Will.

With Ipswich on top the home fans seem to be getting their kicks where they can, and seem to to be easily pleased by a tackle here and a throw-in there.  We reach the sixty-fifth minute and a long throw on the right finds a way across the penalty area and Conor Chaplin almost unexpectedly just taps it into the corner of the Cheltenham goal, and Ipswich lead 1-0.

A chorus of “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League we go” rolls down the ground from the Ipswich supporters’ end, followed by every known boastful, celebratory football song; it’s like listening to an imaginary LP of K-tel’s 50 greatest promotion chants.  When eventually it’s the turn of “The Town are going up, The Town are going up, and they int gonna believe us, and they int gonna believe us” the handful of singing Cheltenham fans in the corner of the Colin Farmer Stand, clearly still fearful of relegation, join in, but sing “The Town are staying up”, which I think my wife would think was rather sweet.

Twenty minutes to go, another substitution for Cheltenham as a second Will replaces Ben. The man who likes to say ‘Norwich’ continues to sing his own predictable version of any songs he hears that have the name of Ipswich in them.  I can’t decide if this is borne of bitterness or stupidity, or both.  Town make the usual swap of George Hirst and Freddie Ladapo, and Wes Burns and Kayden Jackson. Thirteen minutes to go, Town are top of the league and Harry Clarke surges forward and gives Kyle Edwards the chance to shoot over the cross bar, which he takes.  Eleven minutes to go and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues, Come On You Blues, Come On You Blues”.  The chant stops dead after four ‘verses’.  Eight minutes to go and Freddie Ladapo shoots, but it’s a weak effort and too close to the goalkeeper.

I dare to think of a ninth consecutive win, a tenth consecutive game without conceding a goal. Ipswich repel a crude, up in the air attack, but the ball comes back, hoofed hopefully. Confident Christian Walton thinks he can claim this and get possession, he strides out from his goal and jumps, but the ball bounces out of the bowl he has made of his arms as he collides with two players who were ready to head the falling ball. The ball makes a break for it and runs to Alfie May and he half-volleys it into the Ipswich goal. It’s one-all. Bugger.

“You’re not top of the league” is the shout from ‘Norwich man,’ and now for the first time this afternoon the home crowd is noisy. “You’re not singing anymore” they chant, to a tune that the Evangelical Presbyterians down the road might know, even if the gloating sentiment isn’t exactly a Christian one.  Janoi Donacien replaces Leif Davis just for something to do, and five minutes of added time offers five minutes of hope, but that’s all.    Oh well, it was fun whilst it lasted. 

Extracting myself from my seat without the use of shoe horns, spanners or tyre spoon levers I applaud briefly, out of politeness, and then make my way to the exit.  I had got used to winning every game and never conceding a goal, it was nice.  But it’s probably best that the run has ended, because life’s not like that,  is it? Football definitely isn’t.  At least I’ve now been to Cheltenham.

Ipswich Town 4 Wycombe Wanderers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Four day working weeks are second only in my list of favourite working weeks to any weeks with fewer working days.  But four day working weeks are definitely a good thing and so Easter week has therefore been a good week; and now, to add another layer of ‘good’, Town are playing at home to Buckinghamshire’s finest, Wycombe Wanderers, known as The Chairboys because of the town’s indiginous chair-making industry.  I have however been dreaming again this week, this time about dating mysterious younger women; women who I do not recognise and who presumably are figments of my sub-conscious.  These are pleasant dreams until I remember that I’ve been married for twenty-three years, although weirdly my wife doesn’t seem to mind, in the dreams at least; she probably just rolls her eyes.

