alf ramsey

Ipswich Town 0 Wrecsam 0

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I am not ashamed to admit that I’ve got ‘a bit of a thing’ for Professor Alice Roberts the popular physician, anatomist, physical anthropologist, author and tv presenter.  I can’t help but smile, blush a little and feel a close affinity with her when she’s on the BBC’s ‘Digging for Britain’ programme and she uncovers some ancient artifact or other and comes over all misty eyed and wistful as she realises no one has clapped eyes on said artifact for a thousand years or more.  As a football supporter who keeps track of every game I’ve ever been to and every team I’ve ever seen, today is a bit of a Professor  Alice Roberts moment for me because today Ipswich Town are playing Wrexham (Wrecsam in Welsh) in the Football League, and that’s something neither I nor Professor Alice nor anyone else has ever seen before, not in a thousand years or indeed in the entire history of the planet or time itself.    Sadly, I doubt Professor Alice will be here today to see it, perhaps I should have invited her, but at least I will be here.

It’s been a miserable, grey, wet, November morning, lightened only by the occasional daydream  about Professor Alice sitting next to me at the match.  Fortunately, it’s not raining as I make my way to the railway station and board the train, which is on time.  “Going to the match” says a man on the platform. “Yes, well, I don’t usually wear this blue and white scarf” I say rather facetiously considering I don’t know the bloke. “Bit of a giveaway” he replies.  Of course, to make matters worse people do wear football scarves when not going to football matches, I’ve done so myself. 

The train arrives, it’s not very full and I find a window seat for what will be a lonely journey because Gary is going to the match with his brother today and will therefore not be on the train. Across the aisle from me sit an elderly man and what I assume is his wife, or lover. “More football” he says grudgingly as people in blue and white scarves, shirts and woolly hats board the train at the next station stop, I think they are the only words the couple exchange the whole journey.  Passing through Wherstead I spot a polar bear striking a Fox’s Glacier mint pose, well almost, and then the man opposite gets up fussily to take a bag down from the luggage rack. The woman glances at me fleetingly with a look of resignation that seems to say she realises he’s an idiot.

There are spots of rain in the air in Ipswich and only a handful of Wrexham fans are drinking in the garden of the Station Hotel.  In Portman Road, because this is the first time that Ipswich have ever played Wrexham here, I buy a programme (£4.00) from one of the booths that looks like they should sell ice cream.  Stupidly, I wish the seller “bon match” and then reflect upon the first time I ever saw Wrexham, in November 1978 at the Goldstone Ground in Brighton.  I will later decide I like the Brighton programme from that day forty-seven years ago more than today’s effort because it read ‘Wrexham’ in bold letters on the front.  Today’s programme just displays the two club crests in monochrome in the top right-hand corner, and they get equal billing with the flippin’ Sky bet/EFL logo.  Brighton won 2-1 back when Ipswich were the current FA Cup holders and the Wrexham team included players called Davies, Jones, Thomas and Roberts; very Welsh it was.  Having been born in Wales myself I am suddenly filled with bonhomie towards these immigrants for the afternoon and I half think about wishing any random Wrexham supporter “diwrnod da” but decide against it. 

‘The Arb’ is busy with drinkers and diners and when I eventually get served, I order two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8.40 with Camra discount) before retiring to the beer garden where I sit at a table beneath an umbrella.  I’m in the throes of texting Mick to tell him there’s a pint of Suffolk Pride waiting for him when he appears at the back gate.  “What a lovely thing to do” he says of my buying him a pint before he arrives and he then disappears inside to order some food and get the next round in early.  We talk of his continued lustful feelings towards Kemi Badenoch, blood test results, our disappointment that so many people are so willing to believe the worst, our continued and increasing despair regarding Donald Trump, mutual friends and the difficulty of describing one’s sibling.  Mick eats his food, cheesy chips, and I tell him of the ‘le Welsh’ festival in Lille next weekend, le Welsh being melted cheddar cheese with beer and an egg on top, served with bread and chips.  We laugh quite a bit and are dismayed that everyone leaves so early for the match and as per usual by about half-past two we’re the only drinkers left.

Having negotiated High Street, Crown Street, Lady Lane, Civic Drive and the Portman Road car park Mick and I part ways beneath the blind gaze of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue.  Mick asks what and when the next game is, neither of us has any idea. I mention that I think there is a midweek game versus Stoke at some time, but we both have faith that we will work it out in good time.  At the back of Sir Alf Ramsey’s stand there are no queues at all and I approach the Anglo-Asian man looking for weapons with outstretched arms. He asks what I have in my pockets and I reveal the pair of woolly fingerless gloves that my wife knitted for me. “No mobile phone?” he asks. “Ahh, that’s up here” I tell him as I unzip a breast pocket on my multi pocketed coat to show him.

Having syphoned off some spent Suffolk Pride I find myself in the stand shuffling past Fiona and Pat from Clacton to my seat just as the excitable young stadium announcer, who today is wearing a woolly hat, tells us today’s line -up.  I try to bellow the Town players’ surnames as a Frenchman would as the announcer reads them out, but he’s reverted to not being in-sync with the scoreboard today so it’s not a great success.  My fellow football fans in the Stade Geoffrey Guichard or Stadium de Toulouse would doubtless be disappointed. Quel dommage.

Inevitably, ever present Phil who never misses a game is here but sadly his son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket Paul) are not, and this is because they have both been unlucky enough but at the same time lucky enough to have been benefitting from our National Health Service and have not been in a position to even take late fitness tests for today’s game.  It’s Wrexham that get first go with the ball, which they launch in the general direction of Coe’s outfitters and the Halal butchers on Norwich Road.  With Wrexham wearing red shirts and white shorts, and Town in blue and white I am naturally reminded once again of the Continental Club Edition Subbuteo teams from my childhood.  Wrexham, however, seem to me to be wearing a particular shade of red that marks them out as being Wrexham rather than Bristol City or Barnsley or Nottingham Forest. But then again, I do know they are Wrexham, even if the front of today’s match programme was very little help in making that clear.

The early part of the game consists of Pat from Clacton telling me she’s wearing new glasses and they’re a bit wonky and also how she’s been a bit ‘chesty’ with difficulty breathing since she had Covid, whilst Fiona has lost her voice and sounds hoarse.  As if that’s not enough, Wrexham win a corner after seven minutes and Pat also tells us she has a large floater in her eye.  She then can’t help but mention the other sort of floater, although none of us admits to knowing much about these and the subject is quickly closed.

