Author: martinpbrooks

Stanway Rovers 0 Maldon & Tiptree 0

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It’s the third day of August and the domestic football season is yawning and stretching after a  long sleep throughout June and July.  However, in the same way that an early morning shower, or a nice cup of tea, will bring enjoyment and refreshment at the start of another day, so the FA Cup also invigorates and refreshes and quickly brings a sense of purpose, and today is the start of this season’s FA Cup (although some games were played last night).  The ‘proper’ rounds of the FA Cup of course do not begin until the league clubs enter in November, and non-league football clubs have to qualify to get into the ‘proper’ FA Cup and so obsessed with hierarchy is the Football Association that before the first qualifying round there is a preliminary round, and before that is the extra preliminary round, and that’s what’s happening today.  It’s as if the FA is saying to the smallest clubs, at the lowest levels of the league pyramid “You are nothing and you have no money, so whilst we’ll let you play in the FA Cup, it won’t be the ‘proper’ FA Cup”   Worse still, some clubs, those below Step Nine, aren’t even allowed to enter the extra-preliminary round. 

I have toyed with the idea of attending any number of possible FA Cup fixtures today with Long Melford, Cornard United, FC Clacton, Basildon United, Little Oakley, Stowmarket Town, Heybridge Swifts, Ipswich Wanderers and even Harleston Town all having home ties that I could surely get to.  But as a lazy person who economises on effort wherever possible, I eventually choose the fixture that is closest to my house and therefore easiest to get to.   I briefly consider catching the bus, but the service is only hourly and whilst I would arrive in plenty of time for kick-off, I can’t be certain that I would make it back to the bus stop in time after the final whistle.  So it is that I set off forty minutes after the bus, just before half-past two, in my planet saving Citroen eC4 to travel the 5.76 kilometres to New Farm Road and ‘The Hawthorns’ where at three-o’clock Stanway Rovers of the Essex Senior league will be playing Maldon & Tiptree of the Pitching-In Isthmian League North.

It’s been a sultry morning under cloudy skies, but now the sun is shining as I edge through the car park and am directed by a man in a dayglo tabard into what is possibly the last available parking space.  The car park is like Brighton beach without the nudists, and pebbles crunch under foot as having left my car I head for the club house and the bar, where I am delighted to see real ale for sale.  With kick-off only twenty minutes away I buy just a half a pint of Colchester Brewery “Romans go home”, which of course they did at the beginning of the 5th century.   At £2.30 it seems rather expensive but the beer is tasty and I quaff it quickly before I trudge back across the beach between the cars to the turnstile, where a queue has formed, largely due to the time taken for someone up ahead to pay by debit card, although cash is also accepted.  To heighten and prolong my sense of eager anticipation and impatience to see the game, and that of the people behind me, I too pay by card (£8.00).

Stepping inside the ‘stadium’ I exercise a visual stock take and don’t think the place has changed much since I was last here, which was on a cold day in December 2013 to see Stanway Rovers lose improbably by a single goal to mighty Wivenhoe Town.  There may now be a few more bus shelter style stands and a couple less portacabins but that’s about it.  What does differ from eleven years ago is that there are no programmes on sale today but a faded, laminated A4 poster displays a QR code for digital programmes, although these turn out to be last season’s, not today’s game.  I ask a man in a dayglo gilet if there is a programme today; he doesn’t know, although trying to help he asks another man in a dayglo gilet who doesn’t know either but responds in a manner which suggests it’s nothing to do with him and he prefers not to answer questions about anything.

Time passes as Nineties dance music plays over the public address system, which turns out to be two large roof mounted speakers, one on its side, that look like they’ve been liberated from an ageing hi-fi system.  The music stops abruptly as the two teams appear from the corner near the turnstile to process onto the pitch and go through all the usual handshaking before forming separate huddles and then lining up to await the ‘parp’ of the referee’s whistle. The Stanway number eleven has one leg of his shorts rolled up over his thigh as if to ‘show a bit of leg’. Slightly late, at two minutes past three, the match begins with Maldon & Tiptree getting first go with the ball, which they boot towards the car park end.  The visiting team are wearing a frighteningly dull kit of pale grey shirts and slightly darker grey shorts; it makes them looked like all life and natural colour has been drained out of them as if by some previously unknown Essex coast vampire.  Maldon’s home kit is one of red and blue stripes like Barcelona of the Spanish La Liga or Stade Malherbe Caen of French Ligue 2 and it’s a mystery why they’re not wearing it as it would not clash with Stanway’s yellow shirts and black shorts. Perhaps the home kit is in the wash, or maybe they are wearing it and that vampire is real.

The opening stages of the game seem tense and cautious.  “Mick, right shoulder” shouts the home goalkeeper. “’old ‘im” bawls someone else “Get over!”.  It’s a relief when the ball leaves the pitch and hits a man with a jade-coloured jumper draped over his shoulders.  I walk down the ground behind the dugouts past a man with a golden retriever dog.  I overhear a snatch of conversation “Tooting Broadway Witherspoons (sic) is right across the road” explains someone. I stand between the dugouts “Joe, Joe, can we?” implores one of the Stanway coaches curiously as he stands momentarily with hands on hips in his black nylon tracksuit. “Come On Ref!”

At twelve minutes past three the Stanway number four heads wide of the Maldon goal.  The opinion in the Stanway dugout is that he “needed” to score that.  As if to almost  prove them right Maldon are almost immediately on the attack and win two corners in quick succession.  A Maldon player dribbles the ball cleverly between two opponents.  “Nice feet” says a man near me, who is possibly a chiropodist.   Stanway almost score almost again as a back-header skims off a crown and is tipped away acrobatically by the Maldon goalkeeper.

Keen to experience the game from all around the Hawthorns I move to the corner of the ground where the slope on the site affords me an unexpectedly elevated view across the gently, but nevertheless worryingly rolling, undulating pitch.  Above me a blackberry bush hangs down over the fence and I spend the remainder of the half feasting on plump, ripe blackberries which are being warmed by the mid-afternoon sun.   By half-time I have eaten more blackberries than I have ever eaten before whilst watching a football match.  It’s now twenty-five past three and the somewhat lumbering, balding and clearly bearded referee calls for a drinks break.  The Stanway substitutes trot about in front of me, stretching and discussing football boots; apparently, one of them owns a pair “…like the Trent Alexander Arnold ones”.

When the match resumes Maldon pass the ball amongst their centre backs, in the style of England, until number six carefully side foots the ball into touch.   It’s three thirty-eight, and a Maldon free-kick thumps the head of the Stanway number eight, who was in a defensive wall but now lies prone on the grass; the game is stopped while he receives treatment and then leaves the pitch.  In due course he returns, but oddly now has his shorts rolled up over his thighs like the number eleven.

