Ipswich Town 1 Bolton Wanderers 1

Here we go again, and it’s still July.  I will admit to not looking forward to the start of the football season because as a person who seeks fulfilment in being idle I enjoy summer Saturdays with nothing much to do, and summer is still in its prime, it won’t begin to flop into autumn for another three weeks at least, that’s when the football season should begin again. But hey, how else are we going to fit in 46 league games, at least three games trying to win a pizza pan and probably no more than two or three games trying to win two cups that are inevitably destined to end up on the sideboard of one or two of the same four clubs from London and the north-west?

 Today, it is ordained that we shall play Bolton Wanderers, last season’s nemesis who along with Rotherham United were the only team to beat us both home and away, which in the week of the last episode of Neighbours I will admit, whilst in confessorial mood, was my Australian ‘soap’ of choice.   The last time Town played Bolton Wanderers on the first day of the season was in 1961, albeit at Burnden Park, and Town of course went on to win the Premier League that season, although it wasn’t called that then.  By way of yet another private confession, last night I dreamt about today’s game and how Town drew two-all after twice going ahead with the opposition equalising twice from spectacular long range shots into the top right hand corner of our goal.  I say opposition because oddly Town were playing West Ham United in my dream although they also seemed to be called Bolton Wanderers.  Even odder is that I then dreamt that I woke up and realised I had been dreaming because all I could remember of the game were the two Bolton/West Ham goals and an empty ground.  Then I really did wake up and felt a bit disorientated.

Having happily reined in my subconscious mind I have negotiated the crawling traffic of the A12 and walked across Gippeswyk Park.  At the junction of Ancaster Road and Ranelagh Road I must decide whether to turn left towards the Bobby Robson Bridge or right towards the station hotel where I will not doubt be serenaded by boozing Lancastrians in the pub garden singing the praises of barm cakes, back to back housing and cotton mills.  Seeking the quiet life as ever, I opt for the former. In Alf Ramsey Way I purchase a match day programme in the modern cashless manner which seems to take several minutes, before heading off over Civic Drive, past the enchanted Spiral car park which used to just be known as ‘the underground car park’ and up St George’s Street to the Arbour House (formerly The Arboretum) to meet Mick and discuss life over a pint of  a beer (£3.90) from the Burnt Mill brewery which the pump clip said was Japanese, I ask the  barman where it was from, “Stowmarket” he replies.  Mick’s and my conversation rambles between spotty liver disease, the quality of television pictures, Ipswich Town’s latest signings and funerals before I buy a pint of Lacon’s Encore and a packet of Fairfield’s cheese and onion crisps (£1.00) and we discuss VHS videos of Ipswich Town’s greatest moments in history and retirement.

We leave earlier than usual for Portman Road because I have a bag of six Ipswich Town VHS videos to give to a bloke called Ash from Swaffham; I have arranged to meet Ash at twenty to three by the Sir Alf Ramsey statue, but he doesn’t turn up. I ask several people stood about if they are called Ash, but none are and two people think I have asked them if they’ve got any hash.  Disappointed but not surprised, because the world is an increasingly unreliable place, I head for turnstile number 60 to begin yet another season full of hope and likely disappointment; but you never know (that’s the hope again).

Out in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are already here looking fresh and revived in their summer clothes, it reminds me of what the first day back at school used to feel like.  On the pitch, be-suited stadium announcer and former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster reads out the teams looking as if he is the best man at a wedding.  Banners festoon the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand telling us “The future is bright, the future is blue and white”; it rhymes, it must be true.  To our right is the new scoreboard, beaming messages to us like something out of Orwell’s 1984. The stadium is alive with the sound of nigh on 27,000 people and as the game begins those in the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand break inexplicably into a chorus of Mary’s Boy Child, with lyrics altered to tell of eternal fighting and Norwich running away, because it’s Boxing Day.  Off to my right in the Cobbold Stand, in an equally surreal vein, it sounds as if the Bolton supporters are singing “Oh wanky wanky, Wanky wanky wanky wanky Northerners.”  But my hearing isn’t what it was and Boltonians do have thick accents.