Eleven minutes gone and Town win two corners in quick succession giving us the opportunity to chant “Come On You Blues”, which we do and a loud bloke behind joins in too, which is nice.  Dara O’Shea volleys past the far post from the second corner.  “Come on Town, these are rubbish, and Welsh” says a bloke a couple of seats away and it seems that one of the other blokes nearby has Welsh ancestry and so his friends are behaving like Edward I would have if he hadn’t been able to build castles to suppress the Welsh but had been reduced to just taking the mickey.  

Another ten minutes elapse and it’s the Welsh who are avenging the deeds of Edward I with their wit as they sing “Football in a library, do-do-do” and Portman Road is quiet, like it always was when there were barely 15,000 of us here a few years ago. Wrexham fans know all about that scenario. The game meanwhile is frankly a bit dull, like the weather, which is at least wet as well and I start to wonder about the words “Tingly Ted’s Hot Sauce by Ed Sheeran”, which appear on the electronic advert hoardings between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.   Who the heck is Tingly Ted?  Why is Ed Sheeran making hot sauce for him, and now Sheeran has defected to Barcelona is he making Romesco sauce and Salsa dips for Kinky Carlos or Perky Pedro?  I am relieved when the following advertisement is for EMP Drainage who are promoted with the words “Domestic and Commercial Unblocking”.

Such has been the level of excitement since three o’clock, I am surprised to find there are only eight minutes until half time and the home crowd are suddenly enjoying the booking of Wrexham’s George Thomason after he does an impression of a combine harvester meeting an unsuspecting Chuba Akpom in a corn field.   I can’t help feeling that we’re all just clinging on to the hopes raised by occasional attacks that penetrate the Wrexham penalty area.   A single minute of added time brings nothing new but just before it arrives Jayden Philogene has a shot that the Wrexham goalkeeper Arthur Okonkwo, who is very large and bright yellow, only stops with a fumbling save.

Half-time is spent venting more spent Suffolk Pride and then chatting to Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand.  Ray kindly offers me a ticket to see Mark Steele at the Apex at Bury St Edmunds, because his wife isn’t really that keen, whilst Harrison tells me of someone he knows, who asked him if he was the same Harrison mentioned in this very blog.   Unable to tell a lie, not unlike George Washington but doubtless very unlike Donald Trump, the now famous Harrison naturally admitted he was.

The second half begins at three minutes past four and regrettably fails to differ very much from the one that preceded it.  Philogene has another shot barely saved by Okonkwo, Wrexham number eighteen Ben Sheaf is booked for fouling Azor Matusiwa, there is a scramble in the Wrexham goalmouth and Egeli shoots over the Wrexham cross bar but the causes for celebration are limited as evidence by the bloke behind me breaking into a joyous chorus of the “Scum are going down” when he learns that Norwich City are losing 4-1 at Birmingham.

An hour has left us for ever.  “Wrexham, Wrexham” chant the Wrexham fans to no particular tune as their team indulges in some rare passing and retention of the ball before Matusiwa is booked, unfairly of course, and Keiran McKenna makes the first much needed substitutions, bringing on George Hirst and Jack Clarke for Ivan Azon and Jaden Philogene.  Jack Taylor has a shot over the cross bar and Town win a corner but with no success from that Pat from Clacton takes things into her own hands and removes a blue Dodo from her handbag, which she bought in Mauritius, the Dodo that is, not the handbag, which given Pat’s age might have come from Salisbury’s.   The Dodo passes to Fiona, to me and back again into Pat’s bag and we just hope he’s more successful than the masturbating monkey from Cambodia, who has been the ‘lucky charm’ until today.  Fiona and I decide to call the Dodo Derek.

Less than twenty minutes remain for Derek to work his magic but a Town corner is easily headed away, and more substitutions quickly follow with Nunez and Cajuste replacing Akpom and Taylor. Wrexham continue to get to every Town cross and shot before Town do. Today’s attendance is announced as being 29,147 and we are thanked by the excitable young stadium announcer for our “Incredible support”, although the Wrexham fans remain unconvinced as they launch into a reprise of the old favourite “Football in library do-do-do” after first telling us we’re “Only here for the Wrexham”, which frankly seems unlikely unless anyone is a fan of stifling defending and zero excitement.

Less than ten minutes of normal time remain, and another Town corner comes to nought before Keiran McKenna goes for broke by bringing on Kasey McAteer, who immediately begins to live up to previous performances by being flagged offside.  Only four minutes of normal time remain now, Wrexham win a corner and referee Mr Whitestone books Wrexham’s Lewis O’Brien when Jack Clarke runs into him.  Up in the Cobbold Stand, the Wrexham fans suddenly come over all Welsh and start singing Men of Harlech.  The end of normal time is now imminent. Town win a free-kick but like everything else this afternoon they might as well not have bothered although after some more bagatelle the ball runs to Kasey McAteer for possibly the best chance of the game. McAteer blasts the ball spectacularly high and wide, seizing the opportunity to be crowned the new Lee Martin.

Four minutes of added on time prove as disappointing and sapping of optimism as the previous ninety-one and with the final whistle from Mr Whitestone Pat from Clacton and Fiona quickly take flight, along with Derek the Dodo, which is at least a first for him.  I’m not far behind as I console myself with the thought that at least I hadn’t witnessed Town lose like I did in Wrexham back in January 1995 in the FA Cup third round.  I can be glad too that Professor Alice wasn’t with me, she would probably never have spoken to me again, and so I can still look forward to the first time.

Ipswich Town 0 Charlton Athletic 3

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The waking hours that fill most of the time before a mid-week evening fixture are a bit odd.  I’m ‘at work’, albeit at home but my thoughts are mostly of knocking-off and travelling to Ippy, of pre-match pints and the match itself as I wish the day away waiting for the main event, the floodlight beams and the darkened streets.

It’s been a miserable day of showers and grey, threatening clouds and just as I walk out of my front door a heavy squall sends me back indoors looking for an umbrella.   The train is on time however, and even though kick-off is not for nearly another three hours blue shirts bearing the mysterious word ‘Halo’ are out in force.  Gary is soon sitting next to me having negotiated the assault course of the narrow aisle between the carriage seats.  We see a polar bear through the deepening gloom outside as we settle into our familiar pre-match world.

