It’s been a grey morning; warm but cloudy and breezy, with two very sharp, short showers. The apple tree in the garden has provided a good crop this year and I’ve been cooking them ready to put in the freezer and ensure a future that contains crumble and blackberry and apple pie. I mopped the kitchen floor too after making waffles for breakfast. We didn’t get any post, but heck, there’s football this afternoon.
The train to Ipswich is on time, but the carriage I sit in is full of people seemingly with no ability to control how loud they talk, or rather shout. Do they all operate pneumatic drills during the week I wonder, or listen to marbles inside tumble driers as a leisure pursuit? Gary joins me at the first station stop, I have texted him to tell him I am in the second half of the train, in the carriage with the pointy front; I think it’s called streamlining and is all the rage on modern trains. We talk of people we both know and of what Gary has arranged to do to fill his days now he is retired; weeks of badminton, ten-pin bowling, crown green bowls , indoor bowls and quizzing stretch out before him invitingly. We spot all four polar bears as we glide down the hill towards Ipswich through Wherstead and one is taking a swim. It’s a highlight of my day so far, has saved me the cost of entry to Jimmy’s farm, about twenty quid, and I’ve had a train ride and conversation with Gary thrown-in.
In Ipswich, the train stops conveniently close to the bridge that takes us across the tracks from Platform 4 to the exit and our walk along Princes Street, Portman Road and up to ‘the Arb’. In the beer garden of the Station Hotel a chorus of “You’re going down, you’re going down, you’re going down “ rings out noisily. Premier League banter eh? We buy programmes (£3.50 each) from one of the ice-cream booths that sell programmes on Portman Road. Today’s front cover is in the style of a childishly drawn cartoon and very good it is too, and reminiscent of the cartoons that used to appear in the ‘A Load of Cobbolds’ fanzine in the 1980’s and 90’s, although not in a ‘My Sweet Lord’, by George Harrison, ‘He’s so fine’ by the Chiffons sort of a way.
‘The Arb’ is predictably busy and Gary gets the first round in, a pint of Lager 43 for him and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£8.58 with Camra discount). It’s odd how the pub seems even busier than it did last season, even though there will be no more home supporters present than before. Perhaps all the ‘Johnny-come-lately’ fans have been reading up on what to do before a game to enjoy the ‘full Premier League matchday experience’. We talk of the paralympics, Walton On The Naze, religious observance and the religious persecution of women, Ipswich Town’s latest signings, how strawberries and blackberries are apparently not berries and other inconsequential matters that I can’t recall, before I buy a second round of Lager 43 and Suffolk Pride. After all the other pre-match drinkers have left for Portman Road, we leave too.
Gary and I part ways near Sir Alf’s statue and I head on down Portman Road, flitting as best as a 64 year old man with a dodgy achilles tendon can through the queues into the Cobbold Stand on my way back to my usual seat in the lower tier of Sir Alf’s stand. The queues at the turnstiles are long again today, unlike for the Liverpool game where there were barely any queues at all. So slow moving is the queue for the illustrious turnstile 62, that like an impatient driver approaching roadworks on a motorway I switch lanes and join the queue for turnstile 60, where evidently supporters are more proficient at flashing a bar code in front of a screen.
The teams are on the pitch by the time I take my seat and of course ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood, Pat from Clacton and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) are already present. Fiona however is not, and instead a man who quickly identifies himself as Ian, tells me that he is not Fiona. Ian is in fact Fiona’s next-door neighbour. On the pitch, a tall, slim, young man in a suit announces the teams enthusiastically and does a reasonable job of co-ordinating with the scoreboard so that ever-present Phil and I can bawl out the Town players’ surnames as if we were at the Stade de la Licorne or Stade Felix Bollaert, two of my favourite places in northern France. Beside the tall, slim young man, is a shorter young man in a suit and I think of Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo. The last strains of The Beatles’ Hey Jude drift away as the game begins and Fulham get first go with the ball, aiming it roughly in the general direction of the telephone exchange and London Road Baptist church. Town wear their signature blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Fulham are in their signature white shirts and black shorts, but with vivid red go faster stripes on their shorts too, that surprisingly look rather good, I think it’s the contrast with the red and the black. Feeling a little pretentious, I think of Stendahl.
“Blue and White Army” roar some of the crowd above the general loud hubbub of nearly thirty thousand excited people. “Temporary Boiler Hire” flash the electronic advertisement hoards that sit between the upper and lower tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. I think to myself that that could come in handy in the winter if the water from the taps in the Alf Ramsey stand toilets is as cold as it usually is. After only three minutes Leif Davis is lying on the turf clutching his back. “Looks serious “ says the bloke behind me, but happily it’s not, and the crowd are soon merrily singing “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” as if imagining the soundtrack from “A Taste of Honey” starring Rita Tushingham and Dora Bryan, which is what I’m doing.