The opening minutes of the match are messy with lots of physical effort, but little discernible entertainment.  All the Bolton team appear to be about 2metres tall and there’s not a Frank Worthington amongst them. “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” chant the Bolton fans.  As nice as that might be, no one takes them up on their kind offer and in a fit of pique they impolitely tell the Ipswich fans “Your support is fucking shit”, before peevishly announcing like thwarted adolescents that the large crowd is because “You’ve only come to see The Wanderers”.   Only six minutes have passed and it’s like last season never ended; clearly supporters have wasted the whole close-season and not come up with a single original new chant between the lot of them.

A frisson of excitement shoots through the home support as a punt forward forces the Bolton ‘keeper James Trafford to play sweeper for a moment. Up in the Cobbold Stand the brief roar of excitement from the home support is an excuse to unleash what passes for wit with a chant to say they had forgotten we were here. How droll.  It’s the eleventh minute and Town win a corner as a Bolton defender heads the ball out of his goalkeeper’s hands.  Lee Evans’ exotic curling corner-kick curls too much and goes disappointingly straight into touch like a metaphor for last season. It is a quarter past three and Bolton win a corner leading to Wes Burns breaking away down the right  and putting in a low cross which is blocked. Burns is looking neater and slimmer than last season suggesting to me that his call-up to the Welsh squad and access to the bright lights of Cardiff might have turned his head.

“They love a ball up the middle don’t they?” says the bloke behind me to the bloke beside him as Bolton launch an attack like a Russian missile strike.  Fortunately for Town, Bolton’s attacks are producing few goal-attempts, but they are dominating play and look generally quicker and stronger than Town for whom debutants Marcus Harness and Leif Davis are doing little other than entertain me with the thoughts that Marcus Harness sort of rhymes and that Leif is a great first name.

The first half is more than half over and all of a sudden Bolton have a penalty from which Aaron Morley scores.  Leif Davis is adjudged to have tripped some Bolton play or other who predictably makes full use of the opportunity to fall headlong to the turf whilst simultaneously looking up pleadingly at referee Mr Samuel Barrett, who is not to be confused with Samuel Beckett.  Disappointment reigns. But unusually the goal against proves a turning point in Town’s favour and for the rest of the match Ipswich are the better team.  Corners are traded as the half hour approaches and in the Town penalty area some male posturing ensues.  “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you?” chant the inhabitants of the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the Bolton supporters sing the same thing.  Nobody seems to know who anybody is.  It could be the result of dementia but it’s probably because third division footballers are generally not household names, with the exception of course of Town’s number 17, Ed Sheeran.   Bolton’s number three Declan John becomes the first player to be booked in a possibly not unrelated incident.

The 37th minute has arrived and another of the day’s debutants, Freddie Ladapo, has a shot deflected away for a corner which Conor Chaplin passes into the penalty area for Lee Evans to side foot into the goal net in a moment of combined thought and invention that was two steps ahead of the entire Bolton team and probably a good 27,000 other people too.  The sadness and shame of having gone behind in the first game of the season is instantly forgotten.  “ You’re not singing any more” chant the home fans to the Boltonians delving delightedly into bottomless wells of Schadenfreude.   More is to come almost, as a beautiful interchange of passes down the right between Janoi Doncaien,  Conor Chaplin, Wes Burns and Sam Morsy ends with Freddie Ladapo having a shot blocked almost as soon as it leaves his boot.