In Ipswich the streets are wet and shiny as the traffic swishes up Civic Drive and what I still think of as a corporation bus lurches round the roundabout by the spiral car park, all glowing interior, rain-dappled windows and blurry faces heading home for tea.  Low, setting sunlight shines onto the plate glass windows of the abandoned Crown Court building as Ipswich slips towards darkness.  I remark to Gary how beautiful it all is, but I’m not sure he’s as moved as I am.   At ‘the Arb’, homely electric light spills out into High Street, a welcoming beacon for the pre-match drinker.  I buy a pint of Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella lager for Gary (£10.21 with Camra discount) and we choose what we are going to eat before heading out the back to the beer garden, where we get out from under the spits of rain in the long rustic shelter that backs onto the road

By the time Mick arrives Gary and I are about to tuck into pulled pork and Haloumi chips respectively, and we talk of boycotting the World Cup in the USA, Mick’s work and who saw Ipswich lose at Middlesbrough on the telly last Friday.  Because he bought me my Haloumi chips, I buy Gary another pint of Estrella, and a Monkey Shoulder whisky for Mick and more Suffolk Pride for myself, before Gary then buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride and another Monkey Shoulder for Mick, and I tell him I fancy mooching around Europe for a bit when I retire.   All the time our conversation has to compete to be heard above that of the half dozen blokes at the table at the other end of the shelter.  I can’t quite decide if they’re loud or if the tin roof makes for unhelpful acoustics.

As ever, we are the last to leave for Portman Road, probably because we are the coolest over-sixties in the pub, me in my dark overcoat, Mick looking like a mature student revolutionary and Gary in his tan puffa jacket, like a lost ski instructor. We join the gathering crowds as we cross Civic Drive again and part ways beneath the dead gaze of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue.  The queues for Sir Alf’s stand are long again tonight, possibly because there are now rows of barriers funnelling us towards trestle tables and then the turnstiles, although I eventually make my entrance via the side entrance as Mr Benn might have done had the shopkeeper given him a blue a white scarf and a bobble hat one day.   It’s strange how often I think of Mr Benn.

By the time I emerge onto Sir Alf’s lower tier the teams are on the pitch, I have missed the antics of the excitable young stadium announcer, his suit and his Basil Fawlty style contortions, and everyone is shaping up for the kick-off.  The man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here of course, but sadly Pat from Clacton is not; she’s in Clacton where, following her week playing whist in Great Yarmouth she has contracted Covid.  I learned this through social media where it’s possibly the only thing I have ever believed to be true.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball tonight, kicking it towards me and my fellow ultras and wearing our signature blue and white, whilst our opponents Charlton Athletic sport sensible, plain red shirts and white shorts, a sight which has me reminiscing about my Continental Club Edition Subbuteo set and its anonymous and strangely posed red and blue teams.  Town quickly win a couple of corners and I’m singing ‘Come On You Blues’ before I get a chance to work out who are ‘the Blues’ tonight; it takes me a while because it seems like another team and it’s going to be nearly half-time before I work out that number 29 is Akpom, and realise Philogene our top scorer isn’t even in the starting line-up. 

In the Cobbold stand, the Charlton fans are singing “ I want to go home, Ipswich is a shit-hole, I want to go home” and whilst I will admit I am ignorant of the attractions of beautiful downtown Plumstead, I surmise that they couldn’t have seen the fading sunlight on the plate glass windows of the old Crown Court or that glowing corporation bus.  Meanwhile, I notice that the Charlton number six has the unusual surname of Coventry, which I mention to Fiona but we quickly decide there aren’t any potential quips and anything about being sent to Coventry wouldn’t really work. 

Ipswich are dominating possession but in a somewhat dull manner devoid of decent shots and it’s no surprise when the Charlton supporters make the traditional “Is this a library?” enquiry and Fiona suggests it probably isn’t a library because as Ipswich fans we can’t read or write, only drive tractors.  Such is fan “culture”.  Non-plussed by everything, my eye is caught by the electronic advertisements on the Sir Bobby Robson stand which are thanking “today’s programme sponsor Cambridge Windows” before the words “Doors” and “Conservatories” flash up in neon blue and I wonder if this isn’t subliminal advertising.  “Your support is fucking shit” chant the Charltonites and I like to think they mean Cambridge Windows’support, because if the programme is sponsored why does it cost four quid?

Town win another couple of corners and I chant “Come On You Blues”, but as usual to no avail although the bloke beside me concludes “They’re there for the taking “ meaning Charlton, and I tend to agree that they look pretty useless, I just can’t understand why their goalkeeper hasn’t had to make a save yet.  The half is half over when there is a break in play as Town ‘keeper Alex Palmer is mysteriously stranded about thirty yards from his goal and receiving treatment, whilst the other twenty-one players all congregate by the dugouts for drinks, chit-chat and possibly nibbles and the exchange of phone numbers.  The upshot is that Palmer retires hurt and Christian Walton takes his place.

When play resumes ,Town continue to accumulate corner kicks and with no football to cheer from their own team the Charlton fans resort to chanting “Ed Sheeran is a wanker”, and who wouldn’t? Ipswich accumulate a still larger stack of corner kicks as the first third of the match passes into forgettable history but experiencing a flashback from  the ‘high’ of the last home game against Norwich, Town fans reprise The Cranberries’ “Zombie” singing “Nunez, he’s in your head” even though there are no Norwich fans here to fall victim to our untamed wit.  The Norwich baiting continues with chants of  “He’s only a poor little budgie”  as the Sir Bobby Robson standers dredge up the euphoria of the last game to compensate for the lack of euphoria from this one.  It’s a ploy that almost works however as Akpom strikes a fierce shot against the Charlton cross bar, although then soon afterwards weak defending by Leif Davis results in Christian Walton having to make a fine save from Olaofe who is left free to run at goal.

The half concludes with four minutes of added time, Nunez shooting wide and firing a free-kick over the bar, Town getting a final corner of the half, Charlton’s Docherty being the first player to be booked and Charlton getting two corners of their own, which are enthusiastically greeted by sonorous chants of “Come on you Reds” and also a header wide of the goal.

With the break for half-time, after venting spent Suffolk Pride I join Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand where Ray and I express mild dissatisfaction that Town are not several goals up against what appears to be the worst visiting team to rock up at Portman Road since our time in the third division.  More optimistically, Harrison predicts a final score of 4-0 and I predict 3-0, although with unintended foresight I don’t say who to, or even to whom.

The match resumes at nine minutes to nine and within seven minutes Charlton score as the childishly named Sonny Carey easily runs at and past Dara O’Shea and shoots under Christian Walton.  A man somewhere behind me becomes very sweary and the Charlton fans get so carried away that they start singing about being on their way to something called the Premier League.  Two minutes later it’s almost 2-0 to Charlton from a corner and a minute later it is as Christian Walton dives low to spring the ball up in the air for an unmarked player with the possibly misspelt name of Gillesphey to head it unchallenged into the gaping goal.  Charlton’s supporters are suddenly very loud indeed, and I begin to wonder if Keiran McKenna’s half time talk hadn’t included the ritual slaughter of a black cat. 

