It seems hard to believe that despite it now being a third of the way through October, and with the football season having started in August, Ipswich Town have so far only played two league games at home. But that’s modern football and the Premier League for you, just another part of the mad scramble to concentrate as much money as possible into the hands of as few people as possible before the apocalypse, which will probably be streamed live on tv. Today, as the season begins for a second time, Ipswich will play funny old Fulham, the jokey little London club loved by Tommy Trinder, Wolfie Smith and Terry McCann.
It had been quite a good week, I had returned home from my personal pilgrimage to Haverfordwest and spent a day with my brother-in-law, which was entertaining. Yesterday however, I received the sad news that my dear friend Ray had died that afternoon. As everyone I know who knew him agrees, he was such a lovely bloke; thoughtful, funny and kind, he was so good at being those things he didn’t need to be anything else. Ray didn’t believe in God and given that he is now dead, but Donald Trump still lives, I think he was probably right. The existence of Satan might be a different matter, however. On a happier note, this morning I have been vaccinated against influenza, so that’s good.
The train to Ipswich is late but only by a minute or two and when Gary boards at the next station stop it’s not a topic of conversation, instead we talk of my trip to Wales and of the contrasting customer service of Greene King and Royal Mail. In my recent experience Greene King dispense beer vouchers and complimentary cases of beer whilst Royal Mail witter on in lengthy AI generated e-mails and pay no attention to what you tell them; as Royal Mail pensioners, Gary and I both agree it wasn’t like that in our day.
Arriving in Ipswich, the sky is overcast and the station forecourt and Princes Street are busy with folk. We make our way through the town past the ‘new’ (it was the original town museum) ‘Museum of the Environment’ on aptly named Museum Street to the Arb, where I join a queue for the bar whilst Gary heads for the beer garden to look for a vacant table. Mick soon appears and he buys the drinks, a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and pints (one each) of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for Mick and me. As we emerge into the light of the beer garden Gary simultaneously nabs a table as other lunchtime drinkers leave. Our conversation rambles, I buy another round of drinks (Suffolk Pride, half of Estrella and a Jameson’s whisky for £12 something with Camra discount) and we express surprise and amusement at how by half past two we seem to be the only people left in the beer garden. Mick attributes this to a modern epidemic of anxiety. I worry he might be right.
At twenty to three we drain our glasses and set off for Portman Road. As ever, there are queues for the Cobbold Stand in Portman Road and at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand. Making a quick assessment of the relative length and speed of each queue I join the shortest, fastest moving one where I stand behind two men discussing their holidays. “Yes” says one “We went on a cruise down the Rhine” and then as if it was the most natural thing in the World “It was drink all you want”. I’ve stopped smirking by the time I reach the front of the queue where I congratulate and name as ‘employee of the month’ the young, handsome man of Asian origin who is so quickly scanning us for weapons and scrap metal and letting us go onto the second challenge of the afternoon, the turnstiles. The queue for illustrious turnstile 62 looks a bit sluggish so I go for the next best thing, turnstile 61, which turns out fine once a steward explains to the bloke in front how to present his mobile phone, and I’m soon shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat where I say hello to the bloke next to me and to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and see the backs of the heads of ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.
The game begins beneath grey clouds after the Fulham captain Bassey (Shirley) has got up off his knees and finished praying, to whom or what, or for what it is impossible to say. It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball though, sending it when they can, mostly in the direction of the goal in front of me and my fellow ultras. Ipswich are of course in classic blue and while, whilst Fulham look a mess in red and black chequer-board shirts and red shorts, when their traditional white shirts and black shorts would have suited the occasion perfectly well. We can but hope however, that they will lose as a result. “Fulham, Fulham” chants the Fulham supporters, supportively, before launching into a rendition of Frankie Valli’s 1967 hit “Can’t take my eyes of you” which sadly sort of peters out after the words “I love you Fulham”, as if nobody was really sure of the words after that. “MSC, moving the world together” announce the neon advertising boards on the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I feel we should get the United States government to fund a message directly after it reading “Donald Trump, moving the world further apart”.
“Super Fulham, Super Fulham” sing the Fulham fans and after eleven minutes and a spell of pressure Ipswich become the first team to win a corner. “Come On You Blues” everyone chants, more or less. “Create more space with a mezzanine floor” announces that neon sign, which seems to have taken to providing surreal in-game coaching advice to the team. Two minutes later and Town have another corner, the game is fast and Portman Road is noisy, a few of us again chant “Come On You Blues!”! A further three minutes pass and the highlight of the half for Town arrives with a neat move down the right, a touch back and a measured, curling, low shot past the post from Julio Enciso.
The first half is never as good again for Town and Leif Davis is soon booked for a not particularly bad foul. “Sets a precedent” says the bloke beside me suggesting anyone could be booked for anything from now on. The sky remains cloudy and grey, Fulham win a corner, “Come On Fulham” chant their fans and the neon sign says “Hot Sausage Company” and then “The ideal pre-match meal”, hopefully information that any watching scouts from Town’s next opponents, Manchester City will take to heart and implement. On the touchline, Gary O’Neil strikes a pose which if he was wearing a white suit with wide lapels and flared trousers rather than a zip-up cardigan might make him resemble John Travolta.
