Ipswich Town 1 Maidstone United 2

January 28, 2024January 30, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

As working weeks go it’s been a good one, I had Friday off and only worked until a smidgeon after half past two on Thursday, and all week long I’ve been looking forward to Saturday and the FA Cup fourth round, a ‘straightforward’ home tie versus non-league Maidstone United. On Thursday night I dreamt of Kieran Mckenna. As is often the case with dreams, I don’t really remember much about it, but I know I was left with the sort of sensation of calm and well-being you might expect if you’d just had a chance encounter with Jesus or Mohammed, or George Harrison. I had never dreamt about a Town manager before, and the only ‘celebrities’ I can ever recall entering my dreams previously are Sid James and former Liverpool City Council leader Derek Hatton.

One of two flies in the ointment today however is that the match begins at half past twelve because it is being televised by the BBC and then transmitted on by BEIN Sports, ESPN, SPOTV ON and Supersport MaXimo 1 amongst others; not that I begrudge those Town fans in Eritrea, Guadeloupe, South Korea and Weymouth the sight of our wonderful team in search of FA Cup glory. But at least there’s no hanging around waiting to set off the match as there’s not much time to do anything more than fall out of bed, have a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, prime the breadmaking machine and fill up the garden bird feeders before I’m smoothly and quietly driving away in my planet saving Citroen eC4 to collect Gary. There don’t tend to be many flies about in Northern Europe in January but the second one in the ointment today is that there are no trains to Ipswich from the direction of Colchester, only replacement buses and whilst it is possible to travel on these free of charge because no one ever checks your ticket on a rail replacement bus, that would be as dishonest as charging for a rail fare and then providing a bus ride, and then where would we all be?

We park up and stroll across Gippeswyk Park under what approximates to clear, azure skies in Suffolk in winter. The roads were busy, but the streets are not and in Constantine Road there is still the odd parked car. We pass by the entrance to the fanzone and I ask Gary if he’d like me to take his photo with Bluey, Ipswich Town’s Suffolk Punch mascot. He wouldn’t, but was going to ask me the same thing, and I am tempted because it would make a fine addition to my collection, which sees either me or my wife Paulene in the company of Ri-Ri the Nantes canary, Bouba the Monaco elephant and Merlux the Lorient hake, amongst others. Instead, Gary buys me a programme (£3.00) by way of payment in lieu, for my electricity and chauffeur fees. Turning away from the programme booth, Gary attempts to hand the programme to the man in the queue behind him, thinking it is me, but quickly regains his bearings and we amble on towards the ‘the Arb’, after I have tucked the programme away in my coat pocket.

Bursting in the through the door with a raging thirst after our walk, we find ‘The Arb’ is surprisingly quiet, and we also find Mick sat at a table in the middle of the room before he lithely slips off his stool and heads to the bar to buy me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and Gary a pint of Lager 43. Beers in hands we head out into the cool of the beer garden where there are no other drinkers until a couple arrive about fifteen minutes later and sit a polite distance away. I think Mick would have preferred to stay indoors, but I’m having none of it, sitting outside for pre-match beers feels to me like the most natural thing in the world. We talk of the operation Mick is to have on his foot, of police identity parades, the locations of the Mauldon’s and Nethergate breweries, the Golden Hind pub quiz team, today’s team selection, the work ethic and how lazy and unpleasant some people are, and the 1978 FA Cup final. Gary kindly buys me another pint of Mauldons’ Suffolk Pride, a Jamieson’s whisky for Mick and another pint of Lager 43 for himself. I hand Gary and Mick their tickets which I have printed off because I thought it would be easier than the three of us having to pass my mobile phone between us and open each ticket up from the e-mail confirming their purchase.

It’s gone ten past twelve when we leave for Portman Road, but it’s a slightly disappointing walk to the ground because there isn’t the usual gathering excitement of an increasing and purposeful crowd like it must have been marching to the barricades of the Paris commune. There are however queues at the turnstiles in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, although as usual the further we walk, the smaller the queues become, as if most people, like myopic lemmings just join the first queue they come to. Mick, Gary and I also voted ‘Remain’.

A visit to the toilet facilities to drain off excess Suffolk Pride is required before we take our seats, and from my position in front of the urinal I hear Murphy the stadium announcer reading out the teams and no doubt failing hopelessly to synchronise with the players’ names appearing on the electronic scoreboards. It’s a pity to miss out on trying to behave like a French football fan by bawling out the players’ surnames, but Murphy would doubtless have ruined it with his lack of co-ordination, so it’s probably best for my mental health and future comfort that I am down here in the toilet.

Up in the stand, our seats are fairly central and at the front of the middle tier of what to people of our generation is still the Pioneer stand; they are in row B, but there is no row A, so our view is only obstructed by passing late comers, people with weak bladders and the interminably hungry who flit back and forth before us annoyingly on their way to and from the facilities under the stand. With all the hand shaking malarkey out of the way the game begins; Ipswich getting first go with the ball and sending it in the direction of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. Ipswich are in their standard blue shirts and white shorts whilst Maidstone sport yellow shirts and black shorts, although apparently their shirts are actually ‘amber’, but they don’t have fossilised insects encased within them, Maidstone’s oldest player Gavin Hoyte being only 33 years old.