Five minutes in and Town win the game’s first corner; Jacob Greaves’ far post header is saved athletically by Fulham goalkeeper Bernd Leno who I do not think is related to American TV presenter Jay Leno, but I don’t honestly know. Leno is wearing a slightly dull looking lime green ensemble, if lime green can be dull. It takes two minutes for Fulham to level the corner count. “Come On Fulham, Come On Fulham, Come on Fulham” is the entreaty from a large part of the top tier of the Cobbold stand, but happily for Town, the Fulham football tean doesn’t oblige. Two minutes later and Fulham step ahead in the corner count as Luke Woolfenden clears accidentally towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand from distance. The Fulham fans chant “Come On Fulham” twice as many times as for the previous corner, but it makes no difference, although it adds to the already febrile match-day ambience. Seeking reassurance after their team’s corner related failure, the Fulham fans sing “We are Fulham, We Are Fulham” and I think I even hear some reference to their postcode, SW6, which is nice for Royal Mail pensioners like Gary and myself.
After twelve minutes, Fulham have another corner as Woolfenden blocks a low cross from Adama Traore. “Quick aint he?” says the bloke behind me of Traore. “He aint normal.” The Fulham fans have given up on their chants of “Come On Fulham” for the time being at least and switch to “No noise from the Tractor Boys”, which, as prophetic football chants go, turns out to be one of the worst of all time as within sixty seconds Leif Davis breaks out of defence, runs, squares to Liam Delap who also runs, but at the goal, and then diagonally, before turning slightly to leather a shot past Leno, who can touch the ball but not stop it rocketing high into the net. Wow. Town lead 1-0. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, The Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers feeling prematurely, but understandably festive.
The goal lifts Town, who set about levelling the corner count and Liam Delap heads wide when there wasn’t anything or anyone really preventing him from scoring. Town are dominating. “For a team that’s still gelling, we don’t pay bad” says the bloke behind me, and he’s right. Like someone recently injected with morphine, I sit back and just enjoy the sensation of watching some excellent football. “Get your head up” shouts a berk from somewhere a few rows back as Sam Morsy wrestles to retain possession. As if anyone in the crowd could possibly teach these players anything.
Then Fulham equalise, the game has just under an hour left of normal time. Fulham weathered Town’s onslaught then steadied themselves with a bout of prolonged possession, which was on the verge of becoming boring before a pass out wide, a run to the goal line, a low cross, and a shot swept in by Traore running into an open space. It’s how good football works I believe. “Who are ya?” chant the Fulhamites inquisitively, perhaps worried that we are Fulham too, but luckily for them we’re not. Fulham are now on top and Rodrigo Muniz heads at the Town goal, but straight at Aro Muric. “We are Fulham, We Are Fulham” chant the Fulham fans again, clearly weirdly obsessed with people’s identities, and possibly postcodes.
Sam Morsy’s standard booking happens in the thirty-seventh minute as he clatters Muniz, but a fine passing Town move follows, which earns another corner, although Kalvin Phillips wastes it by hitting it hopelessly beyond the goal. The young announcer announces two minutes of added time very excitedly and in a manner that personally I would only think was appropriate if announcing free beer. At half-time the score is 1-1 and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is very content with what he considers to have been an even first half. I concur, but add that Fulham have probably had more possession, although they’ve not done much with it.
During the break, I speak with Ray and his grandson Harrison and Ray tells me that they have tickets to see Oasis at Wembley. I am pleased for them, especially Harrison, who then further pleases me by asking about Robyn Hitchcock’s book ‘1967: How I got there and why I never left’ and the accompanying album (1967: Vacations in the past) which is released in the UK on 13th September. I tell Harrison I shall be seeing Robyn play in Hackney, the weekend after next.
The football resumes at three minutes past four and I’m soon noticing the raspberry blancmange like colouring of Aro Muric’s shirt and shorts, and how from a distance the ball looks a bit like a very un-ripe wild strawberry. Back in the game itself, Sasa Lukic kicks Liam Delap’s feet away from under him and is booked by referee Mr Lewis Smith, whose first name makes me think of Lewis Carroll and Alice Through the Looking Glass. “The Hot Sausage Company” appears in bright lights across the electronic advertising boards and Liam Delap shoots over the Fulham cross bar. Ipswich win a corner. Antonee Robinson, the spelling of whose first name would only be improved if it was Antonknee is booked by Mr Smith for shoving over Omari Hutchinson and then Town win yet another corner. An hour of the match is lost to history and recorded highlights, and the Sir Bobby Robson standers come over all festive again and sing about endlessly fighting Norwich. “Quick, Easy, Affordable Balustrades” announce the bright lights of the electronic advertisement boards and I try to think of the occasions when I have needed a cheap balustrade in a hurry before deciding that Adama Traore looks a bit like he could be a handy weightlifter when not playing football for Fulham.