I came to town early today to deliver a card congratulating two friends on their forthcoming wedding, which they are flying out to on Tuesday, because they are holding it in Las Vegas.  Travelling 6,000 miles to get married is no way to save the planet, but at least I tried to off-set their profligacy by recycling old photographs to make their card.  Having parked up my planet saving Citroen e-C4, I walk across Gippeswyk Park beneath blue skies decorated with cotton wool clouds. On Commercial Road a Range Rover speeds across the junction with the Princes Street bus lane and a youth calls out “Blue Army” through the open car window. Shouting youths aside, the streets are unusually quiet for a match day, until I reach Portman Road, where pre-match business is as usual and people hang about stuffing their faces with marshmallow bread and mechanically reclaimed meat products.  The Wycombe team bus is parked opposite the Alf Ramsey Stand and on the back of the Cobbold Stand Bobby Robson appears to be squeezing his face through the top light of a window.  I buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the blue kiosks; I check that I can pay by card and the young programme seller asks me how many programmes I want. I tell him I’m not exactly sure how much is in my account, so I’ll stick with just the one; fortunately, he laughs.   

I leave Portman Road and walk on towards The Arb. By the underground spiral car park a man sits down on a bench to read the Daily Mirror and in the surface car park above another man swigs beer from a bottle, it reminds me of how in Montpellier fans have pre-match, ‘bring your own’ booze -ups in the park and ride car park next to the tram terminus.  At The Arb there is no queue at the bar and I therefore waste no more of my life before ordering a pint of my ‘usual’, Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra 10% discount). I retire to the beer garden, which is busy with happy drinkers and diners enjoying the sun, I ask a couple of blokes if they mind if I ‘perch’ at the end of their table, they don’t.  I read my programme and they talk to each other about holidays. One of them is thinking of going to Mexico, the other says that “Linda’s going to have the cat when we’re in Crete”.

It’s not two o’clock yet, but the would-be holidaymakers soon drain their glasses and leave for Portman Road, one of them says they can stop at the Arcade Tavern on the way if it’s too far. Mick won’t be joining me today because he’s on his way back from Antwerp; (he had wanted to go somewhere to celebrate his 70th birthday to which he didn’t have to fly) but very soon I am not completely surprised when Gary sits down opposite me.  We talk of mutual acquaintances, of quizzes Gary has recently participated in,  of football in the Scilly Isles and how Gary saw Colchester United play Wycombe Wanderers in the FA Cup when Wycombe were still non-league; I tell him Wycombe’s old ground was called Loakes Park. Gary buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride, which is very kind of him. At about twenty-five to three we head for Portman Road, I think we’re the last to leave the pub.

Our conversation continues as we accumulate fellow fans all around us, all walking to the match. If everyone was singing in rounds it would be like that bit in West Side Story as the Sharks and the Jets gather for the rumble beneath the freeway flyover.  Gary and I part at the corner of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way and as a parting shot I remember to tell him how there’s been a new ice cream van stopping in my street this week; slightly weirdly however it is painted grey and black, and also carries the words “All events catered for” above the drivers cab, and I speculate whether it gets booked for wakes after summer funerals.

Leaving Gary to find the Magnus West Stand, I head down Portman Road to the new turnstiles at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, which are in use for the first time today; except that I walk past the entrance to those turnstiles and carry on walking out into Princes Street, and then onto Chancery Road and into Russell Road, and opposite the Ipswich Borough Council offices is where I find the end of the queue.  “Flippin’ ‘eck” I think to myself, in the style of the class-mates of Tucker in Grange Hill.  This is all rather annoying and once again proves change to be a bad thing.  The queue moves quickly however, although it doesn’t stop one shambling, scruffy looking man from loudly moaning about the situation as he waves his season ticket about and tells everyone “Forty years I’ve supported this club”. I happen to know that the man’s name is Dave.  I wonder if he’s worried he might have to spend the next forty years queuing.

I’m soon walking past the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand again and am pleased to see that there are still turnstiles numbered 61 and 62, and whilst I am inevitably drawn towards these, I am instead ushered towards an open gate and a man with a bar code reader.  I feel like I’ve made the kind of entrance into the stadium that Watch with Mother’s Mr Benn would have made.  After re-cycling some of my two pints of Suffolk Pride, I take my seat between Fiona and the man from Stowmarket who is probably really from Stowupland; ever present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and Pat from Clacton are all here too. With so many people still outside I am surprised there are so many people in the ground.  I’ve missed kick-off and the first three minutes of the match.  It might be the first time I’ve missed the kick-off since Town played away to Northampton in the League Cup on a very wet night in October 1987, but it might not be because I think I also missed the kick-off at Nottingham Forest as recently as November 2002.