The match is not of the highest quality and the ball regularly sails aimlessly through the upper atmosphere and on one occasion into a neighbouring garden.  At eleven minutes to four however Maldon’s number nine shoots and only a low diving save from the Stanway goalkeeper prevents a goal. From the resultant corner however, the ball is fired out into the car park and hopefully avoids my Citroen; the high fence behind the goal doesn’t seem to be quite high enough.  The half ends with me reflecting on the names on the advertisement boards and questioning whether  Planned Environmental Services have a rival company called Un-planned Environmental Services.  Finally, I find myself disappointed that neither club seems to have neither a band of noisy teenage Ultras or one of ageing but witty malcontents.

With half time I head to the tea bar where I invest in a pound’s worth of tea and two pounds’ worth of sausage roll, which comes with a free paper napkin.   I don’t think the sausage roll is as good as the ones at Coggeshall Town, although it is cheaper, but it is definitely better than the ones from Greggs. Having eaten my sausage roll I move to the two-step terrace cum bus shelter  behind the goal at the car park end and strangely overhear more people talking about Tooting Broadway. I finish my tea and the teams amble out only to line up and then have to wait for the referee and his two linesmen, one of whom has a beard, whilst the other is older and has a bit of a pot belly.

It is eight minutes past four as the football resumes and unexpectedly a small man in a polo shirt with a tie draped around his shoulders begins to bawl Yellow Army, Yellow Army, Yellow Army several times.  I see from my phone that the current temperature is twenty-four degrees and then the man in the dayglo gilet who I asked about the programme appears and tells me that there is currently an ‘error’ with the programme.  I wonder if the error is that no one produced one as Maldon win successive corners and I get the impression that they are the slightly more dominant team.

Continuing my odyssey I walk a little further round the ground and on to the fourth side where there is a small pre-fabricated stand containing the only seats in the stadium.  I am suddenly struck with the thought that Stanway Rovers seem to have an uncharacteristically small number of players with visible tattoos before I spot what looks like my friend Gary in the seats.  Approaching the stand, I confirm that the reason the person I see looks like Gary is because it is Gary, and I decide to sit down in the seat in front of him just as Maldon’s number four is booked by the referee for a misdemeanour I didn’t see fully because I was concentrating on identifying Gary. 

As Stanway make their first substitution, Gary tells me how his mother has been ill and in hospital. It’s now twenty-three minutes to five and the game remains tense, cautious and lacking in goalmouth action with both teams either defending well or just lacking the ability to score a goal, I’m not sure which. At seventeen minutes to five some football suddenly breaks out as Maldon’s number nine dribbles down the right flank leaving three Stanway players in his wake before putting in a low cross.  The cross unfortunately runs behind the Maldon player’s team-mates, but their number seven manages to get to the ball and turn, but then sends his shot over the goal, the fence and into the premises of Collier and Catchpole, the independent local builders’ merchants.

The clock is running down, it’s nine minutes to five and my thoughts are turning to what I might have for tea as a Stanway shot rolls rapidly towards goal and this time it is necessary for the Maldon goalkeeper to make a save.  Gary and I chat as we watch and I learn from him that the concessionary admission price at Stanway applies to over sixties, not over sixty-fives, so I’ve spent three pounds more to get in than I needed to.  It’s two minutes to five as another football sails out of the ground and into one of the neighbouring properties, but a minute later the game is over; the final score nil-nil.

The game over and with no conclusion except that there will be replay at Maldon, Gary and I quickly vacate our seats, leaving together as he heads for the toilet, and I make for my Citroen.  Briefly deconstructing the game in the style of football pundits, I think the match was a bit of a non-event, but Gary thinks the second half was better than the first. 

With no conclusive result, no programme and having paid three quid more to get in than I needed to, it hasn’t been the best afternoon, but then again the sun has shone, I had a decent half of beer, a decent cup of tea, an ok sausage roll and most memorably of all more blackberries than I’ve ever eaten before at a football match.  It must be the magic of the Cup.  

Ipswich Town 1 Fortuna Dusseldorf 2

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It’s late July already, summer has almost arrived, and so has the new football season. In the Eastern Counties Premier League, the likes of Brantham Athletic and Walsham le Willows are starting their league fixtures today, but I have decided to prolong the sense of anticipation for the ‘real’ stuff and am returning early to Portman Road to witness the friendly between the mighty Blues and Fortuna Dusseldorf, or “Our friends from Germany” as they have become known. I am looking forward to an afternoon of Kraftwerk and altbier.

Pre-season friendlies are strange beasts, and I don’t usually bother with them.  Back in the 1970’s   my youthful exuberance meant I was as eager to see a Will-hire Cup match against Cambridge United as I was to see any game, but I’m mostly out of exuberance nowadays and I begrudge paying the money just to watch the team train.  I last saw Town play a pre-season friendly eight years ago when they met Union St Gilloise from Brussels, a club then in the Belgian second division but now regular Pro-League title challengers, although sadly they never quite manage to win it.  The fact that St Gilloise are from Belgium and Fortuna from Germany is significant; I can’t resist seeing teams from abroad, even in friendlies.  Maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days before that stupid referendum (emphasis on the ‘dum’) cut Britain adrift, or maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days when competitive European games were regular entries on Town’s fixture list, or maybe I’m just hoping to catch the lingering scent of strong beer, trams, fine wine, fast trains, chocolate and haute cuisine clinging to the replica shirts of visiting supporters.

As befits late July, it’s a fine, warm day with fluffy clouds heaped up under azure skies.  My train (return ticket £9.60 with senior railcard) is on time, and as I step on board the chill of the air-conditioned carriage comes as a bit of a shock, as does the smell of the toilet. Reassuringly, the eletronic sign above the gangway tells me that this service for Ipswich will call at Ipswich. On the opposite side of the gangway to my seat a man with two young boys has a voice that sounds like a very sleepy version of the now deceased comic and Eastenders actor Mike Reid; “…know what I mean?” he says to the boys after he explains that he doesn’t think any football ticket should cost more than £50.00.  I see all four polar bears at Jimmy’s farm as the train eases down the hill into Ipswich.

I am meeting Mick today, but by way of a change our rendezvous is at the Station Hotel, where Mick is already eating the sightly odd combination of a toasted cheese sandwich and chips with his friend Chris, whom he previously met off the train from Felixstowe.  I join them with a pint of something called Platform Number 9 (£3.90) and we talk of summer signings, locally listed buildings, prostates, American politics, how some of the cheese in Chris’s toasted sandwich hasn’t melted and how I have had an air source heat pump installed this week and thanks to various pipes and ducts the back of my house now looks like the Pompidou Centre.  Conversation continues with a further pint of Platform Number 9 for me and a Jameson whisky for Mick (£7.85 for the two), before Chris suggests we make a move for Portman Road, which is exactly what we do.

In Portman Road there are queues for the Cobbold Stand where our seats are sat waiting for our bottoms, but first I stop to acquire a programme (£2.50) from one of the blue booths that look as if they should also sell ice creams.  The front cover of the programme gives Mick and I something to talk about in the snaking queue to the turnstile as we comment on the casual, hands in pockets stance of Ali Al-Hamadi, Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke, and the somewhat macho “You looking at me?” expressions on their faces.  Mick doesn’t recognise Ali Al-Hamadi or Harry Clarke and I can’t remember Clarke’s name at first either. “That full-back” I tell him, “you know, Colin Harper”.

