As far as I can make out from a somewhat half-hearted, cursory trawl through the interweb, Ipswich and Lincoln have three distinct things in common.  Chronologically, these things are Sir Thomas Wolsey, Jamie Clapham and having football clubs in the current third division.  Sir Tommy, as his mates back in Ipswich probably called him,  was born in Ipswich in 1473 and became bishop of Lincoln in 1514.  Conversely, Jamie Clapham was born in in Lincoln in 1975 and was bishop of Ipswich or perhaps more accurately left-back for Ipswich Town during the late 1990’s and early 2000’s.  Today bears witness to the final commonality, which is that both Ipswich and Lincoln have third division football teams; today the two teams meet at Portman Road in a football league fixture.

Today also happens to be my mother’s ninety-seventh birthday and after a morning spent with her and my sister  in which I gift (to use weird modern parlance) her a bottle of sherry, a box of gin-laced chocolates and a birthday card consisting of an intentionally and unavoidably surreal collage of family photos from the 1960’s and 1970’s, I head for the Arbor House (formerly The Arboretum). Having parked up my trusty Citroen C3 I step out across Gippeswyk Park and Sir Alf Ramsey Way where I manage to avoid being run over by the Lincoln City team bus and buy a programme (£3.50) using coins of the realm, just for old time’s sake.  It had been a light blue, sunny afternoon when I was with my mother, but now a threatening, heavy pall of fashionably deep grey cloud much the same colour as the Lincoln City team bus hangs over the town and I carry a small umbrella as insurance against a heavy shower. Arriving at the Arboretum, I find Mick already at the bar; like the decent man that he is, Mick buys two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (one is for me) and a packet of cheese and onion crisps ((£9.00). We repair to the beer garden and hope it doesn’t rain as all the covered table are occupied. Our conversation is as predictable as ever, being mostly sad at the state of the world and humanity, but tinged with hope.  It helps that our football team mostly wins nowadays.  The Suffolk Pride seems particularly delicious today but somehow we resist the temptation to buy another pint and at about twenty-five to three we leave our empty glasses at the bar and head off down High Street past the museum towards Portman Road.

Bidding Mick farewell in Sir Alf Ramsey Way at the turnstiles to the Magnus West stand, I pass the serried ranks of supporters’ buses in Constantine Road and eventually make it to turnstiles 50 to 61; I choose number 61 because 1961 was the first half of the season we won the Football League; the cheery turnstile operator seems pleased that I have chosen his turnstile.  That music that is meant to heighten our expectation is already playing as I emerge from beneath the stand into the grey autumn light to find my still empty seat; those around it are already occupied. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here with his son Elwood and Fiona is here too, and Pat from Clacton has now recovered from Covid so I welcome her back.  The man from Stowmarket is here as well, but there is a stranger between us.  At the far end of the ground there is a small tifo; it’s a modest affair, just the top sliced off the club crest really, but it’s a start.

Before the game begins a minute’s applause is clapped in memory of former Town manager John Duncan who died a week ago.  A minute’s reflective silence would have been preferable but sadly not everything changes for the better.  As I recall, John Duncan’s term as manager ended rather miserably, with chants of ‘Duncan Out!’ being the catchy chorus to the soundtrack of late 1980’s Portman Road. But to John Duncan’s everlasting credit he did leave a worthwhile legacy having signed some decent players for the Town including David Linighan, Neil Thompson, Ian Redford and the excellent David Lowe.  Many home grown players also became first team regulars in his time. It was also during John Duncan’s time that Town went a whole season without conceding a goal at the North Stand end of the ground.  A quick rendition of mostly the ‘Na-na-na’ bits of The Beatles’ Hey Jude follows the applause and then the game begins.

Town, in blue and white, get first go with the ball and are kicking towards me, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, Phil, Elwood and the man from Stowmarket. Lincoln are in shirts that make them appear to be wearing a different kit depending on which way they are facing. From the front Lincoln’s shirts are of red and white stripes, but from behind they are all red, it’s a design that prevents names and numbers getting lost in the stripes, but I can’t say I like it.  Lincoln’s black shorts are thankfully the same whichever direction they are viewed from.