I quickly work out that Town are kicking towards the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and Wycombe Wanderers are wearing red shirts, shorts and socks with white trim and that as away kits go it’s one of the more boring ones, as if they put all their thought into their groovy two-tone blue home kit and had no imagination left.  “Alright?” says the bloke behind me to what I think is his son. “Yeeeah!” is the expected, but weirdly elongated answer from the sprog.   I’m soon amused by the Wycombe number seven who is left lying in the middle of the pitch as Town attack; the ball is passed and passed again, and again and again. Play only stops when Town are awarded a free-kick, when the prostrate player then miraculously gets up and manfully carries on.  The game isn’t very exciting, and I wonder whether it was more fun in the queue and how long it is now.  Town aren’t playing badly though, it’s just taking time to find the key to unlocking the Wycombe Wanderers defence.  But there’s a palpable sense of people willing the team to win and it manifests itslef as a huge collective sigh of disappointment when what looks like it might be a crucial pass from Harry Clarke is intercepted by an opponent. 

In the fifteenth minute Town score, there is a mighty roar from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but elsewhere  we all saw the linesman raise his flag and we have retained our insouciance, although I am tempted to chant “You thought you had scored, you were wrong” because it doesn’t seem like the Wycombe supporters are going to bother, and they don’t.   Five minutes later and a Wycombe player goes down as if hurt. As a track-suited angel provides succour it gives the opportunity for remedial touchline coaching for everyone else.  All is quiet but for the beat of the drum in the Sir Bobby Stand, which is annoying Pat from Clacton; she doesn’t like loud noises.

The half is already half over as Wycombe have a shot from outside the penalty area which flies over the Town cross bar, it came as a result of a set piece free-kick and that is Wycombe’s chief weapon,  unlike the Spanish Inquisition who as men now in their sixties and seventies know, had numerous weapons in their armoury, none of which were set piece free-kicks. A sense of restlessness is beginning to gurgle through the Town support. “Come On Town” calls the bloke behind me  and a chant of “Come on Ipswich “ is repeated with varying degrees of enthusiasm around the ground at least three times, possibly four.  Harry Clarke has a shot, but it’s a relatively easy save for the Wycombe goalkeeper Max Stryjek.  “Ooh, that bloody drum” says Pat from Clacton.  There are a little over ten minutes until half time and Town win a corner as a Conor Chaplin shot is saved.  The corner is hit low and is cleared, but three minutes later Town win another. “Come On You Blues” chant sections of the crowd, at least three times, and I blow the strange red and white reverberating plastic thing I found in the club shop of Racing Club de Lens in 2017.  George Hirst heads the ball imperiously into the Wycombe net. Town lead 1-0. Relief and joy slosh about together in a heady cocktail.

Five minutes until half-time and Nathan Broadhead wins yet another corner.  From the Sir Bobby Robson the strains of Joy Division’s ‘Love will tear us apart’ can be heard, although all I can make out of the lyrics is that something is “falling apart again”, I just hope it’s nothing structural.  From Joy Division the choir soon flits to “When the Town go marching in” sung to an even more slow, turgid pace than usual as if the world was in slow motion, .which is almost the title of a single by New Order. The ball is in the Wycombe penalty area, it’s at the feet of Conor Chaplin, time stands still, no one moves, Conor Chaplin kicks the ball into the goal past a static Stryjek and Town lead 2-0.  Joy abounds once more. After three minutes of added on time I join Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison down at the front for some conversation about haircuts, queuing, the often-dubious use of the words ‘ethical’ and ‘affordable’ and the scandal of how the food stall beneath the stand had sold out of sausage rolls even before kick-off.  Ray kindly ‘pours out’ four mini-Easter eggs for me from a polythene bag, I eat two having carefully and studiously peeled off the delicate foil wrapping, because it feels horrible against the fillings in your teeth.