Two minutes of the half remain and having already given away a penalty on his debut, Leif Davis then makes a bid for immortality as he also becomes the first Town player of the 2022-23 season to be booked; it’s a good effort from him but no one will ever rival the appalling Town debut of Mark Fish, who funnily enough also played for Bolton Wanderers.   Three minutes of time added on are played and then it’s half-time.  I consume a Panda brand liquorice stick and talk to Ray, who tells me that his son Michael and his grandson Harrison are missing today’s game because they are respectively in Greece and Scotland.  We share our doubts over the validity of the penalty and the efficacy so far  of the left land side of the Town team. 

The game resumes at eight minutes past four with the mystifying partial rendition by the Bolton fans of Manfred Mann’s 1964 Number One hit record ‘Do-wah-diddy diddy’ (although it was originally recorded the year before by American band The Exciters).  On the field of play, things are more mundane with the usual procession of corners and stuff that you get in football matches.  It’s a little bit after a quarter past four and Trafford spectacularly tips a Lee Evans header over the cross bar; five minutes later and the first of a host of substitutions materialise with the luckless Lief and ineffective Harness being replaced by Greg Leigh (not to be confused by Prog-Rockers with Greg Lake) and Tyreece John-Jules (impossible to confuse with anyone).   An hour has gone Freddie Ladapo shoots tamely at Trafford before Leigh gets back to acrobatically head away a Bolton cross.

As the final third of the game progresses the sky begins to cloud over a little, there are flying ants taking to the air and landing on the shirt of the bloke in front of me;  seagulls circle over the Portman Road car park; it’s stiflingly warm.  It’s a dog day afternoon; I think of Al Pacino.

Ending a sequence of three ever worsening fouls, Bolton’s Conor Bradley chops down Tyreece John-Jules particularly dirtily and is booked. “You dirty Northern bastard” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers reciting possibly football’s greatest chant. “Small Town in Norwich, You’re just a small Town in Norwich” is the Boltonian’s weak response, which does little to dispel the rumours that Bradley hasn’t washed, is Northern and was conceived outside wedlock.

Both teams continue to make substitutions like they’re going out of fashion, making four each with Sone Aluko and Kayden Jackson replacing  Conor Chaplin and Freddie Ladapo for Town.  Ipswich dominate, pinning back Bolton and making them play sardines in their own penalty area.  It’s a niggly game as both teams display their frustration at being unable to beat the other.  The crowd is announced as 26,688, and it seems wakes week has come early with 1,392 pale and pasty-faced folk from the mills and the mines making up the numbers in the Cobbold Stand.  Pat from Clacton wins the guess the crowd competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus with a prediction of 26,679; she seems a little shocked but I can tell she’s excited by her win, it’s been a long time coming.

Back on the pitch Luke Woolfenden is the second Town player to be booked.  A Wes Burns header brings another corner, Sone Aluko shoots past the post and so does Tyreece John-Jules, who also has a shot saved and then in the best opportunity of the whole game Wes Burns runs deep into the penalty area before placing one of those crosses usually labelled ‘inviting’ in front of Sam Morsy.  Morsy sends Trafford the wrong way with his shot but the ball strikes the fortunate keeper’s legs and is cleared.

After six minutes of time added on the game ends.  It’s a shame not to start the season with a win, yet again, but it was a tough match against a strong team and Town did recover from going a goal behind, and on balance these are all good things.  One swallow does not make a summer seems an appropriate homily for the occasion, because every occasion needs a homily; although in this case it’s not so much a lovely, swooping, screaming swallow as a scrounging, step-sibling murdering cuckoo.

Ipswich Town 1 Sheffield Wednesday 1

Ipswich Town first played Sheffield Wednesday back in August of 1958 in a second division game at Portman Road; trolleybuses were still running in Ipswich and Sheffield still had trams the first time round.  Town of course won (2-0), as we often did before the turn of the century.   By the time I started watching Town the twentieth century had the best part of thirty years still to run, but Sheffield Wednesday were down in the third division and Town were just getting established in what has now unfortunately become the Premier League, and hence the two clubs never met, not even in the Cup.  The first time I saw Wednesday was therefore not against Ipswich at all but at Layer Road, Colchester, in September of 1979, neither team managed to score.  When I eventually did see Town play Wednesday it was at Hillsborough in September of 1984, halfway through the miner’s strike. After the 2-2 draw I was amongst Town fans who were whisked back to Sheffield Midland station at high speed in a double-decker bus escorted by police motorcycles. As we sped through the streets of Sheffield that Saturday evening, we felt unsure if we would end up at the train station or hurtling through a jeering picket line to do a strike-breaking shift at a local colliery. 