After venting excess “Platform Number 9” we find our seats and almost immediately the game begins, as if they’d just been waiting for us to arrive. Fortuna get first go with the ball , or it could have been Town, I wasn’t really paying attention.  Fortuna, in all red,  are kicking the ball mostly in the direction of the telephone exchange, Barrack Corner  and what used to be Anglesea Road hospital beyond, where in June of 1976 my father had a hernia operation. A couple of months later he and I would see Town beat Go Ahead Eagles Deventer one-nil in a pre-season friendly.  Barely four minutes pass and Fortuna score, Schmidt. It’s an overly simple goal with a cross that reveals an absence of marking and ends with an unchallenged header.  Oh well, it’s only a friendly.

“Come on Ipswich” shouts a shrill child behind us and Mick and I piece together the line-up of the Town team.  The shirts show squad numbers, but the programme doesn’t provide the key to these and the Town players’ names are not on their shirts either. From what’s on the back of their shirts,  all the Fortuna players appear to be called Dusseldorf.  Not being ones to memorise the Town squad numbers, Mick and I are at a loss to identify Town’s number 14, but the bloke sat next to Mick that isn’t me helps us out, revealing that it is Jack Taylor; it threw us seeing him start a match.  We eventually also manage to deduce that the new signings are number 22 Jacob Greaves, number 8 Liam Delap, number 2 Ben Johnson, and the goalkeeper is Arijanet Muric.  After eight minutes Town fashion a first shot on goal, a weak effort by Delap.

Twenty minutes pass and my interest has mostly only been piqued by the building work on the West Stand, where swathes of seats are missing and it’s possible to see the decorative brickwork of the Corporation bus depot through the gap where there will eventually be more hospitality boxes.   I note that our goalkeeper wears pink and that Jacob Greaves wears his hair in a small bun, a bit like former Pompey player Christian Burgess who coincidentally now plays for Union St Gilloise.  I do like a centre-half with longer hair, it suggests to me a welcome  element of flair in a position not usually known for it.

Liam Delap receives a strangely generous smattering of applause when caught offside and after twenty-five minutes Town win a corner, but then Fortuna are awarded a free-kick by referee Mr Smith and the man next to Mick that isn’t me starts waving his left arm about in anguish. “English, and he’s against us!” he shouts weirdly, as if its 1944 not 2024 and the referee is Lord Haw-Haw.  I turn to Mick to tell him how surprised I am at how much some people seem to care so much about a friendly; but soon I’m thinking to myself that I’ve not sat in the Cobbold Stand since the Blue Action group has moved in and at half-way through the half the drums are beginning to get on my nerves.  Perhaps with the players feeling the same as me, the twenty ninth minute is an unexpected drinks-break, and Mick checks his phone to see what the temperature is.  Twenty-five degrees is evidently warm enough to crack open the Lucozade, or whatever isotonic elixir the modern Premier League player and his coach prefer. 

Drinks supped and play resumed, Marcus Harness replaces Wes Burns and I admit to Mick that I hadn’t realised Wes was even playing. Harness’s introduction is an immediate success as his first cross is headed goalwards by Jack Taylor and Town have another corner, which George Edmundson heads at the Fortuna goalkeeper Florian Kastenmeier who interestingly shares his first name with Florian Schneider, one of the two founder members of 1970’s Dusseldorf-based  ‘Krautrock’  band Kraftwerk.  “Use your height Conor” shouts a man behind us before he laughs at his own ’joke’, hopefully out of embarrassment.  Not totally absorbed by the match, I’ve noticed that a lot of surfaces around the ground are now painted matt black, including all the vomitoriums (vomitoria?)  and I wonder if this is something required by the Premier League along with canapes and a shrubbery for Sky Sports presenters and a toilet reserved for Alan Shearer.

Three minutes of added on time are announced and I realise that from beneath the roof of the Cobbold Stand I cannot see the sky, it’s like looking out through a letterbox.  When half-time arrives, I stay where I am for the duration unable to face the confined spaces beneath the venerable Cobbold Stand, although Mick bravely heads off to the lav.

Predictably, the re-start after half-time brings multiple personnel changes on the field of play and Delap, Edmundson, Greaves and Muric can catch the early bus home as they are replaced by Hirst, Burgess, Woolfenden and Walton.  Fortuna win an early corner after a mistake by Woolfenden, who Mick remarks will need to improve to retain his place this season, and I agree with him.  Then Marcus Harness equalises with a goal not dissimilar to Fortuna’s in that he is left alone on the right-hand side of the penalty area, but it’s a shot, not a header, at the end of a pass from Conor Chaplin.

After a rather dull first half, Town seem for a short while to have re-discovered themselves, and George Hirst breaks forward and plays in Jack Taylor to shoot high towards goal but have his shot saved.  The thrills around the Fortuna goal don’t last however and soon it is the German Bundesliga team that are breaking forward with Ao Tanaka who, running on his toes and with a floppy mop of hair looks a bit like an oriental Trevor Putney.  Tanaka misses, but within minutes Tim Rossmann is left with almost a quarter of the pitch to himself and he runs on to shoot past Walton  with aplomb, and Fortuna lead 2-1.  It’s nearly 3- 1 soon afterwards, again thanks to Tim Rossmann, but this time he misses the goal.

With the German lead restored, the game reverts to how it was in the first half and the Fortuna goalkeeper Kastenmeier has the time to stand and watch a seagull soar and swoop above the pitch and I wonder if he doesn’t get to see many seagulls at the Merkur-Spiel Arena in Dusseldorf.  Dusseldorf is some way in land, but it is on the Rhine which I imagine seagulls follow up-stream.  Annoyingly, I don’t remember if there were seagulls or not when I saw Town play at the Paul Janes Stadion in Dusseldorf back in pre-season,2015.  Whatever the ornithological ins and outs of the Rhineland, nine years on and Fortuna are the better team today. On the touchline, Kieran McKenna retreats to the dugout to peer thoughtfully at a his lap top and rest his head on his chin in contemplation.

More substitutions ensue, but I‘ve lost interest to a large degree and the adverts announcing “University of Suffolk – apply now through clearing” and the sight of  OGC Nice club crest  catch my eye almost as much as the balding pate of Fortuna’s number 27, the obviously bleached blond hair of their number 18 and the enormity of their number 43  who,  for a short while until Mr Smith tells him his fortune seems to ‘want a piece’ of Sam Morsy.

“Mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa, Sam Morsy mwa mwa mwa” says the stadium announcer incomprehensibly as the match draws to a close, and we guess Sam Morsy is man of the match, for what it’s worth.   Mick and I share our mild disappointment at having forked out £35.00 between us to watch two teams train, and then our equally mild confusion that there is to be a penalty shoot-out despite the game not having ended in a draw.  With Fortuna having lost the play-off match for promotion to Bundesliga 1 on penalties at the end of last season, it almost seems like mental cruelty to remind them of the experience so soon afterwards.  On the other hand, there is every chance it will be more exciting than this afternoon’s match was, or at least it would be if anyone cared.