Hopes are raised as a Leif Davis shot, or may be a cross, hits the Charlton net, but these hopes are then dashed on the lineman’s raised flag.   Substitutions naturally follow with thirty minutes to go as they nearly always do, but tonight they need to be game changers.  In a way they are as two minutes later Charlton score a third, another header into a gaping net after Davis defends weakly again and Walton dives at the near post and no one marks Miles Leaburn who can’t believe his luck from the middle of the goal.  Some people leave and the Charlton fans ask “Can we play you every week?”. With perfect timing the illuminated adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson stand read “If you see something that doesn’t look right…”

I sing “We’ll have to win 4-3” to the baleful tune of Rogers and Hart’s song form 1934 “Blue Moon” and as if to show willing Town continue to have the majority of possession and win even more corners.  As I tell the bloke next to me however, we look no more dangerous from our corners than we do from Charlton goal kicks. Akpom shoots wide for Town and more substitutions follow, but nothing changes except for the Charlton songs which move on to Tom Hark with the curious words “See the Charlton, then fuck off home” and it’s hard to tell if this is an existential commentary on their lives, ours, or everyone’s, and if so, why?

Ipswich of course win the moral victory as Charlton have another player booked and then another and we also win the corner count and the curious satisfaction of knowing that tonight’s attendance of 28,006 is too large to fit into Charlton’s stadium at The Valley.  But sadly, the actual victory, what we showed up to see go the way of Ipswich, is Charlton’s, and I haven’t even had the consolation of knowing what Pat from Clacton had for her tea.  “Is there a fire drill?” enquire the Charlton fans as the Town fans head en masse for the exits, and it’s good to know that even if their team has won the match quite comfortably, they remain pitifully unoriginal in their attempts at humour.   The four minutes of added on time will prove hopelessly insufficient for Town, but at least I will easily be able to catch the 9:53 train, which in these days of concern about our mental well being will help me ‘move on’, so it’s not all bad.

Of course it hasn’t helped me ‘move on’ , not for long anyway , and after one gloomy day there will follow another.  But that’s autumn as one’s early season hopes and expectations wither and fall like leaves from the trees.  I’m sure we’ll win on Saturday mind. Up the Town!

Ipswich Town 3 Norwich City 1

/ martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

One of the many unpleasant things about returning to work having been on holiday is once again being shaken from one’s slumbers at an unearthly hour by an alarm clock.  The first weekend after the return to work is usually a beautiful thing therefore because of the albeit temporary return to what had been the normality when on holiday of not having to get up before you naturally wake up.  Today however, Ipswich Town are playing local rivals, nasty Norwich City and because of human beings’ apparent need to divide ourselves into groups which hate one other, the people charged with maintaining peace and good order have decreed that the match shall begin at 12 o’clock on a Sunday morning.  I had planned to catch the 10:05 train but having received an e-mail from Ipswich Town entreating him to get to the game early, Mick seems anxious that he should.  I therefore set my alarm for 7.30 to give me time to shower, prepare and eat a hearty breakfast, drink coffee with a glass of advocaat and walk to the railway station to catch the 09:30.

It’s a bright sunny morning as I walk to the station and through the leaves of the trees the wind seems to whisper, “Ipswich win, Norwich lose”.   The train is on time, and I sit across the aisle from a man at least in late middle age who wears shorts and a body warmer, as if his legs still want to be on holiday but his torso realises it is autumn.  Another man of a similar age relives his past by wearing a blue Harrington jacket.  The sun is still climbing in the sky and dances between those Ipswich supporting trees as we speed down the line towards Gary, who joins me on my journey along with his recovering achilles tendon.  We chat about the tendon, Ipswich having only played Norwich fourteen times in sixteen years, and Ipswich still having won as many local derbies as Norwich despite Norwich’s eight victories since Ipswich’s last victory in 2009, before looking out for the Wherstead polar bears, of which we see two out of the surviving three.

The streets of Ipswich are heaving with police persons in day-glo gilets, baseball hats and other “street-wear” encouraging Gary and I to reminisce about the days of pointy helmets and long dark coats.  Neither of us stops to buy a programme, deeming £4.00 too much for something glossy but of little real interest, which will sit on a shelf and gather dust until our younger relatives clear our homes when we die and optimistically put them on e-bay.  At the Arb’ I buy Gary a pint of Estrella Gallicia and one of Suffolk Pride for myself (ten pound something with Camra discount). We find Mick in the beer garden basking in the morning sunlight; at first we don’t see him at all and go to sit elsewhere, it’s been a while and it’s as if we’ve forgotten what he looks like, although Gary mistakenly thinks we have seen him once this season, but we haven’t.  Mick jokes, in poor taste, about oncoming senility, but like the baby boomers we are we laugh anyway.

We talk of Ipswich’s first book festival, Brittany, bagpipes, neolithic standing stones, Sligo and Galway, tacky souvenirs and the Catholic church,  electric vehicle charging points and the sale of Mick’s deceased neighbour’s house.  Mick buys us more pints of beer and before long we’re the only people left in the beer garden, everyone else having heeded their e-mails like the obedient, malleable citizens that they are, not like us independent thinking baby-boomers with our pensions and Palestinian flags.   We nevertheless leave the pub perhaps ten minutes earlier than we might normally, but then, Gary’s achilles tendon is still slowing him down. In Sir Alf Ramsey Way the turnstiles are queue-less, although the same is not true of the back of Sir Alf Ramsey’s stand where entry is slowed by scanning for weapons, frisking for stale dumplings and dead budgies with which people might taunt the visiting fans, and an old boy in front of me who is trying to use his season ticket card like a chip and pin and is ignoring the QR code.

After venting spent Suffolk Pride it’s soon a joy to be re-united with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood who are all inevitably awaiting kick-off.  From the Sir Bobby Robson stand a blue and white banner hangs, which slightly cryptically asks “who’s that team we all adore?”.  Given the Gothic typeface I’m thinking someone Germanic, Schalke perhaps or Karlsruher? Hansa Rostock?  But it’s a question that doesn’t really need asking.  On the pitch, the excitable young stadium announcer is contorting his lanky frame as he bellows into his microphone and announces the team.  Sadly, he is becoming as hopeless as his predecessor Murphy and he fails miserably to co-ordinate his announcing of the player’s names with them appearing on the big screen in the corner.  He is possibly just too excited.   I simply ignore him therefore and bawl the players’ names as they appear on the screen, as if I were at the Stade Marie-Marvigt in Le Mans or Stade Ocean in Le Havre.