“We’re the something Army” ( I can’t make out the third word) sing the Maidstone supporters, who occupy the whole of the top tier of the Cobbold stand and cheer every throw-in that their team win and every tiny perceived mistake by an Ipswich player. They’re clearly not expecting any bigger victories than these and are getting their kicks where they can. Eventually, the home support in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand chips in with some random “Ole’s”. Portman Road is noisy this afternoon but it’s mostly Kentish noise.

Ipswich are dominating possession and with no more than two minutes played a Nathan Broadhead shot is blocked. It’s the fifth minute and Jeremy Sarmiento shoots on goal and hits a post. “ Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the North Stand raising the spectre of Boney M of Christmas past. A minute later Omari Hutchison runs in on goal from the right; he shoots and the ball is deflected onto a goal post before George Edmundson sends the rebound wide. It’s an exciting start to the match and in a parallel universe somewhere, perhaps one where Boris Johnson was never Prime Minister and beer is still 25p a pint, Town are probably a couple of goals up already.

“Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” sing the fans of the plucky underdogs, revealing that they are just as unpleasant and lacking in imagination and vocabulary as supporters of the ‘big’ clubs, even if what they sing has the ring of truth. “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” they continue generously, taunting the pensioners who populate the Sir Bobby Robson stand but who tell people they sit in Churchman’s. Fifteen minutes have passed and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow before looking around me to check for signs of life amongst my fellow silent Town fans. Sam Morsy shoots, the Maidstone goal keeper saves, Town have another corner and the process repeats.

Town continue to dominate completely, and Maidstone aren’t getting a kick as their coach driver apologises to manager George Elokobi for not having been able to manoeuvre his vehicle down the players tunnel. The Maidstone fans repeat their kind offer to sing a song for us and then chant what sounds to me like “We’re the black pepper army”. Omari Hutchison shoots and wins another corner before George Edmundson heads past a post.”

In the Cobbold Stand, the Kentish equivalents of Lennon and McCartney, and Rogers and Hammerstein have been thinking furiously, but can only come up with “Doo, Doo, Doo, Football in a library”. Mick asks me what they’re singing and having told him I add that I have e-mailed the club to suggest they paper the walls of the inside of the away end with that wall paper that looks like the spines of books; I don’t know if they have taken any notice because all they said in their reply is that they would pass it on to the relevant department – the wallpapering department presumably, who knew?

Jeremy Sarmiento shoots over the cross bar prompting rare chants of “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” from the home support and as the game reaches the point where only two thirds of it remains unknown the Maidstone number ten collapses to the ground, receives treatment and everyone else has an impromptu drinks party by the touchline. The two-thirds milestone is also the prompt for the Maidstone fans to sing “Championship you’re ‘aving a laugh”, a disarmingly honest admission that if a team hasn’t scored against them after thirty minutes they can’t be much good. It’s at times like this when one most regrets the overblown, puffed-up marketing ruse of using the term ‘Championship’ as opposed to plain old ‘Second Division’ . Singing “Second Division you’re ‘aving a laugh”, doesn’t quite sound so damning.

On the touch line, Kieran Mckenna signals obscurely with his hands as if communicating to the players that the odds on a draw are shortening if they want to place a bet now. Being as close as I’ve ever been to Keiran Mckenna feels a little odd having dreamt about him the other night; it’s a bit like when you’re a teenager and the shock of finding yourself sat on the bus next to a girl you really fancy. Jeremy Sarmiento has another shot and Town win yet another corner; minutes pass and another corner follows a deflected Jack Taylor shot. From the corner Maidstone break, it’s the first time it’s happened, it’s almost the first time Maidstone have been close to having possession in the Ipswich half as the man with his team’s most exotic sounding first name and prosaic surname, Lamar Reynolds bears down on goal and then clips the ball over Christian Walton and into the Town goal net. The Maidstone supporters are understandably very excited, but not it seems as much as the collection of people in the peculiar car seats allocated to Maidstone which pass for a substitute’s bench nowadays. They race onto the pitch to form a human mound with the team and most impressively substitute Chi Ezennolim gets booked by referee, the completely hairless Mr Anthony Taylor, even though he will not end up getting to play any other part in the game. Somewhat bizarrely, Maidstone lead one-nil, but Ipswich will surely soon equalise and then win comfortably.

Two minutes of added on time are announced by Murphy as the Maidstone fans channel the clean-living optimism of Doris Day and sing “ Que sera, sera, Whatever will be, will be, We ’re going to Wem-berley, Que Sera, Sera.” With the half-time whistle it’s time to discharge more excess Suffolk Pride and as Mick queues for a vegan pie I return to our seats to enjoy the names on the list of one-hundred people, mostly children I imagine, who are attending Portman Road for the first time today. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but I can’t help laughing at the names Ember, Maverick and Rogue, and pine for the days of Moon Unit and Dweezil; it’s probably my age.