Both teams miss their first penalty and score their next four, and the next one , (or is it two?) after that. When Luke Woolfenden steps up to take the next penalty, I tell Mick that he will miss.  Whilst Woolfy’s shot is on target it is nevertheless saved quite comfortably and if these are “sudden-death” penalties Fortuna have won for the second time this afternoon.  But then Christian Walton gets to take a penalty, which he scores, and I have no idea what is going on, although looking at my watch I realise I’m going to miss my train, and I do. 

Unbowed, or just stupid and somewhat mystified, as we head away from Portman Road Mick and I agree to speak soon to arrange buying tickets for the final friendly of pre-season versus OGC Nice (Olympic Gymnaste Club de Nice) of French Ligue 1.   A pre-season friendly against  French opposition ? We wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Ipswich Town 2 Huddersfield Town 0

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After a 10.7 kilometre ‘trip’ on a static exercise bike whilst listening to an assortment of tunes by The Jam, a shower, a shave and a hearty breakfast of sausage, poached eggs, tomatoes, toast, Welsh cakes, tea and coffee I suddenly find myself under azure skies waiting on a railway platform for a train to take me to Ipswich to see Ipswich Town play Huddersfield Town in the last match of the football league season. Courtesy of the ridiculous 12:30 kick-off, it’s not even half-past ten yet. “It’s not the end of the world” says a man to a child stood by the grey concrete bridge over the railway tracks, and something inside me hopes that’s the last time I hear that phrase today.

The train departs three minutes late. Inside the carriage, on the other side of the gangway to me a man stares out of the window grooving to the sounds coming through the headphones clamped over his ears. “The sticks man” he says to himself almost laughing and sounding like the school bus driver Otto in the Simpsons, and we pass by bucolic scenes of farmyards, duckponds and country cottages.  I think to myself that he could, as Marge Simpson once said, be “…whacked out of his gourd”.  But as I get up to change trains at the next stop he calls “Hey, your scarf man!” and I turn to find that my blue and white scarf had fallen on the floor.  I thank him and he tells me it’s cool. 

On my second station platform of the day, I meet Gary who looms, smiling, out of the throng of blue and white attired people also awaiting the next train to Ipswich. It’s been a very blue a white day so far.  The train is packed full, but I get a seat for Gary and one for me by asking two well-spoken young men if they would mind moving their bags of golf clubs from the seats next to them and into the luggage rack above. They are very obliging and as they move their luggage one of them admits to supporting Leicester City; the other wears a garish striped blazer, like a kind of young Michael Portillo, but not as weird.

We look for polar bears as the train passes through Wherstead, but only see Arctic wolves.   Arriving in Ipswich it takes some time to alight from the train, an activity further hindered by stupid people trying to get on it before everyone else has got off.  Our passage to Portman Road is then slowed again by the ‘automatic’ ticket barriers which unhelpfully haven’t simply been left open to let everyone pass through speedily and safely. Eventually however, we find ourselves crossing Burrell Road and Princes Street bridge and Gary asks me if I’m going to get an ice cream; I tell him I am.  Portman Road however, is packed with people, and there are long queues at the programme booths which, because I am an impatient person for whom standing in queues does not align with ‘living in the moment’, I decide not to join. 

Today we are meeting Mick for a pre-match drink, but he still hasn’t returned to full fitness after the operation on his foot and so rather than trekking uphill to our preferred boozer, ‘the Arb,’ we are only making for the Fanzone, because it’s nearby. Having negotiated the muddled multitude of supporters milling about in the shadow of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and waited in a  short but nevertheless annoying queue, we enter the Fanzone and meet Mick who had arrived moments before us.  With nothing else for three over-sixties to do in the Fanzone but queue for the bar, we queue for the bar having first walked in the opposite direction to discover the end of the queue, like nineteenth century explorers searching for the source of the Nile.  The queue is slow moving today which is because it actually turns out to be two queues, which merge just before the entrance to the beer tent.   By and by we reach the front of the queue and  I generously buy a pint paper cup full of San Miguel Lager for Gary and pint paper cups full of fizzy Greene King East Coast IPA for myself and Mick, it costs me at least double what I would have spent on beer in a week back when Ipswich won the UEFA Cup.   I had told Gary I would ask if there was a discount for Camra members, but out of deference to the pretty young woman who serves us, I don’t. 

Brimming paper cups in hand, we arrange three collapsible chairs in a circle and discuss the health of Mick’s foot and what a “spazz” (Mick’s word not mine) Ipswich ‘s Tory MP, Tom Hunt is.  At about a quarter past twelve a steward asks us whether our seats are in the West stand. Mick’s and Gary’s are, but mine isn’t and she advises that I prepare to leave the Fanzone as there will be queues at the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand.  I complain mildly to Gary and Mick about being hurried along in this way, but Mick admonishes me,  telling me the steward is only trying to be helpful and also that he quite fancies her; as he does so he crushes his cardboard cup in his hand spurting residual beer froth onto the ground like spilt seed. For a moment time stands still.

Never one to argue with Mick when his dander’s up, I bid him and Gary farewell and make my way round to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand along Constatine Road past a man stood with an enormous flag at least twice the size of the tricolour in Eugene Delacroix’s masterful painting “Liberty leading the people”.  The crowds have dispersed now, and I stop to buy a programme (£3.50) at the ice cream booth in the former Churchman’s factory and then Staples’ car park.  I tell the attractive young programme seller that I am surprised there are any left given the queues earlier, and then ponder that Spring really does seem to be in the air.  There are no queues at all at the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, contrary to popular belief, and having passed through turnstile 62, I’m soon greeting the broad smiles of Pat from Clacton and Fiona as I take my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.

Like it often is nowadays, Portman Road is noisy today and I struggle to hear stadium announcer Murphy read out all the names of the Town team, and as a result and to my eternal shame I don’t manage to be the consummate French football supporter as I fail to bawl ‘Tuanzebe’ at the right moment; Fiona laughs.  Shouts of “Blue Army, Blue Army, Blue Army, Blue Army” follow the usual singing of the “na-na-nars” in The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” and the match begins with Conor Chaplin playing the ball back to Luke Woolfenden as Town get first go with the ball.  As ever, Town sport their signature blue and white kit, but Huddersfield Town are in a necessary change kit of day-glo lime green, a kit that would not look out of place on a hot day on anyone mending the pot-holes in the roads of West Yorkshire.

“Leeds, Leeds are falling apart again” sing supporters of both teams in a touching display of unity and schadenfreude, and then Town fans launch into a song about Sam Morsy to the thirty-year-old tune of “She’s Electric” by Mancunian ‘Brit-Poppers’ Oasis; I particularly like the lyric “He’s fucking brilliant” which I think says all anyone needs to know about the Town captain.  Eight minutes pass and clearly unaffected by my earlier faux-pas, Axel Tuanzebe delivers the first shot on goal which results in a comer to Town which begets another, before two minutes later a low Wes Burns cross results in yet another corner and a header wide before after yet another three minutes Town win another corner and two minutes after that Conor Chaplin shoots wide. There is no doubt, Town are on top.