Eventually, the noise through the PA system subsides and the game begins as the wind howls around us and small pieces of torn up paper flutter about.  It’s Norwich who get first go with the ball and they boot it more or less in the direction of where they come from whilst wearing their traditionally unpleasant signature kit of yellow and green, like a poor man’s Runcorn or Hitchin Town.  Ipswich meanwhile are of course resplendent in blue and white.  If the bloke beside me is to be believed, early Town play is a bit sloppy. “Come on Town for fuck’s sake” he shouts as a pass or two go astray.  Typically, Norwich commit the first foul as if to keep alive the memory of Duncan Forbes.  “All aspects of plastering and drylining” announce the electric advertisement screens brightly between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.   A Town free-kick is wasted. “Fucking numpty” says the bloke behind me as the linesman gives a throw to Norwich.

Ten minutes pass and Norwich are probably having more possession of the ball than Ipswich.  The Norwich supporters sing “Your support is fucking shit”.  Ipswich win a corner and along with Pat from Clacton and ever-present Phil I shout “Come On You Blues” a good three or four times as we support our team without using swear words.  On the touchline meanwhile, Keiran McKenna looks a little drab in his grey trousers and black polo neck top, and I think to myself that it surely wouldn’t break our American backers if they let him have a blue and white scarf out of the club shop to brighten him up a bit.  Back in the Cobbold Stand the Norwich supporters think they’re being clever as they sing to the home supporters “Sit down if you love Norwich”, somehow not noticing that they themselves are all standing up.  Sixteen minutes pass and Town win another corner and it’s time to chant “Come On You Blues” again, and again and probably once more for luck, but the score remains goalless, although I do notice that Norwich have a player called Topic and I am reminded of the nougat, caramel and chocolate based confection that reportedly had a hazelnut in every bite but which according to Wikipedia ceased production in 2021 having been introduced in 1962, the year Ipswich were English Champions.

The 19th minute witnesses Norwich’s number twenty-nine kick Town’s Furlong up in the air but escape punishment from the referee who seems to have the authority to absolve Norwich players of sin rather than book them.  The advertisement for Aspall cider that says “Made in Suffolk since 1728, now available in a can” runs across the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I can’t decide whether or not  this is meant to be ironically amusing. My reverie should be shattered as everyone in the ground except for Fiona and myself stands up to celebrate Jaden Philogene smashing the ball into the Norwich net.  But it seems we were alone in hearing the referee’s whistle signalling that a Norwich player had fallen over in the build-up.  Then Norwich win a couple of corners before there’s a cross from the right and a George Hirst header, albeit straight at the Norwich goalkeeper, which stands out as the first incident easily recognisable as attacking football.

The game is now a third of its way into history and Town win another corner.  Along with my fellow ultras I chant “Come on You Blues” again and this time the ball drops down, avoids a couple of boots before being launched comprehensively into the roof of the Norwich goal net by Ivorian Cedric Kipre for whom, seeing as he is on loan from Reims, this must be Champagne football.

Confusingly, the Ipswich supporters begin to sing “You’re not singing anymore” as the Norwich supporters sing “Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning”. But the musical interlude lasts only a couple of minutes as Norwich win a corner and the Town players ignore the Norwich number twenty-nine to whom the ball drops at the edge of the penalty area; he shoots, and the ball is by some fluke deflected past Palmer and into the Town goal for an unexpected equaliser and hopefully the last bit of good luck Norwich City will ever get.

For a minute or two Norwich look puffed-up and pleased with themselves and their number six, who laughingly is called Darling, fouls Leif Davis and referee Mr Thomas Kirk picks him as the first player of the afternoon to see his yellow card. “Name?” says Mr Kirk. “Darling” says Darling. “You can’t get round me like that” says Mr Kirk, blushing slightly. “No, my name is Darling” says Darling. “Well, I’m going to have to book you Darling” replies Mr Kirk, then adding “I hope you don’t mind me calling you Darling, Darling.” 

As the last five minutes of the first half run on, Town win another couple of corners and yet again in vain, we chant “Come on you Blues”. Meanwhile the bloke beside me is analysing the game with the man from Stowmarket (Paul). The last minute of the half is here, and the Norwich number seven fails to control the ball. Jaden Philogene runs on to the loose ball as it rebounds away from the Norwich bloke’s rubber foot, Philogene spins on the ball to leave rubber toes staggering and about to fall over, Philogene takes a stride or two towards goal and then unleashes a left foot shot. Grazing the underside of the crossbar the ball then strikes the Norwich goal net and Town are winning. My jaw drops. English reserve evaporates as Fiona and I hug, and I open my eyes wide just merrily thinking “Wow”.

Naturally, half-time is a time of happiness, a time to reflect on a job half done. I head to the front of the stand to go and speak with Ray, but my way is blocked by a steward, who won’t let me through to the front of the stand. I ask why not. “Instructions” says the steward. “What is the reason for the instructions?” I ask. “Instructions” says the steward suggesting some sort of peculiar chain of command in which no one ever explains the reasons for anything. Fortunately, Ray walks over to me and we talk the usual nonsense, but I can only wave to Ray’s grandson Harrison and tell him to be careful, he is in a restricted zone.

Hostilities resume at five minutes past one and initially Norwich look keen to level the scores, but somehow without actually scoring, or even having a shot. Town’s Sindre Egele fouls some bloke in a yellow shirt “Great tackle” says the bloke behind me appreciatively “Shudda been a bit higher”. Town win the ball back from the subsequent free kick but stubbornly insist on ‘playing out from the back’ at all times and consequently concede a corner.

Substitutions are made by Norwich because the players they have had on the field up to now have clearly not been much good. Above, the sky is turning increasingly grey and with an hour gone the floodlights suddenly burst into life as if someone had unwittingly leant on the switch. “Stand up if you ‘ate the scum” chant the home supporters now able to see the yellow and green shirts again and also Marcelino Nunez warming up on the touchline, before launching into what is to become the theme tune of the afternoon, “He’s in your head, He’s In your head ,  Nunez, Nunez, Nunez” to the tune of ‘Zombie’ by The Cranberries.   Feeding off the growing sense of joie de vivre amongst the Ipswich fans Sindra Egele goes past a Norwich player by flicking the ball up over the hapless defender’s head, thereby making a monkey out of a canary.