At twenty-six minutes to two, the match re-starts and Mick returns, pie-less, I guess they ran out of vegans. As the Maidstone fans resume their chants of “Black pepper army” Gary explains that they are actually singing “Black and Gold Army”, which makes me think I should perhaps get a hearing aid like his. Ten minutes of Ipswich domination pass and then Jeremy Sarmento cuts in from the left, shoots, and scores. I leap up and wave my arms about like a man with only a sketchy understanding of semaphore and receive a text message from a friend in Weymouth that reads “That’s more like it”. Town have equalised and will surely soon score a second, third and probably a fourth goal as the Earth returns to its normal orbit around the sun and the clocks stop going backwards.

A mass substitution follows shortly after the goal as Sone Aluko, Dominic Ball and Cameron Humphreys bow out in favour of the superior Conor Chaplin, Harry Clarke and Leif Davis. “You’re not singing any more” gloat those Town fans who know the tune of Cwm Rhondda and can be bothered to sing at all. Not to be outdone, Maidstone make substitutions of their own, but only two of them, and then chalk up another yellow card in the form of the ageing Gavin Hoyte.

As chants of “Championship, you’re ‘aving a laugh” resurface, Town fans retaliate with “Sunday League you’re ‘aving a laugh” and the wit and ready repartee of the football crowd reaches its peak for the afternoon. Town still dominate of course, but just as it seems travellers might be able set up camp in the Town penalty area, or sheep might safely graze, Maidstone break away for the second time in the match and lightning strikes again as Sam Corne, who sounds like a character from rustic folklore, smacks the ball into the Ipswich goal net with aplomb, and Maidstone are leading for an improbable second time. “Who are ya?” ask the Maidstone fans, temporarily losing their memories in the excitement of it all and capable of only following this up by stating the obvious with “ You’re not singing anymore”.

There are still twenty minutes left so there is no need for Ipswich fans to worry, but just as insurance Town replace Omari Hutchison with Wes Burns, and Jeremy Sarmiento with Gerard Buabo although a little alarmingly Wes Burns has had his hair cut. Nevertheless, Town pretty much instantly win a corner as the afternoon’s attendance is announced as 27,763 of whom a stonking 4,472 are from Maidstone, despite Maidstone’s largest home attendance this season being only 4.024. Not to be outdone, Maidstone again try to show that they can make double substitutions too and introduce Perri Iandolo for Sam Bone and for Lamar Reynolds a man who sounds like a block of Council-owned flats, Riley Court.

Town continue to keep possession of the ball except when Maidstone boot it away. George Edmundson appears to be fouled in the penalty area but is booked for just pretending by the overly suspicious and imaginative Mr Taylor. Conor Chaplin has a shot saved and corner follows corner follows corner. Harry Clarke has a shot saved, a Conor Chaplin header is saved, a Wes Burns header is saved and before we know it, time is being extended by eight minutes. In the netherworld of compensatory time a Jack Taylor shot is blocked, corner follows corner again and Nathan Broadhead shoots wide; a Jack Taylor header is saved, a Nathan Broad header is saved and then that’s it. Ipswich haven’t won at all and we’re out of the FA Cup despite a ‘straightforward’ comfortable home tie to a non-league team.

I’m a little shocked, I thought I’d seen it all in fifty years of coming to Portman Road but there’s no denying I hadn’t seen this before and in truth I didn’t really want to. I hope I dont see it again. As we leave the ground Gary says he expects we’ll wake up in a minute and it will all have been a bad dream. I’m still waiting.

Ipswich Town 2 Sunderland 1

January 14, 2024January 14, 2024 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

I don’t know much about Slumberland mattresses and it’s surprisingly difficult to find much out about them on the interweb, there isn’t even anything about them on the fount of all knowledge that is Wikipedia. What I do know however, is that Slumberland sounds a lot like Sunderland, the town (probably now a city) at the mouth of the River Wear whose football team won the FA Cup in 1937 and 1973, lost a Milk Cup final to Norwich City in 1985 and are forever sleeping giants, having seemingly worn themselves out by winning what people now call the Premier League, six times between 1892 and 1936. Today, Ipswich Town play slumbering Sunderland in the Second Division and I will be at Portman Road to witness this fixture for the 19^th time since 1976.

When I woke up this morning and drew back the curtains on another day, my wife suggested I close them again because outside was grey and miserable. I didn’t however, but instead put my mind to how I was going to fill the additional two and a half hours before kick-off this evening, the match having been chosen for broadcast by loathsome Sky TV with a ridiculous kick-off time of 5.30pm. If the modern football-watching equivalent of the proletariat could be bothered to draw up a Charter for the running of football, it would surely demand that all games only kick-off at 3pm on Saturdays or between 7.30 and 8pm on weekdays. Come the revolution.