Fulham have begun to dominate possession and in one of the growing number of dull moments Pat asks if I’ve seen her new blue and white earrings, which she then displays by turning her left ear towards me. I ask if she’s wearing her blue pants too and a look of horror crosses her face as she realises she has forgotten them, although happily she does have some underwear on, although apparently it is beige. Fulham’s dominance of possession continues and chants of “Blue Army!” fail to reverse the tide. Fulham win a second corner and hit a shot wide of the Town goal. “The future of flat roofing today” says the neon signage. The half concludes with a minute of added on time and an equalising booking for Fulham’s number seven Gonzalo, who tackles Lukic in a different financial year to the current one.
At half-time, the scoreboard wishes happy ninetieth birthday to Sheila who sits across the gangway from Pat from Clacton, and who miraculously doesn’t really look any older than Pat does. I use the remainder of half-time to vent spent Suffolk Pride and then chat briefly with Dave the steward, to whom I proudly reveal that I am now retired and it’s marvellous. Dave won’t retire for another four years, poor devil. The football resumes at two minutes past four and Leif Davis is soon launching a really lousy free-kick high over the Fulham cross bar before at the other end Fulham players come out with some very imaginative appeals for a penalty before hanging about in the Town box winning three corners in quick succession. The third corner is headed clear by Diop but falls to Fulham’s Ryan Sessegnon, who is lucky enough to see his speculative low shot from 25 yards avoid all of the thirty to forty ankles and boots in between and then nestle in the corner of the Town goal. “Super Fulham, Super Fulham FC, the finest football team the World has ever seen” chant the Fulham fans and then “We are staying up, We are staying up”, which seems an unusually modest ambition for the greatest football team the World has ever seen.
Within five minutes, Ipswich come close to equalising but Emmerson ’s close range header hits a post instead of the net and the Fulham fans begin to get a bit cocky with chants of “No noise from the Tractor Boys” and “How shit must you be we’re winning away”. Without the gift of foresight they are living in the moment, blissfully unaware of what is to come.
It is the sixty-second minute, and Town bring on Exequiel Palacios and Jack Clarke for Florentino and Philogene, immediately improving the team. “Come on Town!” shouts the bloke beside me with rekindled optimism “These are fucking rubbish”. Palacios soon helps Town to gain and keep more possession whilst Clarke runs at defenders. Nine minutes later and Akpom and Flemming replace Enciso and Emmerson. The grey cloud has lifted, the sky is blue and the sun shines into the faces of the Fulham fans in the Cobbold stand. Fifteen minutes remain and Daizen Maeda prompts VAR into action after he falls to the ground in the penalty area, but predictably no foul is acknowledged. The best substitution of the match follows soon afterwards when Fulham replace Bobb with Kevin, although regrettably the excitable young stadium announcer wastes the opportunity to pronounce Bobb in the way that Rowan Atkinson did in the first episode of Blackadder 2.
The last ten minutes of normal time arrive with a final substitution for Town as Eggy replaces Daizen, which is nice for our Norwegian supporters but less so for our Japanese ones. Today’s attendance is announced as being 29,445 and we are thanked for our “…incredible support”, and without a hint of sarcasm. Town are dominant but I am far from convinced that we are going to do anything other than lose one-nil. Pat from Clacton debates whether or not to get the masturbating monkey charm out of her handbag but she probably shouldn’t, Fiona’s niece is here with us today and she’s only twelve. Town are getting plenty of crosses into the Fulham penalty area. Another goes in and is cleared by Shirley (Bassey) but only to Abdoul Outtara who has been brilliant at right-back all afternoon. Outtara takes a touch, steps forward and unleashes the proverbial ‘rocket of a shot’ from may be 30 metres out; it arrives instantaneously just inside the far post, and the score is one-all. As if being an 88th minute equaliser isn’t enough it’s fantastic, it’s spectacular and makes Sessegnon’s earlier flukey goal look like a tap-in.
There will be five minutes of added time and having scored so late we could be happy with a draw, but the feeling is we can win this, it’s like Escape to Victory all over again. The match is now into time added on and Chuba Akpom wins a freekick on the left; Jack Clarke takes it, flighting the ball to the near post, and then the ball bulges the net from Dara O’Shea’s imposing header. Town lead two-one and there are ecstatic arms, legs, bodies and other things joyously jumping, flailing and hugging and being thrown and bounced around all over the place. There’s still time for Christian Walton to make a match winning save with his left leg from Kevin but in yet another marvellous climax Town emerge victorious and Fulham live up to the comedy billing of their eternal association with Citizen Smith.
Fiona and Pat from Clacton make their customary sharp exits with the final whistle but I hang on to applaud and sing of Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown, who everyone calls Ted. In truth, Town have only been good in parts, but what parts they were and of course football punditry wisdom tells us that it’s good to play badly and win, even if in fact we didn’t play badly. Whatever, it was a magnificent win and although I’m not a sentimental man it feels to me like a win for Ray.