Twenty minutes of normal time remain and perhaps needing to get his breath back, referee Mr Kirk awards Norwich four corners in quick succession, whilst the Norwich number twenty-three, a belligerent fellow with a shrew-like face, gives up on football and just tries to push and shove and generally wrestle with anyone in a blue shirt. Mr Kirk shows him the yellow card for his trouble.  With the succession of corners over, Keiran Mckenna, still looking ready for a funeral in grey and black, makes three substitutions bringing on Nunez, Ivan Azon and Jack Clarke.  Within three minutes, possibly two, Nunez chips the ball up for Azon to run on to and strike a low shot against the far post and with grace and style Jack Clarke majestically sweeps in the rebound to put Town 3-1 up.

The final twelve minutes of normal time bring two more Town corners after a free kick by Nunez, which 28,000 people fail to will into the Norwich net, and Pat from Clacton tells me she’s off to Great Yarmouth to play whist next week, in a hotel where the manager is a Norwich fan. Today’s attendance is announced by the excitable young stadium announcer as being 29,809 and five minutes of added on time is called, a bit like drinking up time.  Town fans meanwhile are drunk on Philogene and Nunez whilst Norwich are getting chucked out with the empties and throwing up on the pavement outside.  With the final whistle, everyone in blue and white is delirious; I resolve to drink champagne and dance all night and try not to forget to set my alarm clock.

Ipswich Town 1 Southampton 1

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

My wife Paulene grew up in the city of Portsmouth like her parents and their parents before them.  Her father was present at Wembley to see victorious Pompey lift the FA Cup in 1939 and was a regular at Fratton Park before he got married.  Paulene started watching Pompey in the late 1960’s and hers is one of the names on the wall behind the North Stand at Fratton Park which records those who bought shares to keep the club alive and take it out of administration back in 2011.   Today, my team Ipswich Town play Pompey’s bitter rivals Southampton and must win, and by several goals.  The reason for this is that Paulene will then be in my debt because yesterday Pompey lost to flippin’ Norwich.

Weirdly, it’s Sunday, and almost every other team in whatever league it is Ipswich now play in have already played.  To make matters even more confusing, kick-off is at 12 o’clock, barely giving time for the God-fearing to get home from church before heading for the match.  Untroubled by such matters however, I have already checked that ‘The Arb’ will be opening early, and after a breakfast of all manner of things left in the fridge and then introduced to a frying pan, I am heading to the railway station in sandals, shorts and t-shirt beneath an ITFC bucket hat and a blazing August sun.  Despite my outwardly sunny disposition, I can’t help but quietly question what I’m doing embarking on yet another season of probable anguish and despair.   After all, we reached the ‘promised land’ last year and it turned out to be something of a disappointment, why bother trying to go back?  It was like saving up for a luxury holiday, expecting to stay at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo and then finding yourself with half-board in a B & B in Lowestoft.

Just like last season, Gary joins me on the train at the first station stop.  Our conversation joins the dots between now and last May before we look for polar bears on the rolling slopes of Wherstead.  Opposite us sits an inscrutable, full-faced and bearded man in dark glasses, who looks so miserable he makes me want to laugh.  He has a face to ward-off evil spirits.  As ever, due to careful planning our carriage draws up by the lower of the two foot bridges that span the tracks at Ipswich station, and having negotiated the ticket barriers we make for the Arb via Portman Road and its ice cream kiosks that sell programmes.  But today there is a technical issue at the first kiosk, a queue at the second and so I buy my programme from a large young bloke with just a two-wheeled, blue trolley with a stick on it bearing a sign that says “programmes”. To my horror the programme now costs four pounds. “Four pounds!” I exclaim. “Yes, everything is going up” says the large young bloke sounding like the voice of experience.  “How much were programmes when you first came to Portman Road?” asks Gary. “Five pence” I tell him, and for that you would also get a Football League Revue which cost five-pence on its own.  I wonder why at French football matches programmes are free, and speculate that if everyone at the game was given a programme it might be possible to charge more for the advertising.  On the plus side, the front cover of the programme features a painted portrait of Dara O’Shea with Umbro badge to the fore.  The painting is in a conventional style by an artist called Louise Cobbold but I look forward in the weeks to come to enjoying the faces of Luke Woolfenden and  Ali Al-Hamadi as they might have been seen by Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud or Picasso.

Since yesterday Gary has had a bad ankle.  He tells me he drove to Braintree and when he got out of his car his ankle hurt.  Our journey to the Arb is therefore a slow and arduous one and by the time we get there I feel a lot like Mao Zedong and the Red Army must have at the end of ‘Long March’, but minus the revolutionary fervour.   I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10.50 for the two with Camra discount) because The Arb no longer sells Lager 43.  Like a twit, I pronounce ‘Galicia’ as I imagine a Spanish person would, I think it’s my age.  Beers in hands, we retire to the beer garden to mourn the absence of Mick, who is at a wedding in Scotland, and to talk of films, immigration and the town of Bromley.  Gary later buys another round of pints of Suffolk Pride and Galicia too.

It’s just gone twenty-five to twelve when we head for Portman Road; we leave a little early because of Gary’s painful ankle but proudly we’re still the last people to go.  We part ways near where Alf Ramsey’s statue stands hands in pockets perhaps wondering why football fans sing about Bobby Robson but not him, even though he won the League and the World Cup and Sir Bobby won neither.  I saunter past queues for the turnstiles in Portman Road but at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand emergency measures are in place and as I arrive hopeful spectators are being ushered through the side entrance past recent building works and a sign that reads ‘Broadcasters Toilet’, which I hope is specially adapted to flush away what comes out of their mouths.

I make it into the company of the man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the excitable young stadium announcer finishes telling us who ‘our’ team are today.  In the time-honoured manner, I bawl the players’ surnames out as if I was at the Stade du Roudourou in Guingamp or Stade Saint-Symphorien in Metz. It’s as if I’d never been away, or indeed to either of those stadiums and oddly enough I haven’t.  At the far end of the ground a banner, it’s not really big enough in size or ambition to be called a tifo, reads “Side by side a sea of blue and white” which doesn’t quite sound right but I think I get the general idea.

When the game begins, it is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they proceed to boot very effectively towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras.  Naturally enough Town are in traditional blue and white, whilst Southampton are in their usual red stripes and black shorts but have seemingly travelled here through time and have donned the kit that Mike Channon and little Alan Ball used to wear back in the second half through the 1970’s.  Within four minutes Town score as George Hirst nicks a back pass and crosses to Jack Clarke who skilfully sets the ball up for the flamboyantly monikered Taylor Harwood-Bellis to score an own goal.

With promotion assured, we settle down to enjoy the match, the sunshine and the remainder of the season.  Pat from Clacton has had an operation on one of her eyes she tells me, and I guess that’s why she’s looking extra cool in her shades today; and luckily, she’s looking much more cheerful than the bloke in the dark glasses on the train this morning. “Sit down if you love Pompey” sing the Southampton fans and so because we do, we do.  