Today is a somewhat grey September Saturday morning and it feels nothing at all like thirty-seven years ago, the class struggle seems to have been lost and now both Town and Wednesday languish in the third division playing second fiddle to their loathsome local rivals. I don’t know if it has anything to do with a loss of revolutionary zeal, but my enthusiasm for today’s fixture is oddly muted, particularly given Town’s first win of the season last weekend, and as if to confirm my feelings of ennui this morning I chose to put on a pair of socks that depict Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’. Nevertheless, there is never any doubt that I won’t drive to Ipswich, park up my trusty Citroen C3 on Chantry, wander down through Gippeswyk Park and search out a pre-match beer. Later as I walk up Princes Street, what I assume is a police drone hovers above and I am struck by the new views of Portman Road that have been opened up following demolition of the former Mann Egerton garage from where in 1978 my father bought the brown Triumph Dolomite in which I wooed my first girlfriend.  Having witnessed a man shouting and swearing at his friend or partner trying unsuccessfully to back a mini into a parking space, I end up at the Arbor House (properly known as the Arboretum) where I sit alone in the garden and drink a pint of Woodforde’s Kett’s Rebellion (£3.80). 

At about twenty-five minutes to three I head for Portman Road and join the crocodile of supporters descending St George’s Street from the Greyhound.  Making my way along Sir Alf Ramsey Way and Constantine Road I show my Covid credentials and then enter the Sir Alf Ramsey stand through turnstile number sixty, offering a cheery ‘Hello’ and ‘Thank you’ to the turnstile operator as I enter the ground.  The programme seller in the driveway to the main reception has sold out so I make my way to the little shop at the far end of the stand where I buy a programme (£3.50). “Enjoy the match” says the young man behind the counter as he hands over the glossy booklet and my change from a five-pound note.  “Or bon match as they say in France”, I reply pointing to the “Allez les bleus” slogan on the front of my T-shirt as I turn away and walk into one of the metal barriers that have been set out in front of the shop, presumably to marshal the invisible throng of people over eager to buy programmes and other assorted toot.

On the lower tier of the stand Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, Ray, his son and his grandson Harrison are already in their seats. Pat from Clacton arrives soon after I sit down and as the teams run out, the little band called Blue Action who now occupy Section 6 of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and wave blue and white flags, and brandish a colourful banner that reads “Uppa Towen”.  Compared to the tifos seen in the stands of Marseille or Lens, Blue Action’s effort is rather pathetic, but in the context of soporific Suffolk it’s a bloody marvel and I like it very much.  At a minute past three the game begins with Scott Fraser making first contact with the ball as Town aim to put it in the big white goal just in front of me to my right.  Within 30 seconds Sheffield Wednesday win a corner with their supporters still singing along to ‘Hey Jude’, a song which is played over the PA system with the intention of rousing the home fans, not the away ones; but it’s good to be optimistic.  Three minutes later and Town should be ahead as a simple through ball from Cameron Burgess puts the oddly named Macauley Bonne through on goal, only for Bonne to take too much time and eventually place the ball weakly against the chest of Sheffield Wednesday goalkeeper Bailey Peacock-Farrell, a man who looks like a giant orange-flavour Lyons Maid Mivvi, sounds like a firm of accountants and can stop most shots by merely stringing his name out across the goalmouth.