I spend a morning replacing an outside light, failing to find a bulb that fits an indoor light and filling-in a hole in my garden that looks like it was dug by a rat. Fortunately, I am pretty sure a combination of some peppermint oil and the local cats has now sent the rat packing, or to an early grave. After a lunch of baked Coley and chips and an espresso coffee I set off for the match. Engineering works on the railway mean that trains have been replaced by buses today, and refusing to pay a train fare to travel by bus (why are they allowed to charge the same?) I take the wheel of my planet-saving Citroen e-C4 and agree to give Gary a lift too, in order to keep his petrol-burning, carbon monoxide emitting Suzuki Swift off the road. Our journey is a smooth one, punctuated on arrival in the outskirts of Ipswich by a stop to lend two season tickets to Aimee, an attractive mother of two whose daughter is in a girl’s football team, which has won its way through to a national competition. The promise is that the team will get to wave to the crowd from the pitch at half-time, but Aimee now tells me that because the game is on Sky TV this may not happen, which seems like a good reason to smash-up your satellite dish, or perhaps your neighbours’, and post it back to Rupert Murdoch with no postage.

Having parked up the trusty, clean-air loving Citroen, Gary and I wander across Gippeswyk Park towards Portman Road and ‘the Arb’ beyond, pausing only for Gary to kindly buy me a programme by way of ‘payment in kind’ for his lift. Uniquely, the front cover of the programme looks like an advert for hair shampoo featuring Nathan Broadhead. At ‘the Arb’ I order a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself, whilst a loud man sat at a table with other drinkers complains at length that Gary has not closed the door, although oddly, at no time does he say “Please would you close the door”. Gary has a hearing aid, doesn’t hear the man and didn’t realise the door hadn’t shut.

In the beer garden, we join Mick who is already half-way through a pint of Suffolk Pride. We talk of the African Cup of Nations, how Gary knows someone whose nephew plays for Tanzania (and Wealdstone), and how it is a busy time of year for undertakers. Mick gives me a belated Christmas present, an Ipswich Town hat bearing the logo of TXU Energy, the club sponsors during the glorious relegation season of 2001-2002. It’s not even two o’clock and many drinkers are already leaving for Portman Road. We collectively scoff at such behaviour and Gary boldly buys another round of drinks, the same as before, but Mick has a Jameson’s whisky. We discuss how my pint of Suffolk Pride is a bit of a short measure, but like people not prepared to stand up to the way televised football invariably inconveniences the people who actually go to football matches, we decide to let it pass this time.

At around 5:15 we leave for Portman Road, we are the last football supporters to leave the pub and can’t stop being surprised at how the throng of people treading the well worn path is much reduced today. Perhaps supporters have had enough having spent all afternoon in the pub, or maybe they are in the thrall of Sky TV and the leaping flames that will greet the players as they parade onto the pitch. We part ways near the statue of Sir Alf; at the back of his stand there are no queues and as I enter the meaning-laden turnstile 62 I ask the steward “Have you been waiting for me?”, I’m not sure why.

Up in the stand, Pat from Clacton, Fiona and ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood are all here, but the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is missing; I’m surprised (again). I have missed the leaping flames that now seem to be de rigeur before televised games, but I’m in time for Murphy the stadium announcer’s reading out of the teams. Wondrously, his performance is much better today and he gets through the first seven or eight names pretty much in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard, but he can’t help gabbling Conor Chaplin far too quickly and all is suddenly lost and my bawling of players names as if I’m French becomes a hopeless, pointless struggle like trying to look cool in a Norwich City shirt.

Before kick-off there is a minutes applause for all the Ipswich Town supporters and a former player who have died in the last year, because apparently this fixture is the club’s dedicated ‘Memorial Match Day’ for the season. It’s an odd idea and I don’t like it very much; it strikes me as mawkish. Sadly, people die but life, and that includes football, is for the living. Also, if people didn’t die we would need much bigger football stadiums, but I suppose they could always watch on Sky TV.

At last, after a decent burst of The Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’, the game begins, and Sunderland get first go with the ball, aiming it more or less in the direction of the hospice on Anglesea Road. Pleasingly, Sunderland are sporting their handsome signature kit of red and white striped shirts with black shorts, and look like Exeter City, which I‘m hoping is a portent for another six-nil home victory; we haven’t had one for a while now. Town are also in their natural habitat of blue shirts and white shorts. Portman Road is full of noise today and I suspect an afternoon in the pub is something to do with it. “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” sing the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Sunderland win the games’ first free-kick to groans from the home crowd and their number 21, Alex Pritchard, who is allegedly 3cm taller than Conor Chaplin, but doesn’t look it, has the first shot on goal; it goes over the cross-bar. I’m finding it difficult to read the black squad numbers of the Sunderland players against the red and white stripes of their shirts. Harry Clarke loses the ball by the corner flag and some Sunderland player or other advances towards the goal unopposed. “Firkin ‘ell” I mutter to myself under my breath so that Pat from Clacton won’t hear, but fortunately the ball is soon cleared.

Only seven minutes have passed and the Sunderland fans sing “Doo Doo Doo, football in a library”. A low Wes Burns cross skids across the face of the goal but Kayden Jackson cannot quite get to it to apply the merest ⁹⁸touch needed to direct it into the goal. Eleven minutes have gone and the Sunderland fans sing “Doo doo doo, Football in a library” and then “Shall we sing, shall we sing , shall we sing a song for you”. Nobody responds, but I am tempted to ask if they know ‘I had too much to dream last night’ by the Electric Prunes, but I’m not sure that vocally they could re-create the reverb on the electric guitars which is an essential part of the record. The seat on my left is vacant and so is the one next to that.