“Addy, Addy, Addy-O, ITFC” sings the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand as if carrying out warming up exercises for their vocal cords.  I’m not sure if it’s the noise of the big crowd or my hearing, but the blokes behind me are talking very indistinctly and sound like they’ve all just been to the dentist and had anaesthetic; it could just be their accents though.  “Ole, Ole, Ole” continue the Sir Bobby stand perhaps in celebration of Pablo Counago’s presence at the game today.

On the pitch nothing has happened yet; the game is stuck in midfield.   I find my entertainment in the names of the Lincoln team and take a particular liking to Matty Virtue who sounds like he would make a good superhero, whilst Jack Diamond could easily be a character in a novel or a Hollywood matinee idol; finally, I hope that Ben House has a wife or a sister called Wendy.  There is still not much of interest happening on the pitch and as if by way of commentary on the game’s moribund nature the Sir Bobby stand embarks on a rendition of their turgid, funereal version of “When the Town go marching in”.

Despite the satire the football is still uninspiring. The Lincoln fans are singing about making all the noise everywhere they go before the gloomy clouds break slightly to let in a little autumn sunshine.  All of sudden, Conor Chaplin almost sets Wes Burns away with a through pass, and then from a left -wing cross Freddie Ladapo directs the ball without controlled intent roughly in the direction of the Lincoln goalkeeper, the appropriately named Carl Rushworth.  An audible frisson of excitement runs through the home crowd prompting the Lincoln fans to chant “We forgot you were here”.  Football supporters are such liars.

Town are still not doing much.  Sam Morsy launches a cross field ball towards Wes Burns. “A Dom Perignon of a ball” says the bloke behind me, feigning a knowledge of vintage champagne.  In fact it’s not even a Babycham of a ball, as it is headed away by a defender before reaching its intended target.

Over twenty minutes have passed since the game kicked off. Lincoln win the game’s first corner.  “Come On Lincoln, Come On Lincoln” chant the Lincolnites up in the Cobbold Stand, like football supporters are supposed to.  The first foul of the game is committed; it’s a blot on the reputation of matinee idol Jack Diamond and the moguls at RKO won’t be happy. Lincoln win the game’s second corner and then its third, Town haven’t had one yet.  From the third corner the ball is directed to the near post, it goes up in the air and then across goal to the far post where Wendy House’s relative is stood all alone like he hasn’t washed in a month.  From very close-range House heads the ball into the Town goal and Lincoln lead 1-0.  These things happen.

I hadn’t realised as I waited for Town to have a shot on goal, but this game needed a goal.  A Town goal would have been my preference, but the Lincoln goal has seemed to at last provoke Town into playing a bit. Within four minutes of the goal Town win a corner, and then another as a Conor Chaplin shot is deflected away. Lee Evans heads over the cross bar.  As the first half slips into its final ten minutes Conor Chaplin, Sam Morsy and Lee Evans all have shots on goal, Evans’s is deflected slightly and then pushed onto the goal post by Rushworth and away for another corner.  George Edmundson heads wide; from another corner Leif Davis shoots over. “They look a half decent team, well organised” says the bloke behind me of Lincoln City.  They can certainly defend corners.

With the last memorable attacking action of the half Town win a free-kick just outside the penalty area, which Lee Evans places around the defensive wall and into the arms of Rushworth.  Two minutes of added on time are added on and then we all get a break and I chat to Ray and Harrison before eating a Nature Valley oats and honey Crunchy bar. Ray asks me If I’ve checked my phone since the game began in case any new Chancellors of the Exchequer have been appointed.

From the start of the second half Town are into the attacking mode that we turn up at Portman Road expecting to see nowadays.  Oddly however, as if fate is trying really hard this afternoon to make the point that you don’t always get what you deserve, it is Lincoln who come closest to confirming their victory.  From a corner, House lingers alone beyond the far post and heads the ball back, but somehow no Lincoln player gets to it before it is cleared.  Jack Diamond then forces Christian Walton into a smart save on the goal line and finally, Leif Davis appears to blatantly handle the ball in the penalty area but gets away with it; VAR would doubtless have called it proving once again that it’s a good thing not to be in the Evil Premier League.   