Behind me two blokes debate which of Town’s two defensive midfielders is Idris El-Mizouni and which is Tommy Carroll. The louder, more assertive bloke concludes that Idris is number 25, which he is not, because that’s Tommy Carroll.  I briefly toy with the idea of turning around to point out his error, but happily his more cautious accomplice discovers the truth a short while later to save me the trouble.   Meanwhile, up in the Cobbold Stand the Sheffielders sing “Shall we sing a, Shall we sing a, Shall we sing a song for you” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.  Nobody responds, presumably because most people are thinking to themselves “Well, they’re already singing a song, what are they on about?”.  For my part, I’m impressed by their politeness and given a choice would ask for something by Heaven 17, Pulp or the Arctic Monkeys.

Fifteen minutes have elapsed since the game started and so far not very much of note has happened. Then, Wes Burns slams the ball into the net after either the oddly named Macauley Bonne or Scott Fraser flicks the ball on to him, but Burns is, unbeknown to me and those around me, offside; we therefore stand up as one and cheer wildly only to sit down again a moment later feeling cheated and very slightly embarrassed.  To their eternal credit the Wednesdayites do not chant “You thought you had scored, you were wrong, you were wrong”, which is nice of them.

The game is close and compelling although not of particularly good quality; Sheffield are quicker to the ball and dominate possession, but fortunately their tiny ten, the wonderfully named Barry Bannan tends to overhit most of his crosses and long passes.  For Town meanwhile, the oddly named Macauley Bonne looks somewhat lonely up front on his own and I surmise that he wears the number eighteen shirt because he’s doing the work of two number nines.

“It’s gonna come innit?” announces the bloke behind me optimistically as Town waste an opportunity with Idris El-Mizouni passing to Wes Burns when he could have had a shot and Wes Burns overhitting the ensuing cross.  Then, slightly unexpectedly, we witness a Sheffield Wednesday goal instead; Dennis Adeniran becoming the first man called Dennis, with two ‘n’s like the fire engines and dust carts, to score at Portman Road in living memory, although Denis (only one ‘n’) Maffey did score for Town back in September 1947 in a 4-0 win over Southend.

The Sheffield supporters away to my right are predictably pleased and sing an incomprehensible song to the tune of the ‘Yankee Doodle’ nursery rhyme; their euphoria and short vowels rendering their words indecipherable, but for the final one which is ‘Wednesday’.   I have to admit to feeling somewhat depressed that Town have gone behind again at home and can barely remember when I last saw them comfortably win a game by three or four goals to nil, like we used to do.   There must be young supporters who are barely aware that such things ever happened or are even possible.  Pat from Clacton echoes my disappointment. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” she says.

As if the frustration of being a goal down wasn’t enough, the referee Mr Andy Davies, whose head is conspicuously hairless, then proceeds to deny the oddly named Macauley Bonne a free-kick when his feet miraculously disappear from beneath him as he attempts to side step a Wednesday defender on the edge of the penalty box.   “You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand employing a childish simplicity reminiscent of the school playground.  Further decisions from the increasingly inept Mr Davies go against Town and as he speaks to and perhaps compares haircuts with a clearly perplexed Paul Cook, the crowd ask “Who’s the wanker in the black?” suggesting both that they haven’t read the back pages of their programmes carefully enough and that they care not about the possibility of either of the linesmen thinking “Ooh, I hope they don’t mean me?”.

The half-time break arrives and Town still trail, I console myself with a Nature Valley peanut and chocolate protein bar and a chat with Ray, who bemoans the performance of Mr Andy Davies and more controversially of Bersant Celina, who doesn’t look as fit or sharp as he might.  Not far from where Ray and I are standing former Town and Sheffield Wednesday player Shefki Kuqi appears, looking trim and very smart in a grey suit good enough for a job interview or court appearance, and takes the well-deserved applause of the whole ground.