Darkness encloses the ground like a shroud. Pat from Clacton asks the bloke behind her not to swear. “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” sing the Sunderland fans, perhaps because it doesn’t contain enough swear words. “Football in a library, doo- doo-doo” continue the Sunderlandites, clearly now attempting a world record for the number of times they can diss another club’s support in the first half of a televised match. It’s the nineteenth minute and a succession of short passes finally play Kayden Jackson into a position where he rolls the ball past a post. The Sunderland number five Dan Ballard falls extravagantly under a challenge from Kayden Jackson. Ballard is an outside toilet of a man, Jackson a waif by comparison. Referee Mr Allison awards a free-kick to Sunderland. “Weed” I bawl at Ballard, “Pathetic man”. He scuffs the ball into touch, no doubt unsettled by my calling him out. Five minutes later and Harry Clarke is the first player to see Mr Allsion’s yellow card; the match is pretty good, but home fans agree that the refereeing isn’t. A minute passes and Vaclav Hladky makes a fine save at the expense of a corner to Sunderland and then they score as a large gap appears to one side of the goal and Jack Clark has too much to aim at to miss. “Clarke, Clarke will tear you apart again” Sing the Sunderland fans to the dreary, similarly titled 1980 tune by the ironically named Joy Division.

The Sunderland supporters are very loud indeed, perhaps because shipyards of old were noisy places, although I don’t suppose the Datsun car factory and call centres compare. Harry Clarke gets forward and a low hard cross earns a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow to a background of abject silence from all around me. The corner comes to nought. A third of the match has gone forever. “Football in a library, doo-doo-doo” sing the Sunderland fans now completely at ease with the complicated lyrics. Two minutes later and more Town passing involving Conor Chaplin peaks with a through ball for Kayden Jackson, which he sweeps past the Sunderland goalkeeper into the corner of the goal net and the score is one -all. “I didn’t even expect that” says the bloke behind me as if at other times he always knows what is about to happen. “When the Blues go marching in” sings the Sir Bobby Robson stand at a funereal pace, perhaps because it’s the Memorial Match Day.

There are five minutes until half-time and more passes culminate in a Kayden Jackson shot wide of the goal. “Football in a library, doo-doo-doo” sing the Sunderland fans showing signs of addiction before the ball bounces about alarmingly in the Town penalty area and Murphy announces two minutes of additional time, which pass without incident. Half-time is spent at the front of the stand with Ray his grandson Harrison and son Michael. We agree it’s been a good half, but we appear to lack the confidence of previous games and Kayden Jackson would have done better in the days of two up front and needs Trevor Whymark to play off.

The football resumes at twenty-three minutes to seven and within a minute a Leif Davis shot forces a not very elegant save from the Sunderland keeper. Sunderland win a free-kick from which they thoughtfully shoot directly over the bar and then Town work the ball from one end to the other with a succession of short passes. “Champagne football” says the bloke behind me, although really it’s Suffolk football. George Edmundson puts his hand on the shoulder of Sunderland’s number seventeen who collapses in a heap and Mr Allison brandishes his yellow card, before celebrating the passing of an hour by doing the same at Wes Burns. “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here” chant the Sunderland fans, but I’ve forgotten why.

“Handball” calls the home crowd as one at the north end of the ground, making that glorious unified sound of appeal, but of course Mr Allison’s ears are closed to it. On sixty-five minutes Sunderland make a substitution with Adil Aouchiche replacing Abdoullah Ba, I recall seeing Aouchiche playing in French Ligue 1 for both St Etienne, where I thought he was quite good, and Lorient and can’t imagine why a player would leave such lovely places for Sunderland. Within a minute Sunderland force a defensive howler as Town’s neat passing at the back goes awry and Aouchiche is presented with an open goal which thankfully he screws wide of the goal with a shot off the outside edge of his right foot. He follows this up by being nutmegged by George Edmundson .

It’s time for Town to make mass substitutions and Wes Burns, Kayden Jackson and new loan signing Lewis Travis whose name makes me think of Malcolm McDowell in ‘If’, depart to be replaced by Omari Hutchison, Dominic Ball and on-loan Jeremy Sarmiento from Ecuador via Brighton and Hove. Town have started to dominate the game now and we even win a free-kick to ironic cheers from the crowd. “You go to a football match, you gotta expect to hear foul language. It’s fucking ignorant, that’s what it is” blurts the bloke behind me philosophically.

There are less than twenty minutes to play; Town win a corner. It’s too late to get ‘monkey’ out says Pat from Clacton referring to her lucky masturbating monkey charm from Cambodia. “When does he he usually appear” I ask her. “Sixty-nine minutes” she tells me. “He’s obsessed” I tell her. A low cross and a shot for Town follows as pressure builds on Sunderland. Another corner follows for Town and a free- kick. Leif Davis crosses the ball, Conor Chaplin finds space, runs towards more and heads the ball firmly into the Sunderland goal and Town lead two-one before an exultant home crowd. After not scoring against QPR and Stoke some had doubts, but not anymore. “Ralph Woodhouse contact the nearest steward” announces Murphy over the PA system. “Conor Chaplin Baby, Conor Chaplin O-o-oh” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of the Christmas number one record from 1981. “About fucking time” says the bloke behind me.