For the last half an hour or slightly more the  second half is simply a procession of corners and shots for Town interspersed with lots of passing across the pitch.  Every now and then the ball comes up to the “Churchmans” end of the pitch and Pat from Clacton says “Careful” as Luke Woolfenden and George Edmundson pass it amongst themselves avoiding harrying Lincoln players, but mostly we witness Marcus Harness shooting over the cross bar at the far end.  The Lincoln supporters are largely struck dumb as anxiety becomes their chief emotion. Kieron McKenna makes his usual substitutions which again seem to work well with Kyle Edwards and Kayden Jackson both adding pace on the flanks and Tyreece John-Jules adding a bit of guile and unpredictability.

Despite mounting frustration, the game continues to hold our attention as we concentrate hard to avoid falling off the edge of our seats. The home crowd even support the team in their adversity, which isn’t something they often do, or at least not very well. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” replaces chants about the significance of Boxing Day and previous more successful teams. The attendance is announced as being 27,608 with 653 of that number being from Lincoln.  Unusually, the crowd doesn’t applaud itself for turning up, perhaps because we’ve got used to such attendances, but may be because the tension is just too great.

The Ipswich attacking play is relentless as pass follows pass, follows corner, follows block, follows shot, follows corner, follows block, follows shot, follows block, follows pass, follows pass, follows pass, I could go on. In the final ten minutes the Lincoln fans chant “Come On Lincoln, Come On Lincoln”, not urging them to score, but just to hold on. Unfortunately for Town they do , and through seven minutes of added on time.  Town lose their first league game at home this season and fail to score in a league game for the first time also.

Today is disappointing but not exceptional, I’ve witnessed the same thing umpteen times before at Portman Road and am pleased to say I’ve seen Ipswich do the same thing to other clubs away from home too. It will happen again too, and at least we didn’t lose to one of the other teams in the top six.  I’m sure if Sir Thomas Wolsey were at the game today he would have said the same thing.

I have history with Portsmouth, family history.  My father was born there and either his grandfather or great grandfather lived there. As a child, my family lived just outside the city over the other side of Portsdown Hill for two years and both sides of my wife Paulene’s family have lived in the city for generations, and she grew up there going to Fratton Park for the first time in 1966 or ’67, about the time of The Beatles best LP’s.  We think her dad probably went to the 1939 FA Cup final when Pompey beat Wolverhampton 4-1, unfortunately he’s too dead to ask now. I even went to the 2010 FA Cup Final.

Ipswich versus Pompey games are therefore different to other games for me and today is no exception as I am accompanied by Paulene, who because she thought sitting with the Pompey fans would be too exciting and would antagonise her asthma, has consented to sit with me in the quieter, more contemplative surroundings of the lower tier of Sir Alf Ramsey stand, formerly known as Churchman’s.

The start of the afternoon does not bode well; an unexpectedly quick drive into Ipswich in my trusty Citroen C3 is halted by a queue up and beyond Crane Hill.  Having seemingly developed a morbid fear of traffic queues in my later life I divert through Chantry only to find the car park on West End Road is already full, as is the one in Portman Road and it’s not even half past one.  There is a queue for the underground car park, South Street is full and there is a queue for Crown Street which the on-street signs say is full also.  I phone Mick to tell him that we might not get to see him at the Arbor House (formerly The Arboretum) at 13:45 as previously arranged.  Mick stoically tells us that he already has a pint of beer and a packet of peanuts so he’s fine; if we get there we get there, if we don’t, we don’t. Giving up all hope, I bring the Citroen to rest in an on-street parking space on Fonnereau Road.  It is two o’clock; I pay £3.40 at the parking ‘meter’ for the maximum 3 hours, which won’t quite be enough time to see me back after the game, but I decide to live dangerously, beginning the excitement before the match even starts and continuing it on beyond the final whistle.