Nineteen minutes are history now, joining the preceding billions of years in spent eternity and news arrives that Leeds United are losing, which if it became a result would mean Town could happily lose too and still be promoted. “Leeds, Leeds are falling apart again” sings the crowd to the tune of Mancunian miserabilists Joy Division’s forty-four year old hit “Love will tear us apart”.  I  briefly wonder to myself why back in 1980 we never re-worded the hits from the mid to late 1930’s such as ‘March winds and April showers’ or ‘I only have eyes for you’.   Interrupting my reverie, Wes Burns shoots hopelessly over the angle of post and bar before the dirge version of “When the Town going marching in “ drifts slowly from the stands as if relegation rather  than promotion was the likely outcome of the afternoon.

The half is more than half over and Conor Chaplin puts Wes Burns through on goal; agonisingly he rolls his shot wide of the target, but like a man with three goes at  a single dart finish, that shot was just a marker and three minutes later, receiving a pass from Conor Chaplin,Wes makes amends ramming the ball between post and goalkeeper.   “E-I, E-I, E-I, E-I-O” chants the home crowd, and Huddersfield substitute their No 8 for No 21.  Six minutes later and Conor Chaplin falls to the turf inside the penalty area. Several supporters bay for a penalty. “You bald cunt” shouts a bloke somewhere behind me, presumably at referee Simon Hooper, but no one really knows.

Five minutes until half time and I sing “Allez les bleus, Allez les bleus “ a couple of times on my own, which I like to think inspires Omari Hutchison to shoot wide, and then the Huddersfield goalkeeper fumbles the ball but catches it at the second attempt.  “At least we haven’t got to  go to the play-offs” says Pat from Clacton, clearly feeling confident. “I think we’re alright” she continues “We can have a nice holiday now”.  Three minutes of additional time are announced by announcer Murphy using his important announcement voice, and Massimo Luongo shoots over the crossbar  before Huddersfield have their very first shot of the game,  as number 44 Rhys Healey shoots wide.  With the half-time whistle, I travel to the front of the stand to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison. Ray talks about not believing in a god or gods, I’m not sure why, but I tell him that at least if you worship the sun,  or the  trees,  you can be sure they exist even if popular song says they don’t listen to you.

The second half begins at twenty-six minutes to two and I notice that the Huddersfield goalkeeper is called Maxwell, and I think to myself that if he’s got a silver hammer, we should get a few penalties.  Looking up, I see the clouds have changed shape, with towering cumulus being replaced by just a smear across the sky. Three minutes into the half and Omari Hutchinson runs at goal, he is forced to run across the face of goal but he’s too quick for the Huddersfield defence and makes space to shoot; the shot is too hard for the Huddersfield goalkeeper and Town lead 2-0.  That’s Ipswich promoted, surely. “Stand up, if you’re going up” is chanted from the stands, and people stand up. What more proof is needed?

For twenty minutes it’s like being present at a concert of Town supporters’ greatest hits of the 2023-24 season. “Are you watching Norwich scum?”, “Carrow Road is falling down”, “One Marcus Stewart.” punctuate corners and a shot over the bar from Leif Davis.  The usual double or triple substitutions on the hour aren’t really needed today, so  are delayed until the seventy-third minute and serve only to draw ovations for a season’s efforts from the departing players.  Announcer Murphy announces today’s attendance as 29,011 and even the seat next to me is occupied, by an extremely tall youth who neither says nor sings anything.  “Small Town in Norwich, You’re just a small town in Norwich” chant the Huddersfield fans bizarrely, or at least those who’ve never seen a map of Britain do. But “The Town are going up, The Town are going up” is the carefree response to the intended sleight.

Huddersfield don’t seem capable of threatening Town’s two-goal lead, let alone overhauling it, although their No21 gets Alex Matos himself booked for a foul on Jeremy Sarmiento, perhaps in an attempt to at least show willing.  But their supporters know the truth and happily and pleasingly sing “We’re  on our way, To Division One, We’re on our way” .  With the game entering the final ten minutes, stewards and police begin to surround the pitch and a helicopter circles above. Surely they can’t be hoping to prevent a pitch invasion, and I begin to wonder if Rishi Sunak is going to have us all machine-gunned as punishment for Thursday’s Council election results; he does after all hope to place Britain alongside Russia and Belarus as  one of just three countries in Europe not signed up to the European Convention on Human Rights. After the game, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) will tell me he would have felt happier if the helicopter  had been being tailed by an Apache from nearby Wattisham.  

As the edge of the pitch fills up with people in day-glo jackets, it starts to become difficult to distinguish the Huddersfield players from our would-be murderers, but reassuringly there will be only three minutes of additional time and I think with promotion now assured, our lives may yet be saved.  With the final whistle Ipswich Town are indeed promoted, having secured second place in the league, six points clear of the team in third, Leeds United, who have apparenrtly fallen apart again, but may yet be able to put themselves back together in the play-offs if they can beat Norwich City, who finish twenty-three points behind Ipswich.  As my friend Pete will remind me later this evening as he congratulates me, from now on Town will be in the “best league in the world”, a world within a world of Sky hype, obscene amounts of money, gambling responsibly and no three o’clock kick-offs on a Saturday – or very few.  As happy as I am that Town are successful after years of misery, and as much as a surfeit of beer, Cremant and red wine will result in my falling asleep early in the second half of Stade Brestois v FC Nantes as I watch it on the telly, I still can’t help but think of the words of Mick McCarthy “Be careful what you wish for.”

It is possible this will be my last blog for a while that features Ipswich.

Further reading: The man who hated football by Will Buckley

Word of the week: Ambivalent

Coggeshall Town 0 Great Wakering Rovers 3

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The 22nd April 2019 was the last time I visited ‘The Crops’, or ‘West Street’ as it is now more prosaically known, to watch Coggeshall Town play. ‘Coggy’ were then enjoying the end of a successful first season in the Isthmian League after successive promotions from the Eastern Counties Leagues. The pages of this very blog recorded that the day was unseasonably warm, and on the day before “…the mercury hit 23 degrees in my back garden”, with the prospect of it getting even warmer.  Five years on, almost to the day, and it’s grey, wet, and cold and Coggeshall Town languish at the foot of the Essex Senior League, about to experience a second successive relegation, creating an unwelcome symmetry with their earlier promotions.  Weirdly, this reminds me of a Rorschach test, when it should be the other way round.