Not long to go now. Murphy announces the crowd as 29,291 with 1,965 away supporters. “Thank you for your continued support” says Murphy, perhaps worried that we might all stop coming to games at a moment’s notice. If I do, it’ll be his fault. “One Bobby Robson, there’s only one Bobby Robson” sing some home supporters confusingly, seemingly unaware Bobby died in 2009. Town are still dominating and appear to almost score again, but instead it looks like Luke Woolfenden misses an open goal. “We want a striker” chant the Sunderland fans, when from where I’m sitting a couple defenders and a midfielder wouldn’t go amiss either, although handily they already have a referee.

At last additional time turns up and after five minutes of it the game ends and Town win. It’s been an excellent match with the added joy of coming back from a goal down and returning to second place in the league table having been temporarily usurped before kick-off. With no trains running, a road closure on my usual route out of town and having to drop Gary off, it will be nine o’clock before I get home. I shall sleep well tonight with or without a Slumberland mattress.

AFC Wimbledon 1 Ipswich Town 3

January 7, 2024January 8, 2024 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

With the end of Christmas, the return to the drudgery of work, the promise of more short, dark days, miserable weather and stale mince pies, the start of January needs something to lift the spirits. Christians have Epiphany, and those football fans whose teams weren’t knocked out in the preceding rounds have the third round of the FA Cup; Christian football fans get both and no doubt count themselves blessed.

Having returned to the Second Division, Ipswich Town have this season avoided the first and second rounds of the Cup, and something like The Jam’s 1980 single ‘Going Underground’, which went ‘straight-in’ at No1 in the popular music chart, have gone ‘straight-in’ to the third round and a tie with fourth division AFC Wimbledon, who got here the hard way thanks to ‘going knap’ twice with victories over Cheltenham Town and Ramsgate. The joy of this third round tie is further enhanced by the fact that I haven’t previously visited to Wimbledon’s new ground at Plough Lane and they will become the first club I have seen play at five different ‘home’ venues. Take that ‘I-spy’ book of English Football League grounds.

But life is never simple, and the journey to Wimbledon is paved with rail-replacement buses, added to the fact that the year has started badly as I have broken my glasses and cannot see well enough without them to drive; safely anyway. Just to add an extra layer of inconvenience to that, the match kicks off at the ungodly hour of 12:30pm in order that the good people of Aruba, Bolivia, the Central African Republic, Djibouti, Equatorial Guinea, Myanmar, Norway, Rwanda, Sudan and Venezuela, amongst many others may share in our joy via the medium of satellite television on such channels as Star+, SuperSportGOtv LaLiga, DStvNow, NovaSport3, ESPNPlay Caribbean and SportKlub5 Serbia.

As I leave home a little before 8am, my wife Paulene is only just stirring from her slumbers, but I think she understands when I kiss her goodbye and tell her the cup of tea I made her is probably nearly cold. I collect my train ticket (£26.60 with over 60s railcard) from the automatic ticket machine at the railway station. The train is on time and travels through long, broken shadows as the sun rises spectacularly in the East through bands of grey cloud. I look on in wonder through the carriage window, glad I don’t need my glasses to see the glory of this. “Welcome to this service for Witham, we will be calling at Witham” says the soothing female voice of the train announcement as we depart Kelvedon, and then after a short pause “Next stop, Witham”. In no doubt that this journey involves going to Witham, I am not surprised when I arrive there and then switch to a smart, bright blue double-decker bus with high backed seats and leg-room that would be uncomfortable even for Douglas Bader. In the seats behind me are three generations of a family. The grandmother and daughter talk of people they know who died over Christmas, but how they won’t be going to the funerals. The daughter says everything twice and her mother repeats it; the granddaughter just occasionally squeals. The bus speeds along down the A12, and the bit of the window beside me that opens shakes in the breeze, causing a draft, but at least it helps to stop the window steaming up.

The bus takes us to Ingatestone where we wait on platform 2 for a train and I talk to a fellow Town fan also on his way to Wimbledon. We share the glory of Ipswich Town in 2023 and agree that whatever happens, it has been, and still is wonderful, and it is up to everyone to just enjoy it. He’s had a season ticket since 2007; I don’t tell him I’ve had one since 1983, but hope he still has one in 2048. The train arrives at Liverpool Street and I take the Elizabeth Line one stop to Farringdon, where I arrive a half an hour earlier than expected and soon board a Thameslink train destined for Sutton, although I will alight at Haydons⁹ Road. It’s a marvellous ride over the river at Blackfriars and then on through the city’s ripped backside. I peer down into scruffy back gardens, amazed at the prevalence of plastic lawns. Rows of double-decker buses stand idle outside a depot. Vicious looking spikes deter trespassers on roofs and messy graffiti adorns crumbling walls and corrugated iron fences.