On the pitch however, things have taken a turn for the worse and Southampton unsportingly won’t let Town have the ball.   The upshot is that it all gets a bit too much and Southampton score an equalising goal with a ‘towering’ header from a bloke called Jay Robinson. All around people agree that “it had been coming”, which philosophically speaking is probably something of a truism because looking back hasn’t everything?    Disappointed, I seek solace in telling Fiona that Southampton’s number thirty-four, Wellington, used to play for Wimbledon. Without hesitation, Fiona gets the joke, possibly because I said the same thing the last time Southampton were at Portman Road.

Wellington is booked before half-time by referee Mr Madley, who has taken to annoying supporters of both teams who accuse him through the medium of a tuneless chant of not knowing what he is doing.  I however think he does know what he is doing and that is the opposite to what we think he should be doing. He proceeds to book Jack Taylor and Azor Matusiwa.

With half-time I vent excess Suffolk Pride and then reacquaint myself with Ray and his grandson Harrison  who have spent the summer attending gigs, concerts and happenings and are soon due to see Tom Jones.  I hope Ray has a clean pair of knickers to throw at the Octogenarian.

After the somewhat uneasy first-half in which Southampton would probably claim to have been the better team, in the second half it soon becomes clear that whatever Kieran McKenna said at half time to his players was much more worth listening to than whatever the ginger Anglo-Belgian Will Still said.  Sammie Szmodics hits a post and the ball defies the laws of physics by bouncing back to the goalkeeper instead of into the net and Jadon Philogene executes a spectacular overhead scissor kick.  There are other chances for Town too, whilst as a tall slim man, for Southampton I find Adam Armstrong and Ryan Frazer antagonisingly stocky.

Wellington is substituted by Will Still before he plays an hour and Fiona and I are disappointed but not surprised when he’s not replaced by Orinoco.  Pat from Clacton tells me she’s having a baked potato for tea, with chicken and salad. Southampton’s number 18 Mateus Fernandes shoots over the Town cross bar from a free-kick and then smacks the palm of one hand obliquely across the other in a gesture that says ‘darn my luck’ or, if Google translate can be believed ‘droga a minha sorte’ in Portuguese.  The excitable young stadium announcer goes on to thank us for our being 29,128 in number today and almost as a final act before declaring the game over, Mr Madley books Southampton’s Shea Charles in the manner of a man who enjoys being the architect of the practical joke.  Madley allows Charles to walk away from the scene of his crime, before suddenly calling him back and thrusting the yellow card at him the moment he turns around.  It’s a decent finale to a match that wouldn’t otherwise have one.

I don’t hang about after the final whistle and leave for the railway station to the sound of people reluctantly saying it was probably a fair result.  I’m not sure my wife Paulene will think it was and I may have some explaining to do, but at least we didn’t lose.

Ipswich Town 2 Nottingham Forest 4

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

One of the many awful things about the awful English Premier League is that it is possible to go weeks on end without a home game.  It is three weeks since Ipswich played at Portman Road, and in that time the cost of the rail fare to Ipswich has increased by about four per cent.  It feels so long since I last went to a match that I would believe it if someone told me that not only have the fares gone up, but electric trains have replaced steam ones too.  It is with a sense of dim resignation therefore that I set out for the railway station beneath a blue, but cloud strewn sky.

Gary joins me at the first station stop after I send him instructions by text that I am sat at the back of the second, forward facing, pointy-ended carriage.  The train does not seem as busy as usual as if everyone is losing interest.  Descending into Ipswich through Wherstead, we spot one polar bear having a swim and another languidly strolling along like polar bears do.  Arriving in Ipswich we head for ‘the Arb’ via Portman Road, where Gary is handed a Panini sticker, which bizarrely features the gormless, messy-haired portrait of local ginger celebrity Ed Sheeran.  I tell him he should hand it back.  We pause to buy programmes (£3.50 each) at one of the booths that look as if they should also sell ice creams.  Today’s programme has a boring picture of a footballer on the front cover, I think it’s Luke Woolfenden, but am struck by the thought that it looks a bit like Kurtan Mucklowe from TV’s This Country.  Either way, the world would be a better place if the ‘poster’ design on the inside of the back page featuring the Cobbold Stand was the front cover of the programme.  I am sure that if the poster designs had continued to be used as front covers as originally intended, Town would not be in the relegation zone. Damn you Umbro.

At ‘the Arb’, Gary buys the drinks (Lager 43 for him, Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me), and then Mick appears, and Gary buys him a drink too (Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride), and at Mick’s request, a packet of potato crisps (Fairfeld’s Cheese and Onion flavour).  We repair to the beer garden where unusually there are plenty of vacant seats and tables, further evidence perhaps that the supposed excitement of Premier League football is wearing thin, or that it’s been so long since we had a match people thought, or hoped, the season was over.  We talk of firing squads, lethal injections, the full moon over Felixstowe, Allan Hunter, kitchen tidiness and wedding anniversaries.  We laugh a lot, Gary gives Mick his sticker of Ed Sheeran, Mick buys more drinks (Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, Lager 43 and a Penderyn Welsh whisky) and we predict a 2-1 win to the Town on the understanding that we actually expect them to lose, again.  Proudly, we claim the distinction of being the last Portman Road-bound drinkers to leave the pub.

In Portman Road we part ways near Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue and wonder on what far off date we will meet again for the next home match, which we think is against the Wanderers of Wolverhampton.  I sense that we don’t care too much about what match it will be, but are already mostly looking forward to the hour to be spent in the pub beforehand. At the back of the Alf Ramsey Stand the queues are modest in length, but I join those being ushered through the side entrance, which makes me feels like I’m entering Studio 54 or some after hours boozer. After venting excess Suffolk Pride I am soon with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  I must be early again today because I’m here in time to witness the attempt to barbecue any stray pigeons and seagulls in front of the Cobbold Stand, and to shout out the surnames of Town players in the style of the ‘Magic Fans’ of St Etienne or ‘Les Dodgers’ of Lens as the overly enthusiastic young stadium announcer reads out the team before he finally, embarrassingly, bellows ‘Blue Army’ into his microphone.

Today’s visitors and therefore inevitable winners are Nottingham Forest, who also get first go with the ball, which they initially send only in the general direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  Sensibly, Nottingham wear all red, having only swapped their usual white shorts to avoid any hint of a colour clash, rather than donning some weird all-black or gaudily-coloured away kit which will sell well in replica versions in Myanmar, Papua New Guinea and South Korea, but is not necessary.