Since I first watched Coggeshall Town in late 2016, I have been meaning to travel to a game there by bus, because it seems like the responsible thing to do.  Today, with the prospect of raindrops on misted up bus windows, it is the perfect opportunity to make that tick on my non-existent bucket list.  To add to the attraction, this will be the first time I have ever seen a match in the Essex Senior League and today’s opponents are Great Wakering Rovers who, in a fortnight’s time, will contest the final of the FA Vase against Romford at Wembley.   So, I will get to see a cup final team without having the expense and bother of getting to London.  A man needs to know his limitations.

  There is a bus stop just round the corner from my house and whilst the laminated timetable hanging limply from the bus stop pole only tells me what times the buses are from Monday to Friday, the wonder of the interweb has filled in the gaps for me and at 14:18 I hail the pale grey double-decker, which is almost a minute early if the timetable and my phone are to be believed. The fare, which I pay by tapping my bank card in the modern way, is £2.00 for the 8-kilometre journey along the A120 between pale green fields of cereal and bright yellow ones of oil seed rape.   As I pay my bus fare and tear off my bus ticket, which is almost a foot long, I muse that the bus driver looks a bit like Danny Cowley, the Colchester United manager.  But Col’ U are at home to Crewe Alexandra today, so they’d miss him if he was moonlighting on the buses.  The journey takes barely ten minutes and as I alight, I make a point of getting a better look at the driver as I turn to thank him; it’s not Danny Cowley after all.  As the bus pulls away, I note that it has fleet number 33713, which seems a very big number when there are so few buses in rural Essex.

It’s a short walk from the “Nursery” bus stop on West Street to the home of Coggeshall Town, although the footpath runs out part way along and I have to cross the road and then cross back again opposite the entrance.  Luckily for me, I’m one of the Tufty generation.  Nothing much seems to have changed since my last visit here in 2019, although it’s a different bloke on the turnstile and the programme is sadly no longer one you can hold in your hand or stuff in your pocket, being out there somewhere in the ether of ‘on-line’. Entry is by cash only; eight quid.

Once through the turnstile I make my way along the concrete path to the clubhouse, with every intention of buying a glass of beer, taking advantage of the freedom given to me by my ticket to ride on public transport.  But disappointingly, it turns out that the only ‘beer’ available are bottles of something called Peroni, a brand name which always makes me think of infections of the stomach lining.  As I advise the barman that “I won’t bother”, another club volunteer places three printed team sheets on the bar and says that’s all there is as they’ve run out of paper and the printer needs a new cartridge.  I leave the team sheets for the regulars to fight over, and head outside to the tea bar to invest in £1.50 worth of tea to sip and warm my hands on as I await kick-off. There are tea bags a-plenty, and milk and little plastic spoons.

It’s not long before the teams are on the pitch and it’s Great Wakering Rovers who get first go with the ball , hoping to put it in the goal at the clubhouse and Braintree end of the ground.  The Rovers wear green and white striped shirts with green shorts, whilst Coggeshall sport red and black striped shirts with black shorts; two fine kits seen from the front, but spoilt by being solid green and solid red from the back;  although this does make it easier to read the players numbers, it isn’t as important when, refreshingly,  they only number one to eleven and not one to infinity.   I stand briefly above the grass bank on the north side of the pitch before going down into the low seated stand where talk seems to be more of cricket rather than football.  “Reggie!” shouts the Coggeshall goalkeeper randomly and my attention is drawn further to him because his yellow kit is almost luminous on this grey afternoon and he appears to be wearing huge black gauntlets, a bit like the sort a plumber might wear if sticking his hand down a toilet  “Good to see Callum start” says someone in the crowd off to my right.

Behind the Coggeshall goal, a collection of what I can only hope are Great Wakering’s most fanatical supporters are dressed as Superman, a man on a very small inflatable horse, a bottle, ‘Del Boy’ and a girl, and although the girl costume isn’t up to much, I am pretty confident that the girl really is one.  They have a drum and chant Ole, Ole Ole, and then Alley, Alley, Alley-O.  The Coggeshall goalkeeper bawls “Red, red, red, red!”  madly, like someone insane but in possession of some knowledge of public transport who has been asked what colour London buses are.   It’s five past three and a Great Wakering shot hits the Coggeshall cross bar.  Three minutes later, and suddenly the Great Wakering number ten, Ben Search, a player who had previously been notable for whinging, shoving and annoying Coggeshall players is through on goal and scores.

Given Coggeshall’s situation at the foot of the league table, it’s the sort of start I had expected them to make, but their play when not trying to score a goal is neat enough.    Unfortunately, almost every attempt to get the ball into the Great Wakering penalty area is overhit or intercepted.  Of note however is the tidy number seven for Coggeshall, Lester Ward, who is the size of Lester Piggott, and looks so young that I expect him to be substituted before the end of the match so he can go and do his paper round. Number nine Nathan Dennis is  admirable for his distinctly unathletic build  and number four Theo Duffin looks like his socks are too small. 

With almost twenty minutes gone Coggeshall’s number ten Reggie Gregory at last  forces a decent save from the Great Wakering goal keeper to earn a corner and then another before a run of offside decisions at the other end of the pitch provides some entertainment of a different kind.  The assorted coaches who populate the Great Wakering bench and technical area evidently know that their view from five or ten yards forward of the Coggeshall back line is the best place from which to judge offside decisions and the linesman on the far side would be better off sat with them.  “Get back in your dugout” shouts a Coggeshall supporter struggling in vain for a witty put down to answer the Great Wakering crew’s protests.

As the game settles back into mediocrity I admire the view beyond the dugouts, the trees and the valley of the River Blackwater, which could have been the subject of a landscape by Monet if only he’d been a follower of the Essex Senior league.  My reverie is broken by the shouts of the Coggeshall ‘keeper. “Reggie, more, Reggie more” he calls obscurely, followed by “Work Reggie” and then “Finn, Finn, Get In”, which I like best because it rhymes.  Not to be outdone, although in truth he is, the Great Wakering ‘keeper then chips in with shouts of “Up, Up!”

As the half rolls on towards the inevitable cups of tea, the linesman receives more advice from supporters behind him before Coggeshall somehow fashion what is the easiest opportunity to score of the whole match,  and then miss it as the ball is hit over an open goal from close range.  It was “easier to score” says a bloke a few seats along from me incredulously, although the meagre evidence we have suggests that in fact it wasn’t .

Before half-time finally arrives, the Rovers supporters sing one of those electro-pop songs of the early 1980’s in which the lyrics are mostly “De, de, de-de-de, de de” followed by somebody’s name, which today sounds like Harry Palmer, but is probably Harry Talbot because he’s the only bloke called Harry in the Rovers’ team.   Talbot acknowledges this accolade by getting booked and then in a more positive way by having a shot saved to earn a corner, which is the final act of the half.

In the break I invest in yet another £1.50’s worth of tea and for a change (no pun intended) pay for it using coins of the realm, which until this afternoon had sat for many months at home on my bedside table.  The match resumes at almost exactly one minute past four and I soon notice that there are some substitutes now on the pitch, with Great Wakering having introduced a balding number sixteen, who is soon side footing a shot directly at the Coggeshall goalkeeper after a low cross.  A minute later the name of Coggeshall’s number five, Demi Nicolauo joins that of Harry Talbot in the referee’s note book and a few minutes after that another substitute, number fifteen for Great Wakering, breaks forward unopposed down the right before carefully placing his shot hopelessly wide of the far post from a good 20 metres out.