At four minutes past four the football resumes and Town enjoy more possession, although a lot of it involves passing the ball across the field waiting for the right opening to appear.  It’s not long before Mr Davies is showing off his poor refereeing skills once again as Wednesday’s Liam Palmer is tripped on the edge of the Town penalty box.  Appearing uncertain whether the foul happened inside or outside the box, Mr Davies doesn’t give a foul at all, making it the Wednesdayites’ turn to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s doing, provoking ironic jeers from the Town supporters to which the Wednesday fans respond with a chant of “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here”. It’s easily done.

In the sixty-seventh minute Wednesday’s tiny ten, Barry Bannen, leaves the pitch as slowly as his little legs will carry him to be replaced by Callum Paterson.  Barry’s departure leaves Wednesday’s Sam Hutchinson as the only player on the pitch with particularly naff looking bleached blonde hair.  The oddly named Macauley Bonne shoots straight at Bailey Peacock-Farrell for a second time this afternoon, and then for a while substitutions seem to become the purpose of the game, as Wednesday swap seven for seventeen and Town swap Celina and Burns for Harper and Chaplin, before the oddly named Macauley Bonne has another opportunity, which this time is deflected away for a corner, and then Cameron Burgess heads wide of the goal.  For the first time this afternoon the Sheffield Wednesday support has fallen silent, although not as silent as most of the Ipswich crowd is the rest of the time .

Twelve minutes remain and as Sheffield make a rare foray forward, Idris El-Mizouni manages to fell two of them at once with a Keystone Cops style assault, which unfairly results in his being shown the yellow card by the hopeless Mr Davies, who plainly doesn’t appreciate good slapstick comedy when he sees it.  Not long afterwards Idris is replaced by Joe Piggott, but he leaves the field to appreciative and well-deserved applause having played a skilful, controlled game to be expected of a player who grew up in France.  He will be the new Zizou yet.

With the game entering its final throes, one of the seats in the row in front of me and to my left becomes occupied by what I can only describe as a gobby oik, who complains that Town are knocking the ball around like they’re winning.  He seems to know the bloke behind me and after flicking ‘v’ signs at the Sheffield supporters he turns to him seeking his approval; I’m not sure he gets it.  He doesn’t like that no one sings in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and I share his despair, but otherwise he seems a right berk and I hope he abides by his promise that he’ll watch the next game from the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.

Not much more than five minutes of normal time remain and Cheyenne Dunkley, who is even more oddly and improbably named than the oddly named Macauley Bonne, replaces Said Berahino for Wednesday.  Two minutes of normal time remain and Ipswich press for an equaliser. “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chant an almost respectable number of the home crowd, but slightly shyly.  Ninety minutes are up and from my seat it looks like Bailey Peacock- Farrell is about to make a drop kick, but suddenly the oddly named Macauley Bonne has the ball and the Wednesday defence is in disarray, Bonne passes back across the face of goal to  Scott Fraser and Fraser sends it onto Conor Chaplin at the far post and he smashes the ball into the gaping Wednesday net! We’ve equalised! Well, I wasn’t expecting that.

Most of time added on for assorted stoppages remains and Town have the opportunity to score the winner as Rekeem Harper surges unpredictably into the penalty box,  but shoots weakly at the orange Mivvi .  The remaining time ebbs away and the game ends with no further goals, although Scott Fraser makes a final flourish in Mr Davies notebook with a cynical trip.  As the players leave the pitch a good number of people stay back to applaud their efforts.  I am pleased that we haven’t lost, because I thought we were going to, but overall, I am still a little disappointed that we haven’t played better.  As I drive home listening to Radio Suffolk, mainly for the laughs, it’s a view that I learn the legendary Mick Mills also holds, although many listeners seem to disagree.  It is very unusual for me to be disappointed with a Town performance when other Town supporters aren’t.

The first home victory of the season still remains annoyingly elusive, but heck, we’re playing bottom of the table Doncaster Rovers next, so how difficult can it be, so I’ll stay positive and try not to wear the Edvard Munch socks again.