In the upper tier of the Cobbold stand the Nottingham fans sing incomprehensibly about their team, who hold on to possession for almost two minutes before Town get to have a go with it too, courtesy of a throw-in. “England’s, England’s, number ten” continue the Nottinghamians mysteriously, about a player who, unless it’s Nigel Clough, I have probably never heard of.  It’s the fourth minute and Town have a free-kick in the sort of location from which Colin Viljoen or Arnold Muhren might have easily scored in happier days, but today’s effort only strikes the defensive wall.

“Down with the Leicester, you’re going down with the Leicester” chant the Nottingham lot as I fantasize about a big wheel of red cheese, whilst the words “Home of the XL vent shipping container” scroll their way along the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand before disappearing into the side wall of the Planet Blue shop. Not much is happening on the pitch, but with a seemingly limitless but mostly unimaginative back catalogue of songs and chants, the Nottingham fans proceed to resurrect Tony Christie’s cheesy ‘Road to Amarillo’ before hitting on the old classic “Football in a library, do-do-do”.   The Nottingham Forest team seems fashionably short-haired, looking as if National Service didn’t end in the East Midlands in 1960, like it did in the rest of Britain,  but the exception is number thirty-four who resembles side-show Bob from The Simpsons, and probably has more hair on his head than all of his team mates put together; if he went to head the ball with any part of his skull but his forehead, there’s a risk the ball would disappear.

Ipswich win a corner and I bawl “Come On you Blues” with minimal accompaniment before Omari Hutchinson shoots over the cross bar. Pat is working hard taking photographs this afternoon and seems particularly interested in snapping the Nottingham number five.  “Murillo” she says. “What like the cherry?”  I ask.   Pat tells me she follows him on some social media platform or other.  “Oooh, he’s gorgeous” she says. “Take a look, you might even fancy him yourself”.     “If you hear something that doesn’t seem right” read the advertising screens between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.   I think of Gary’s Panini sticker, which he gave to Mick.

Over twenty minutes have gone forever, and Town aren’t losing.  Cruel hope and foolish optimism begin to insinuate their way into my mind.  Nottingham take a corner and still it’s goalless. “Come of You Reds” sing the occupants of one end of the Cobbold Stand. “Ole. Ole. Ole” sing the occupants of the other.   The game is a third of the way to finishing goalless.  “Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers a good two or three times and the words “Hot Sausage Company” appear above them in bold red letters moving from left to right.

The thirty fourth minute and Nottingham earn a corner as Alex Palmer’s hacked clearance cannons off Jens Cajuste.  The corner is cleared but then crossed in again, knocked down and a big bloke called Milenkovic scores.  Bugger. Two minutes later Town lose possession, have no left back and Elanga sprints away with the ball down the Town left and scores.  “We’re gonna win 3-2” says Fiona. “Yes, we’re going to win 3-2” I reply as convincingly as I can.   Five minutes later, the ball bounces and Elanga scores again.

Pat from Clacton is going to Great Yarmouth this week for her twice-yearly week of playing whist.  She’s hoping to win lots of money and is looking forward to seeing the sun rise over the sea from her bedroom at the Palm Court hotel.  “Down with the Leicester, you’re going down with the Leicester” chant the Nottingham fans, but Pat won’t mind.  The half ends with Kalvin Phillips shooting over the bar, two minutes of added on time and an obese woman walks up the steps from the front of the stand carrying a bottle of Coke and bag of crisps.

With the half-time break, I take a short walk to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison. In front of us are three ‘trainee’ guide dogs.  “What do you call a group of dogs?” asks Ray. “A pack” I tell him “So this is a pack of guide dogs”.  We go on to talk about the popular image of packs of dogs tearing other animals or even people apart, and contrast this to a pack of guide dogs who we imagine compete with one another to help people.

It’s three minutes past four when the match resumes. Town soon win a corner and Omari Hutchinson has a shot, then win another and O’Shea heads over the goal. As the man from Stowmarket remarked before the game, it’s very cold today, possibly the coldest it’s been at Portman Road all season. Kalvin Phillips is the first player to be booked because fifty-four minutes have departed and it’s about time for a booking.  Pat reveals that she’s already started looking forward to eating the baked potato she’s having for her tea.  There is a half an hour left and whilst Town are having most of the possession there’s not much going on.

The best bit of the game so far arrives when Nottingham’s Nicolas Dominguez rolls around on the ground having committed a foul, gets up, gets booked and then hobbles about pathetically. “There’s nothing wrong with you” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of Verdi’s “La Donna e mobile”, which the Argentinian Dominguez will no doubt appreciate if he’s ever been to the Teatro Colon opera house in Bueno Aires.

“It’s not worth getting monkey out, is it?” asks Pat, raising the possibility of employing her masturbating monkey good luck charm to influence the result.  “Probably not”, agree Fiona and I. “He can’t perform miracles” says Fiona, and I suggest that we’d have the RSPCA round, especially on a day as cold as this.

Town win yet another corner, but nothing comes of it and the bloke behind me comments that “You can make all these passes around the penalty area look good, but it don’t do anything does it, fart-arsing around with it?”.  As I digest the truth of this, the excitable young stadium announcer tells us that we are 29,878 and 3,000 of us are mainly here to watch Nottingham, not Ipswich;  meanwhile the Nottingham fans sing something which sounds like “We’re eating porridge”, but they could be singing about Norwich.  I resign myself to neither knowing nor caring, but instead enjoy the mass substitutions from both teams that greet the 80th minute.   What game-changing substitutions these prove to be as within two minutes Town are on their way to winning the second half.  Presumably elated at having for once not been substituted, Jens Cajuste superbly turns and scores into the top corner of the Nottingham goal.  Admittedly, just four minutes later a typical breakaway at pace allows Silva to restore the three goal lead for Nottingham, but then in one of the four minutes of added on time, substitute George Hirst rises to head into the other top corner of the Nottingham goal to win the second half for Town.  Most of the home crowd have left by now, which in itself is quite satisfying because people who leave early don’t deserve to experience the joy that late consolation goals bring to proper fans.

The final whistle sounds, and with my train home still twenty-five minutes away, I stay to applaud what people not prepared to wilfully disregard all that happened before four o’clock will fail to realise is a victorious Town team as they traipse off the pitch.  There are now just four home games left, we’re out of the FA Cup, in the relegation zone, effectively nine points behind the team above us in the league, and Spring is in the air. Today, it still feels like Winter and I suspect it will continue to do so for another four games, whatever the weather does. Up The Town!