The second half is mostly being dominated by Great Wakering, but amongst some crowd members the suggestion is that it’s not always by fair means. “Ref, watch that number four for Christ’s sake –  Every time”  advises one home fan near to me.  Just before half-past four the score becomes 2-0 to Great Wakering as their Harry Talbot scores from close range and inspires Superman, the man on the inflatable horse, the girl and friends to launch into a rendition of Depeche Mode’s “I just can’t get enough”.  My hands are feeling cold now and I don the fingerless gloves that my wife knitted me the winter before last and which I keep in the pockets of my coat.

“Stay solid, Compact” is the counsel of the Great Wakering goalkeeper as his team seek to see out the final fifteen minutes of the league season, but in time Coggeshall breakaway with number nine Nathan Dennis, although unfortunately, despite a decent run he can only shoot wide, possibly because his shorts are too tight.  “We go again” calls the Coggeshall goalkeeper encouragingly before having to make a couple of decent saves to keep his teams deficit down to two goals.  At just gone twenty-five to five however, the score becomes nil-three as a low cross from Harry Talbot reaches the far side of the goal where number 14 Jack Nolde is stood all alone, and barring calamities cannot miss, he doesn’t.

The game is now won, and lost, but the visiting team’s goalkeeper is taking no chances and advises “Don’t take your foot off, don’t take your foot off” before saying the same thing again for a third time, just in case.  It’s hard to tell whether feet are taken off or whether fate just plays out that way, but Coggeshall win a corner and well into injury time substitute Arthur Massingham shoots over the cross bar.  Either way,  it’s all to no avail, and after five minutes of additional time the game ends, Great Wakering have won comfortably, and it seems that Coggeshall have ended their season in much the same way as they played the rest of it.

There is applause for both teams as Coggeshall Town leave the pitch and Great Wakering Rovers form a huddle before going to commune behind the goal with the man on the inflatable horse, Superman and the girl.  I have only been to a couple of non-league matches this season, but they are still life affirming despite occasional stupidity  on the pitch,  and as I walk back to the bus stop I hope I shall get to a few more next season, it only remains to hope that there will be beer.

Ipswich Town 1 Middlesbrough 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today, for the first time in six years, Ipswich Town will play Middlesbrough at Portman Road. It’s bright, sunny and warm and the pale blue sky is wreathed in thin, high cloud.  As I walk to the railway station a woman in an open-top car motors past me, the Rolling Stones’ (Can’t get me no) Satisfaction playing on her car radio. Momentarily, I feel like I’m in a film from the swinging Sixties, but happily Julie Christie never had tattoos like the woman driving the car.  I realise I’m not in Billy Liar or Blow Up, I’m in Essex.  The train for Ipswich departs one minute later than advertised.  There were a goodly number of Ipswich Town fans on the station platform when I arrived there and even a couple of Middlesbrough ones, but now In the seat in front of me sits a pouty girl with pre-Raphaelite hair.  When I hear her speak, she’s American, from the east coast I reckon, so more Patti Smith than Lizzie Siddal.  In the seats behind me a father and his young son natter about which stations the trains to Norwich stop at.  As the train descends Wherstead Hill I see a Polar bear; I know Middlesbrough is way up North, but that’s ridiculous.

Ipswich looks good in the sunshine and in the garden of the Station Hotel our visitors from Middlebrough must be wondering what the big yellow, sparkly thing up in the sky is.  The Middlesbrough team pass over the river in a shiny, six-wheeled, grey metal box. In Portman Road I pause to buy a programme (£3.50) and an ice cream, but as ever fail to ask for the ice cream. Today, after last seeing Town play back in February, against West Bromwich Albion, Mick is returning from injury (a foot operation) , but he’s not fully fit and cannot manage the walk from ’the Arb’ so is being dropped off near Portman Road, and our  pre-match toast will take place in the Fanzone.  I arrive some time before Mick, and having stood in an impressively fast moving queue for a pint of massively over-priced Greene King East Coast IPA (£5.95!), I talk to ever-present Phil who never misses a game, who is hanging about in the beer tent.  A huge cheer goes up as Blackburn Rovers score against Leeds United.   Phil and I talk of pre-season, of  matches to go to next weekend, the sale of miniature versions of  the statues of Sir Alf, Sir Bobby and Sir Kevin in the club shop, clubs to visit if staying in Hunstanton (King’s Lynn Town, Heacham and  Swaffham Town), and how, should Ipswich get promoted, the victory parade ought to involve an open-top bus ride to the Port Authority building and then a boat trip down the River Orwell and back to the old Tolly Cobbold Brewery accompanied by a flotilla of small craft, packed to the gunnels with Town fans.  Thanks to Athletic Bilbao for the idea, although of course they sailed down the estuary of Bilbao when they recently won the Copa del Rey, not the estuary of the Orwell.

Mick arrives about 2:15 and we join the still fast-moving queue for more over-priced, pasteurised beer, although the club must be congratulated on how efficiently it is dispensed. Leeds United lose.  Beers in paper cups in hands we sit at a Yogi Bear style picnic table to catch up on the past two months. Time passes and people are leaving to get to their seats even as we sit down, and by and by we are the only people left sat here and it’s not even ten to three yet; we don’t usually leave ‘the Arb’ until gone twenty to three.  A woman steward seems very keen to see us leave, telling us she doesn’t want us to miss kick-off; I hate being made to hurry up over meals and drinks, it wouldn’t happen in France.  We should be allowed to miss kick-off if we want to, particularly with beer at £5.95 a pint.

Having bade Mick farewell, I make for the Sir Alf Ramsey stand via Constantine Road, past the offices of Ipswich Buses, proudly owned like our football ground by the people of Ipswich, and along Russell Road to turnstile 62.  My appearance on the bottom tier of the stand coincides with that of the teams on the pitch and I exchange cheery hellos with Pat from Clacton, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who jokes that my just-completed team talk was clearly very serious this week.  Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here too with his son Elwood, but I knew that I already.  Murphy announces the teams and at least Phil and I bawl out the Town players’ surnames as if this was the Stade Felix Boleart or Le Roazhon Park, before we all join in with a stirring rendition of ’Hey Jude’, which is only just fading away as Ipswich get first go with the ball, sending it towards me and my fellow ultras.  Town are of course in blue and white, whilst the ‘Boro are in their signature kit of all red, although the white bit across their chests, synonymous with the shirts worn by likes of Platt, Cuff, Craggs, Brine, Spraggon, Boam and Foggon in 1974, is sadly reduced to a couple of tram lines either side of the name of a betting company.