Paulene walks slowly and dictates that we should just walk to the ground, and not via The Arbor House.  I find it hard to conceive of going to the game without having a pre-match pint and we walk through the busy streets of central Ipswich in silence. I buy a programme using coins that I found this morning in the drawer of my bedside table and we enter the ‘Sir Alf’, via turnstile 60 through what seems like his ‘back entrance’ off Constantine Road.  There is a half an hour to live through until kick-off and although Paulene sits in the stand I can’t abide the noise from the PA system and retreat beneath it where, despite having told Paulene the drinks are over-priced and I don’t like any of them, I queue for a plastic cup of black coffee (£2.75), partly for want of anything better to do, but I am thirsty.   It’s a decision to compare with some of the worst I have ever made, the cup of Douwe Egbert ‘coffee’ is utterly foul and could not taste less like a cup of coffee if it was a scoop of earwax.

Returning to the seats, Fiona has now arrived, as has ever-present Phil who never misses a game and the man who I think is from Stowmarket, but absent today are Phil’s son Elwood and Pat from Clacton, who has contracted Covid, apparently whilst on holiday in Torquay.  I talk to the man who I think is from Stowmarket, who confirms that he is indeed from Stowmarket, although he was actually born in Cambridge.  On the pitch, stadium announcer and former class-mate of my friend Pete, Stephen Foster reads the teams out from the scoreboard.  I notice today that he has a little Ipswich Town crest on the foamy bit at the top of his mike.  In the predictable style of a man whose life has been immersed in popular music and local radio he asks the crowd to make lots of noise and to turn the volume “up to eleven”.  He goes on, I think, to say something about “noise annoys” which I imagine is a slightly more obscure reference to a tune by The Buzzcocks, the ‘B’side to their fabulous 1 minute 46 second long single ‘Love You More’, which I recall buying in Parrot Records in Queen Street back in that annus mirabilis 1978.

At last, the game begins, Town having first go with the ball and mostly sending it in the direction of me Paulene, ever-present Phil, Fiona and the man who definitely does come from Stowmarket.  Town are in their traditional blue and white kit,  whilst Pompey wear an all-black kit with sleeves of a sort of golden colour which blends with the skin tones of their arms and makes them look like they are wearing black sleeveless vests.  Undeterred, the Pompey fans up in the Cobbold Stand sing “Portsmouth City, Portsmouth City FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” despite the fact that as far as I am aware no team called Portsmouth City FC has ever existed. Odd.

Less than two minutes have elapsed and Pompey’s number six Connor Ogilvie is writhing on the floor after some sort of tackle or collision with Leif Davis, for which he earns a free-kick. “Dirty bastards” says Paulene to me. “Time wasting already” I reply.  “You’re supposed to be at home” sing the Pompey fans to which the Sir Bobby Robson Stand responds with possibly their favourite song, Boney M’s “Mary’s Boy Child”, but with amended lyrics about fighting Norwich for ever more because of Boxing Day, the relevance of which is hard to fathom.

The Pompey support wait a whole six minutes after kick off before asking “Is this a library” but there is audible noise from Sir Bobby Robson Stand, even more so when Wes Burns wins the game’s first corner and Tyreece John-Jules, who incidentally is the nephew of actor Danny John-Jules of Red Dwarf fame, wins the second as his close range shot is deflected wide.  A Conor Chaplin shot is then pushed onto a post and away by Pompey’s beanpole goalkeeper Josh Griffiths.  Just ten minutes played and Town are all over Pompey like a rash and Dane Scarlett even gets booked as he assaults George Edmundson. Pompey’s only other attacking effort is a massive drop kick from Griffiths which by-passes every player on the field except Christian Walton. Janoi Donacien wins a third corner at the end of a magnificent passing move down the right, George Edmundson’s header is saved and it all seems easy for Town, but then the balance alters.

Pompey win a corner as Donacien heads clear a right-wing cross and then begin to have more possession of the ball.  Out on the left Owen Dale, who I like to imagine is a relative of Jim Dale performs some stepovers as Pompey grow in confidence,  but then hilariously takes one step too many and collides with his marker.  The poorly executed stepover routine is one of football’s funniest faux pas after the ‘Bryan Gunn’.  Dale then produces another crowd pleaser as he blazes a shot hopelessly high and wide at the end of a set-piece routine, just to confirm his ‘Carry On’ heritage.  The comedy continues as I notice that Pompey’s Sean Raggett is knock-kneed.