The second half belongs to Ipswich and the game is mostly taking place up the other end. When Fulham do win a corner, it dissolves into a series of wild grabs and shoves and I’m surprised Mr Smith doesn’t tell the players that if they can’t play nicely there won’t be any more corners. The game hurtles into its last twenty minutes and the first substitutions are made, Jens Cajuste replacing Kalvin Phillips for Town. “I liked him the other night” says the bloke behind me, possibly revealing details of his private life, but more probably that he saw the midweek League Cup game against AFC Wimbledon. Not to be outdone, Fulham make a substitution too and then today’s attendance is announced as 29,517 with 2,952 of that number being of a Fulham persuasion. Fulham win a corner, Traore is shown Mr Lewis’s yellow card for tugging at Leif Davis. I’m surprised the hulk look-alike didnt tear Davis’s shirt clean off.
The final ten minutes witness mass substitutions for both teams including a first sight of another new signing for Town, Jack Clarke, but disappointingly nothing more leaps out at me from the electronic advertising boards. Pat from Clacton is feeling nervous and we’re not even winning, but there seems to be a commonly held belief that a point today will be good enough; Fulham are a decent side. The allotted ninety minutes have expired and the young man in the suit announces that there will five more. “Five added minutes” he concludes portentously, and the crowd responds with a final roar of encouragement, perhaps inspiring Town to win a corner and Omari Hutchinson to turn and shoot and have his shot saved by Leno.
The final whistle draws a torrent of appreciation from the stands as Pat from Clacton and Ian make a swift exit, but with no train home for half an hour, I hang around to watch the ensuing love-in and reflect on what has been a really good match. I thought last season’s matches were fast and intense, probably because I had become used to what went on in the loveable old third division, but this football, now, has stepped up to a far higher level again. Happily, it looks like this evolving Town team are capable of playing here. I don’t like the Premier League, I strongly disapprove of it and its greed, but I have to admit the football we’ve seen at Portman Road in these first two games has been brilliant. But what can you do? Let’s hope we find out soon, and do it.
It is a cloudy, autumn Saturday afternoon as my wife Paulene and I board the RER suburban, electric, double-decker train at Meudon Val Fleury for the short journey (2.05 euros each) to Pont du Garigliano from where it is a further twenty-five minute tram ride (1.90 euros each) down busy, tree-lined boulevards to Stade Charlety, the current home ground of Paris FC. Today at 3 o’clock Paris FC will play FC Metz in Domino’s Pizza Ligue 2. If you plan your journey on the website of RATP, the Parisian transport company, several options are listed according to whether you want the quickest journey, the one with fewest changes, the one with least walking or one which provides disabled access. But with every route the website tells you the amount of CO2 emissions for your journey, our journey ‘cost’ 29 grams compared to a colossal 1758 grams by car; it’s Martin & Paulene 1 Global Warming 0 and the match hasn’t even started.
Republicain, a sort of French UKIP who peddle the somewhat stupid sounding ‘Frexit’, not that it’s any more or less stupid than ‘Brexit’.
colour match programme (only one page is an advertisement) and are each given a free Paris FC flag. I reflect on how I have been a season ticket holder at Portman Road for 35 years and as ‘thanks’ for my loyalty and thousands of pounds all the club has ever given me is a baseball hat, a metal badge and a car sticker; I’ve been here less than five minutes and on the strength of just one 15 euros ticket Paris FC have already given me a programme and a flag. I like that the programme is called ‘Le Petit Parisian’ making a virtue of Paris FC’s ‘small club’ credentials, a poignant contrast no doubt to the behemoth that is Paris St Germain. According to Planete Foot magazine, Paris FC drew average crowds of just 3,070 last season and this season have a budget of 11 million euros compared to PSG’s budget of about 560 million euros; this against a background of PSG having evolved out of Paris FC as a ‘breakaway’ club in 1972.
suit, Paris FC scarf and pointy shoes, who looks a bit like the late Keith Chegwin parades before us with a radio mike as he announces the teams.
like it is only a toy. He faces his colleagues and misses virtually the whole game. The Ultras stand and clap and sing without pause and one of them bangs a drum. “P -F -C, P-F-C” they chant, for that is how Paris FC are commonly known. One guy has a beer in his hand meaning he can’t clap, so he just slaps his head with his free hand, taking a second to tidy his hair when he’s finished.
(possibly the ‘Ultras Lutetia’ group) have their own somewhat bigger drum and bigger flags but no megaphone, well not as far as I can see anyway. A fine drizzle is falling now and the stadium announcer who strutted about in pointy, shiny shoes before kick-off shelters beneath an umbrella. Rain drops run down the back of the transparent covers to the dugouts and it feels every bit like a quintessential autumn afternoon at the football. It’s marvellous and not only because this is Paris.
trippingovertheball 