Portman Road is noisy. “Blue and White Army” gives way to “We’ve got super Keiran McKenna” and they’re even clapping rhythmically or rattling their jewellery in the West Stand.  Leeds lost, Leicester lost, this is the chance to worry about getting clear at the top of the table instead of just enjoying the game.  Six minutes on, Town win a corner and Conor Chaplin smacks the ball over the cross bar from inside the six-yard box as he darts to the near post.  “Come On Boro, Come On Boro” shout the Teessiders in the Cobbold stand, fearful of conceding an early goal, and possibly of the bright sunshine too.

Three minutes more and Jeremy Sarmiento shoots straight at Seny Dieng the ‘Boro goalkeeper.  Pat from Clacton tells us that a week today she’ll be flying to America, but in the excitement I forget to tell her to give Donald Trump a good kick if she sees him.  Back on the pitch I notice that Middlesbrough’s number twenty-seven is called Engel and I ponder on how, except in an episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, I can’t ever recall a player called Marx, or Engels come to that.  “Alley, alley, alley- O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers, a bit like the schoolchildren in the 1961 film adaptation of Shelagh Delaney’s a Taste of Honey, starring Rita Tushingham and Dora Bryan.

“Oh when the Town go marching in, Oh when the Town go marching in”  is  next in the sequence of football family favourites from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and behind me the bloke sat there decries the apparent unwillingness of Omari Hutchinson to run at the full-back, “He’s got the ability to fuckin’ do’ im”.   Ali Al-Hamadi is barged over when in full flight and from somewhere off behind me and to my left a voice calls out “That’s a foul ref, you’re fuckin’ shit”.  The tension is palpable, but Town are on top and surely, it’s just a matter of time before we start scoring.

Twenty minutes have gone forever into history and Vaclav Hladky’s clearance doesn’t go as far as it might, the ball is played out to the right and crossed back in and a Middlesbrough head rises above all others to send the ball into the far side of the goal and Town are trailing one-nil.  We weren’t expecting that, but then again.  So, running away clear at the top of the table isn’t going to be as easy as first hoped, or as it seemed an hour ago as we celebrated Leeds losing at home to Blackburn.  On the touchline, the managers are trying hard to be inscrutable in black and grey shirts and slacks.

The goal is a fillip for Middlesbrough who share more of the game for a while, but then Leif Davis is free down the left and pulls the ball back, Omari Hutchinson shoots but the ball looks down on the cross bar as it sails above it.  Town win a corner as a low cross is blocked by what the linesman says was a shoulder,  but what looked to those around me like a whole outstretched arm.  But from the corner kick a kind of justice is done. At the far post Massimo Luongo appears from the knot of players of both teams to welly the  ball at the cross bar from close range; the ball hits the cross bar for a second time as it bounces back up from the goal line and then finally drops and gives itself up to the goal side of the line, and Town are no longer losing. How can Town not now go on to win?  Although It is possibly the first time I have ever seen one shot hit the cross bar twice.

Town’s second goal is soon on the way as Jeremy Sarmiento is put through to steer his shot beyond Dieng, only for it too hit the post and contrarily deflect away from the goal when bouncing the opposite way would have been a far more popular decision by the inanimate, plastic coated leather sphere. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, they’re by far the greatest team the World has ever seen” we sing, telling the ball in no uncertain terms that its behaviour doesn’t bother us.

The last five minutes of the half arrive and Massimo Luongo places a shot into the arms of Dieng before Conor Chaplin floats a speculative forty-yard attempt wide and the Sir Bobby Robson standers get all festive with a rendition of “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” Then, just to remind us that they’re still here Middlesbrough send  a couple of shots wide and earn a corner before  the half is extended by two minutes and referee Mr Allison turns down another Town penalty appeal as Conor Chaplin falls beneath an enthusiastic challenge.  I thought the Middlesbrough player got the ball, but Ray will soon tell me that he thought the player went through Chaplin to get to it.

With the half-time whistle, I talk to the man from Stowmarket as there is no one sat between us again, despite the match being sold out, and then go to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison. Harrison and I bump fists and Ray and I talk of the National Health Service and that penalty controversy.  At seven minutes past four the football resumes and after just four minutes Massimo Luongo is the first player to see Mr Allison’s yellow card up close after he tugs on the shoulder of some bloke or other who’s playing for Middlesbrough.

The second half is still young as Omari Hutchinson goes on a magnificent run to within what looks like a few metres of the ‘Boro goal, only to win just a corner. Pat form Clacton gets out her “Altogether now” ITFC badge and I question whether it has anything to do with the Beatles’ song of the same name on the Yellow Submarine album.   I don’t think it does.  Back on the pitch, and Middlesbrough even up the bookings as number sixteen hauls down Jeremy Sarmiento, which was a bit of a waste of time because Jeremy is substituted for Nathan Broadhead two minutes later in the usual change, which today only also sees Keiffer Moore replace Ali Al-Hamidi. “Na-na, na-na, na-na, na-na, na, na, now, Keiffer, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Moore” sing the Sir Bobby standers by way of celebration, to the tune of KC and the Sunshine Band’s 1973 hit single ‘Give It Up’.  The final twenty minutes are approaching, and Pat from Clacton is delving into her supply of lucky charms and pulls out a blue Dodo from Mauritius. The efficacy of the lucky Dodo has not yet been established, but today is its big chance to promote the worth of Dodos everywhere, if it isn’t too late.

Murphy the stadium announcer tells us that we are 28,771 today, with 1,324 from Teesside and then thanks us in the usual pre-programmed way “for our continued support”.  Really Murph, it was nothing, you’re welcome.  “Sing your hearts out for the lads” continue the Sir Bobby standers having heard that confirmation of just how many of us there could be singing, and then the ground goes quiet before the noise returns with some Oles. Twenty minutes of normal time remain, and possession of the ball is lost forcing Vaclav Hladky into making a save.  “Blue and White Army! Blue and White Army!”. I can feel the tension coming up at me through the concrete of the stand.

“Attack him!” shouts the bloke behind me, still frustrated that Omari Hutchinson isn’t running at the full-back as much as he’d like.  This feels like a play-off match, which can’t be good.  Fourteen minutes left and Hutchinson shoots over the cross bar again, but also earns a corner again, and then another.  Jack Taylor replaces Massimo Luongo who receives rich applause. Eleven minutes left and Nathan Broadhead shoots wide. Ten minutes left and Luke Woolfenden is caught out near the half-way line resulting eventually in a shot which Hladky saves superbly, diving low to his left to tip the ball away, and then a minute later he makes an even better save, hurling himself to his right to tip a powerful header over the cross bar.

On the cusp of full-time Conor Chaplin is replaced by Lewis Travis and Axel Tuanzebe by Dom Ball. There aren’t many people leaving the stadium like there would have been at one time; if this Town team has achieved one thing already this season it is that it has cured a lot of people of leaving before the end.  Today however, proves not to be one of those days when the winning goal is the punch line, and five minutes of added on time merely ends with Mr Allison’s final whistle a signal for a muted celebration of another point. We can only hope for, not expect satisfaction, although I don’t think the Rolling Stones mentioned that in thier song.