The football resumes at seven minutes past four with Wycombe Wanderers getting first go with the ball, although they soon lose it, and Town quickly have another corner.   I give the two remaining Easter eggs that Ray gave me to Fiona and Pat from Clacton; Fiona’s egg is in a blue wrapper, Pat’s is in a green one, but she takes it anyway and pops it in her handbag for later. Seven minutes into the new half and referee Mr David Rock gets to air his yellow card for the first time as Wycombe’s Chris Forino needlessly hurtles into Wes Burns and sends him flying.  “The Town are going up, the Town are going up” sing the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand with feeling as Wes Burns darts down the wing to put in a low cross, which is diverted into the side netting by a Wycombe boot.  

It’s the fifty-seventh minute and the ball is controlled by George Hirst in the middle and played  out to the right, Harry Clarke and Wes Burns are both through on goal, but Wes is travelling faster and facing head on to the goal, Harry defers to Wes who strikes the ball; one split second the ball leaves Wes’s boot, later that same split second it nestles in the back of the Wycombe goal net.  “Pick the bones out of that” is the expression that springs to mind and Town lead 3-0.  What had started as a difficult looking fixture against a team eager to get into the play-off places now looks like an end of season romp against mid-table duffers keen to get away on holiday.

“I’m looking forward to my baked potato, salad and prawns now” says Pat, confident the afternoon is going to end well and explaining that although today is a Friday, it’s like a Saturday.   Pat’s enthusiasm must be infectious and for a moment it seems like the whole crowd start to sing “We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, He knows exactly what we need, Woolfy at the back, Ladapo in attack, And now we’re gonna win the fuckin’ league.” But I must be hallucinating, may be it was the Easter eggs.  “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing…” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand to the tune of ‘Mary’s boy child’, clearly totally confused as to which Christian festival is which.

I count seven seagulls on the cross-girder of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and Wycombe replace the prosaically named Nick Freeman with the more exotic sounding Tjay de Barr.  News that neither Plymouth Argyle nor Sheffield Wednesday are winning prompts chants of “We are top of the league, we are top of the league” because we are, thanks to goal difference. A quarter of the match remains and it’s time for Town make a mass substitution, replacing over a third of the team in one fell swoop. As the changes are announced, the players draw the sort of personally directed  applause they don’t get when they just leave the pitch with everyone else at the end of the match. Wes Burns, George Hirst, Nathan Broadhead and Conor Chaplin are the recipients of the ovations and the crowd sings “Ei, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go”.  Stadium announcer Stephen Foster tells us that there are 28,511 souls in the stadium today with 643 of that number vainly supporting Wycombe when they could have been at home making chairs. Many of the crowd warmly applaud themselves for turning up.

Town win a corner courtesy of the clumsy looking Ryan Tafazolli, and Cameron Burgess heads over the cross-bar.  Four minutes later and substitute Kyle Edwards gets the ball inside the Wycombe penalty box, but before he has the chance to control the ball he is barged over by Wycombe’s Scowen whose surname sounds as rough and unrefined as his challenge is. Appropriately, given that the referee is Mr Rock, it is a stone wall penalty.  Freddie Ladapo steps up to score, shooting to the left as Stryjek stupidly but conveniently dives in the opposite direction.  Town lead 4-0, it’s a rout, a sound thrashing, a gubbing and a stuffing.

The afternoon’s work is done; another substitution is made as the excellent Massimo Luongo is replaced by Dominic Ball, another corner is won, Wycombe make more substitutions of their own and Tafazoli receives the booking his savage play so richly deserves after he attempts to beat off Kayden Jackson with a thrusting forearm to the throat.  At least five minutes of additional time is played out in which Wycombe succeed in extending Town’s run to nine consecutive clean sheets before the result is finally confirmed a bit before five o’clock.

To my right Fiona and Pat from Clacton quickly disappear back to their other lives and soon afterwards to my left the man sat there heads back to Stowmarket,  or possibly Stowupland.  Many linger to hail their conquering heroes.  In all truth it’s not been the very best of games, but then again it has, and the excellent result has left me with the warm glow of satisfaction.   Town have outplayed and outclassed a well organised team.  I feel like celebrating , I wonder if the ice cream van will be round tomorrow.