The balance of the game then swings back towards Town and a fourth corner is won, this time as a shot from the constantly overlapping Leif Davis is deflected over the cross-bar.  The corner comes to nothing however.  Midfield play ensues and Lee Evans concedes a free-kick, but Sam Morsy wins the ball back and finds Conor Chaplin and in a split second Chaplin produces a pass for Marcus Harness to pursue right through the middle of the Pompey defence; he has just Griffiths to beat and he does. Town lead 1-0, it’s not much past twenty five past three. “Please make some more noise for our scorer, number eleven, Marcus Harness” announces Stephen Foster as if requesting a round of applause for someone who has just won the prize for biggest marrow at a village fete. The crowd oblige.  A chant of “We’ve got Marcus Harness, We’ve got Marcus Harness” is heard but quickly fades away as if a group of supporters know there is a football song about possessing a player, because they’ve heard it before, but they’re not sure of the rest of the words.   Like a calming post coital-cigarette, celebration for the Sir Bobby Robson stand comes in the form of their funereally-paced version of “When the Town going marching in”.

At half past three I see Christian Walton diving at the feet of an on-rushing Pompey player and then someone behind says, “he’s given them a penalty”.  Christian Walton gets to see the referee’s yellow card and then as Colby Bishop, who I like to think is grandson of Ernest and Emily in a fictional parallel universe of soap operas, kicks the ball into the middle of the goal from the penalty spot Walton dives conveniently out of the way.  Town’s lead had lasted barely six minutes and it feels like this happens every week.

“It’s all gone quiet over there” sing the Pompey fans to the tune of ‘Eye, Eye, Ippy, Ippy Eye’, or may be ‘She’ll be coming ‘round the mountain’ and they have a point. For some reason Ipswich supporters never react supportively to their team conceding a goal. Pompey fans meanwhile sing something about Danny Cowley, which presumably tells us what a good bloke he is, although it would take more than a song to convince me.  On the pitch however, Town are back on the attack and with two minutes of the half remaining Wes Burns is released into the penalty area by Conor Chaplin, but his shot is not directed sufficiently away from Griffiths who manages to deflect it away for another corner just by standing still and sticking his arms out. Town then win yet another corner, but nothing arising from it or the subsequent two minutes of added on time can stop the score being one-all at half-time.  It’s been a very entertaining game indeed so far, and whilst Portsmouth have been very good, Ipswich have been better and there is a slight air of disappointment cut with frustration that we didn’t hold onto that lead. But then again, the equaliser was a penalty and unless for a hand ball on the goal line I view penalties as random acts of kindness by the referee towards the team that is awarded it.

Half-time is whiled away in conversation with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison, who asks me about my recent trip to Norwich to see Robyn Hitchcock play live.  I tell him that I have written an account of the gig under the heading ‘Robyn Hitchcock 17 Norwich 0’.  Ray and I speak of the new Prime Minister Liz Truss, who we agree is probably and incredibly even worse than the previous one.  Ray says he has a joke about ‘trickle-down economics’; not many people get it.

At four minutes past four the football resumes.  “Play Up Pompey, Pompey Play Up” sing the away supporters to the ‘tune’ of the Portsmouth guildhall clock.  “Fuck off Pompey, Pompey Fuck Off” chant the Town fans, possibly believing themselves to be the heirs to the quick wit and ready repartee of Oscar Wilde or Mark Twain.  Pompey win a free-kick as Leif Davis fouls Owen Dale and referee, the Victorian sounding Charles Breakspear paces out 10metres (or is it yards?), but amusingly Town’s defensive wall already proves to be further from the spot where the kick is to be taken; Paulene and I wonder if Mr Breakspear just has little legs, or feet. The free-kick sails over the goal like a satellite. “Is this a library?” sing the Pompey fans in case we didn’t hear the question the first time, and it brings no response again. In the Sir Bobby Robson stand one half of the lower tier have their hands over their brows to shield their eyes from the lowering sun and they possibly can’t do this and sing at the same time. Pompey win a corner, but so far the second half is less exhilarating than the first.  The attendance is announced as a stonking 28, 434; our local rivals’ Carrow Road ground couldn’t accommodate that many people even if they wanted to.  We are told that there are 1,941 away fans here, but Paulene and I know there are 1,942.