Haydons Road is a miserable little railway station, two scruffy, open platforms either side of two sets of rails; this is suburbia and it’s ugly, but mainly because of the roads and the traffic; if trees and grass replaced tarmac and cars it would probably be lovely. It’s cold and there are spits of something in the air, but it’s only a five minute walk along Plough Lane to the football ground, which is mostly hidden behind mixed-use development of plain appearance, but with attractive brickwork, which is preferable to render and cladding. I buy a programme and the woman selling the programmes seems to recognise me, almost as if I’m a regular at Plough Lane. I wonder for a moment if I have a doppelganger living an alternative life in suburban London, then I head into the club shop to admire the exhibits, which include bears, but not Wombles. Outside the shop are two display cases showing models of the previous Plough Lane ground and the Kingstonian ground plus other sacred artefacts.

As someone who has broken the habit of never missing a game home or away, I had no chance whatsoever of getting a ticket (£15) as an away supporter for today’s match. I have therefore employed guile and cunning to get an old friend, Chris, known as ‘Jah’ because of his knowledge and love of Reggae, who lives in relatively nearby Kingston, to acquire tickets, just as he did when Town played Wimbledon shortly before lock down in 2020. I had arranged to meet Jah at Haydons Road station, but my earlier than anticipated arrival has messed things up a bit and he was still in the shower when I texted him from Farringdon. But I get time to explore and enjoy the delights of a sculpture carved from a tree trunk, a bench that features Orinoco the Womble and an overflowing rubbish bin, the delightful street name ‘Greyhound Parade’, a featureless but clean alleyway behind the away end and a grotty looking pub called the ‘Corner Pin’. When we finally meet, Jah reveals that he has spotted a bar and cidery nearby which also looked enticingly grotty and we head there to find that it is in fact rather marvellous, being a small bar attached to a cidery inside a rundown looking industrial unit. It reminds me a little bit of a similar establishment called La Cave du Kraken, which is on the outskirts of Bruay-la-Buissiere in northern France. I order two pints of an unidentified Porter and a packet of Piper’s Jalapeno and Dill crisps (£13.50). Unfortunately, I couldn’t read the pump label without my glasses. We are soon joined by a friend of Jah, introduced initially only as Mr Lynch, who is also a Town fan and who now also lives in Kingston, but was originally from Tattingstone. Back in this same bar after the match, I will learn that at school he was taught geography by a man whose daughter I went out with in 1979.

The bar is only small and has perhaps eight or nine tables, so it is odd, given that is no more than 150 metres from the football ground that it is not full. Odder still, it is only ten past twelve and people are already supping up their beer and leaving. When we eventually depart, about twelve or thirteen minutes later, we discover why, as there are long queues at the four turnstiles to the economically named Ry stand. We miss the first six minutes of the match. Once we find our seats, Jah, who is a Newcastle United supporter, asks me who he should look out for in the Ipswich team. Town have a corner. I tell him Nathan Broadhead and no sooner have the words left my lips than Nathan hits a shot from the edge of the penalty area which he skilfully deflects off the heels of one and then a second Wimbledon player and into the corner of the goal. Town lead one-nil and having just sat down and advised Jah to look out for the Nathan Broadhead I claim some of the responsibility. The bloke next to me curses the Wimbledon defence with tsks and sighs for their failure to stop the goal.

Wimbledon wear all blue with a yellow band across their chests, whilst Town look like Walls Calippos in all over orange, and clash somewhat with goalkeeper Christian Walton who is in pink, or as Jah suggests, ‘rose’. In front of us, a large Womble trails a blue wheelie bin behind him and occasionally stops to rhythmically bang the lid as a prelude to the crowd shouting “Wombles”. We join in because it’s fun, and already not being in with the Town fans has worked out quite well. I haven’t long enjoyed the sight of a large electricity sub-station in the corner near the away end, when Wimbledon are awarded a penalty, I’m not sure why, even with the aid of the glasses Jah kindly lent me when we were in the pub. “That’s what you need” says the bloke sat next to me, and Wimbledon equalise less than ten minutes after Ipswich went ahead.

The goal inevitably excites the home crowd who begin to celebrate the smallest victories all across the pitch; throw-ins, the easiest of tackles and any small failures by Town players are either cheered or jeered enthusiastically as if instead of the Town shirts bearing the Ed Sheeran logo thing, they bear the words “We are mighty Ipswich and we’re loads better than you, you snivelling little menials and we are gonna stuff you at least 10-0”. Sadly however, I think there are some supporters who would like this printed on the Town shirts.

Town win a corner and a chant of “Come You Blues” drifts up the pitch. The corner comes to nothing, as they often do, but being camped in the opposition half is always nice, even if fleetingly. Their defensive successive inspires more rhythmic clapping and chants of “Wombles” from the inhabitants of the quaintly named Reston Waste Stand to our left behind the goal that Town are attacking. Taking the home supporters’ lead of cheering their team, the Town fans shout “Ole” as one Town pass follows another, but may be they had hoped for more consecutive passes. Oddly, Town are giving the ball away more cheaply than usual. It’s just gone one o’clock and Nathan Broadhead displays excellent dribbling skills to set himself up for a shot for which he displays not quite so excellent shooting skills; both the words ‘high’ and ‘wide’ are unfortunately accurate descriptions. “Championship, You’re ‘avin’ a laugh” sing the home fans to the tune of “Tom Hark” by Elias and his Zig Zag Ji-Flutes and later The Piranhas.

Marcus Harness is the first Town player to see the referee’s yellow card following a foul but not before referee Mr Donohue first bends down to speak to the prostrate victim, as if to ask him “Would you like me to book him for you?”. Town haven’t done very much of note since Wimbledon scored, and with Town fans rarely ones to help their team in adversity, ⁹the home fans ask the question “Can you hear the Ipswich sing?” before slightly annoyingly telling us the answer, “No-oo, No-oo”, but then admitting this is because they are all profoundly deaf, singing “ I can’t hear a fucking thing”. It is to be hoped however that it’s due to nothing more than a build-up of excess earwax.

Half-time will be here in less than ten minutes and Freddie Ladapo gets in a shot, but it is weak and easily saved by the Wimbledon goalkeeper Alex Bass, a player who shares his surname with a very tasty type of fish. Another superb piece of foot-based trickery from Nathan Broadhead then earns Town another corner from which Axel Tuanzebe stretches to head the ball into the Wimbledon goal and Town are back in the lead. The goal excites the crowd again and the home fans once more clap rhythmically and shout “Wombles” and it’s too silly and too much fun not to join in. “You ‘af to win that, he’s a foot taller than the other geezer” says the bloke beside me as some Wimbledon player loses out in a struggle to head the ball before we learn that the first half is going to last forty-nine minutes instead of forty-five. It’s a four minutes in which Omari Hutchinson has a run and shot, the bloke next to me says that at least Wimbledon have got good full-backs, Freddie Ladapo shoots over the cross-bar, Town fans sing “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” and the home fans respond with “Come On Wombles” and “Ole, Ole, Ole, Wombles, Wombles” despite not having heard the Ipswich fans singing.

With the half-time whistle Jah and I drain off some excess Porter and then tour the street food vendors which line the perimeter wall of the stadium offering a wide range of foods. We look for the shortest queue and separately join queues for crispy pancakes and pies to see who gets served first. The queue for pies moves much more quickly and I buy us each a sausage roll (£7.00 for two), although the pies have sold out. When we get back to our seats the game has re-started and I will never know which team kicked off first; not unless I ask someone who knows. I enjoy my sausage roll and Jah enjoys his too as Wimbledon earn a corner and their number eight, Harry Pell, glances a header into the arms of Christian Walton. Ten minutes later and Pell is booked for a second time this afternoon and is sent off, we’re not sure why. “It looked like a head butt” says Jah, “But it didn’t seem that bad” he adds, revealing a worrying indifference to casual violence.

This is a reasonable game of football, with both teams mostly playing nicely and just trying to win, rather than not lose. It’s what used to make Cup matches more of an attraction than dull, same old same old league games, but times change and people seem more serious and earnest nowadays. Ipswich mostly dominate possession, but every now and then Wimbledon get the ball and quickly put in a cross to see what happens. For Ipswich, Marcus Harness shoots weakly at the end of a flowing move and Walton makes a decent save from the interestingly named Armani Little after Axel Tuanzebe gives the ball away in the penalty area having earlier been booked. With fifteen minutes to go Luke Woolfenden has a goal disallowed following a corner and Sone Aluko and Wes Burns replace Omari Hutchinson and Marcus Harness. I tell Jah that Wes Burns is another player to watch and I realise I forgot to tell him about captain Sam Morsy.

I decide I like Plough Lane football ground, it’s very much what a football stadium should be like in a big city, pressed up close against neighbouring buildings, but somehow quite spacious too. The main stand (The Cappagh Stand) is quite impressive even if it does look a bit like it’s been transplanted from a racecourse and Jah and I debate how it should be pronounced; is it Capparff as in laugh, or Cappa as in Fermanagh or perhaps Capparrrrrr as in some made-up, more amusing pronunciation. Either way it gets us through to late chants of “Come On Wombles” and an almost frighteningly inaccurate Sone Aluko shot before Wes Burns runs, crosses and Jack Taylor taps the ball in from close range and Ipswich have won 3-1. The attendance is announced as 8,595 with 1,390 from Ipswich, although the latter figure is actually at least 1,393 if you count me, Mr Lynch and the bloke sat next to him who Mr Lynch later tells us is Mick Stockwell’s cousin. Four minutes of added time make no difference except to our ages, but then not much.

It’s a lovely feeling winning a Cup tie, especially away from home when there is no need to rush back, and instead we adjourn to the Against the Grain cidery just round the corner, and Jah is elated too because Newcastle have thrashed Sunderland three-nil. After leaving the cidery and Mr Lynch, Jah and I will head ‘into town’ for we have unlimited travel of tfl services and we will talk of all manner of things long into the evening, or at least until about ten past seven when I reckon I ought to be getting home. We’ve had a lovely day, which is probably pretty much what the Magi said when they turned in for bed 2024 years ago.