It’s about twenty-five past four and time for that part of the game where like ritual sacrifices, substitutions are made. Pompey are the first to wield the metaphorical dagger as Joe Morrell and Josh Koroma are slain in favour of Ryan Tunnicliffe and Ronan Curtis. Pompey win a corner in the wake of their changes and the Pompey chimes ring out again from the Cobbold stand; it must be good to have a one-stop, go-to chant for any occasion. Town fans used to be happy with a burst or two of “Come On You Blues” but that doesn’t seem good enough for today’s Town fans’.  Eight minutes further on and Town bring on Kyle Edwards and Freddie Ladapo for Marcus Harness and Tyreece John-Jules.  Harness and John-Jules have played well, but their involvement in the game has tailed off in the second half and their replacement will hopefully bring fresh impetus.  No sooner thought than done and Leif Davis pulls the ball back into the penalty area for Ladapo to strike beautifully into the top corner of the goal with his first touch of the ball, it’s a terrific goal and Town are winning again.

This time the lead lasts barely five minutes as once again play is stopped only to find that Mr Breakspear has once again awarded Pompey a penalty. I have no idea at all why this time, someone behind says something about handball but it seems that Sam Morsy or George Edmundson might have fouled someone.  Once again, it could be just a random act of kindness towards Pompey from Mr Breakspear.  The way players dive and feign injury nowadays who can honestly say what’s a foul and what isn’t?  Ernest and Emily’s boy scores from the penalty spot again, Christian Walton contriving to dive to his right as the ball goes to his left; where’s Paul Cooper when you need him?

Fate has seemingly dealt Town an undeserved blow and as if in an almost Roman Catholic outpouring of guilt fate quickly makes amends and within a minute Kyle Edwards is heading goalwards and then towards the by-line; he crosses the ball, but it strikes a lunging defender.  I think to myself that we’ve got a corner, but as the people in front of me rise from their seats a roar goes up and it seems we’ve scored. Edwards’ cross has spun up into the air over goalkeeper Griffiths and fallen perfectly for Wes Burns to nod simply over the goal line from point blank range. Town lead 3-2.

The game is into the last ten minutes of normal time and the nuanced, incisive play of Conor Chaplin is sacrificed for the solidity of Dominic Ball.  “He’s one of our own” chant the Pompey fans dolefully in a touching tribute to their former player as he draws the applause of the nearly 57,000 hands. Still the Pompey fans sing “Play Up Pompey” in a demonstration of genuine, relentless support. From the Sir Bobby Robson stand a version of Boney M’s biggest Christmas hit belts out once more. Four minutes of normal time are left and Pompey’s Michael Morrison makes way for Reeco Hackett; I idly wonder to myself if Reeco (pronounced reeko by Stephen Foster) is known as ‘stinky’ to his friends.  Edwards wins Town yet another corner. Pompey waste their own time by making yet another substitution with just a minute left of normal time.  An improbable seven minutes of time added on is announced; the man who is from Stowmarket had predicted only five. But Town run the game out without undue concern, winning two final corners and making a final substitution whilst keeping Pompey a safe distance from the goal.  More cretins than I realised came to Portman Road try to trash the good reputation of Town supporters forged over many years, by not throwing the ball back when it goes into the stand, but they are only an unfortunate footnote to an excellent afternoon of football.

With the final whistle the relief is palpable, but it’s mostly because we have at last beaten a promotion rival, not because we were desperately hanging on for the result.  Portsmouth played well, but Ipswich played better. I exit the stand sharply, eager to get back to my trusty Citroen to discover if my parking gamble has paid off, I am pleased to find that it has.  The drive home is a happy one but as all supporters should, I know not to gloat about today’s result.  Paulene and I are going out tonight to our daughter-in-law’s 40^th birthday party, by way of personal sacrifice for Towns win I shall drive.