Ipswich Town 1 Tottenham Hotspur 4

February 23, 2025March 20, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I think it was Christmas 1970 when I was given a Continental Club edition of Subbuteo, which included a team in red and white and one in blue and white. The team in blue and white was of course Ipswich Town and before Christmas 1971 I had acquired a set of cut-out adhesive numbers to stick on their backs so that I could tell which one was Colin Viljoen, which one was Jimmy Roberston and which one was Rod Belfitt. But Subbuteo produced other teams too, and Viljoen, Robertson, Belfitt et al didn’t want to play Manchester United every week and so, because I liked Martin Peters, their plain white and navy-blue kit and all the letter T’s in their name, I acquired a Tottenham Hotspur.

I liked Tottenham Hotspur for a couple of years after that, until one Saturday in October 1973, when Ipswich played them at Portman Road in a rugged goalless draw; Ipswich should have won and Tottenham were the dirtiest team I’d ever seen. After that, I no longer liked Tottenham and soon painted two navy blue vertical stripes on their shirts, and they became Portsmouth.

Today, fifty-two years on and Ipswich are once again playing Tottenham, and a rugged goalless draw will once again suit Tottenham more than Ipswich, but the likelihood of that happening is slim. After losing track of time and having to hurry to the station I find the train to be quite busy, I have to ask a blond woman to budge up so I can sit down. Gary joins me on the train at the next station stop and he tells me of how he has had food poisoning after eating fried chicken from his local chippy. We spot one polar bear as the train descends into Ipswich, and an American man who is with the blond woman and who has come from Los Angeles to see the game asks me “Is that real?” I am tempted to say that they are just people dressed up in bear-suits but take pity on someone from a country in which truth and reality are at risk from being signed away by executive order at any moment.

Sensibly, the ticket barriers are open at Ipswich railway station and a human tide soon washes up Princes Street towards Portman Road where Gary and I both pause to buy a programme (£3.50) and comment on how boring the front cover is thanks to kit manufacturer Umbro and their corporate philistinism, which has kept the work of local designers confined to the inside of the back page and reminds us to tell the Portman Road ruling elite that “you can stick Umbro up your bum bro.”

We arrive at the Arb before Mick, and I buy myself a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and Gary a pint of Lager 43 (£8 something with Camra discount). We sit in the beer garden with the many other match-bound drinkers discussing film, politics, death, religion and eventually Donald Trump. We’ve sunk a second round of drinks by not much after half past two and it’s against our will when we can’t help leaving a little early for the ground. Mick asks me for a score prediction; I tell him I’ve grown so accustomed to crashing disappointment that I can’t foresee anything other than defeat, however badly I want to say we’ll win and however poor I think Tottenham probably are. We go our separate ways at the junction of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, saying our farewells until next time in what might be the shadow of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue if we were in the southern hemisphere.

The queues to get into the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are fulsome, but sensibly again, at turnstiles 59 to 62 supporters are soon syphoned off through a side gate by people with hand held bar code readers, which make them seem as if they’re interrupting their afternoon supermarket shop. In the stand, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are of course already here. The teams are only just coming out onto the pitch. “You’re early “says Fiona. “I know, I didn’t mean to be” I reply, and flames leap up in front of the Cobbold stand. I expect to see roasted seagulls and pigeons fall to the ground as the flames subside. The excitable young stadium announcer reads out the team as if it’s the most important announcement ever made and I mostly manage to bawl out the team surnames as if at a game in Ligue 1, but the excitable young stadium announcer panics towards the end like the youngster that he is and gets out of sync with the scoreboard. As ever, the excitable young stadium announcer who I admit I now find a bit annoying ends his announcement with his usual shout of “Blue Army” , before disappearing into the tunnel with his shorter side kick in the manner of Yogi and Boo Boo, Cheech and Chong or Rene and Renato.

It’s Tottenham, in white shirts with navy-blue sleeves and shorts that get first go with the ball, which they quickly boot in the general direction of the telephone exchange. But I’ve barely had time to register that the seat in front of me has no one sitting in it when Ipswich nearly score; Liam Delap bears down on goal, panic ensues in the Tottenham defence, the ball appears as if it might have been bundled over the goal line by Philogene and the linesman raises his flag for an apparent offside. Moments later Delap bears down on goal again but produces a pretty lame, scuffed shot which rolls harmlessly beyond the far post. It’s two-nil to Town, almost. The bloke behind me is getting excited about how Town have got Tottenham rattled. “He ain’t no strength if Omari pushed ‘im off the ball” he says as Town win the ball back in the Tottenham half, and then a free-kick is headed against the goal post by Liam Delap, who completes his hat-trick, or he would have done if any of his attempts had gone in the goal.

So much early excitement and it looks like Town are going to win handsomely as the Cobbold stand is bathed in soft, late winter sunlight. “Hello, Hello, We are the Tottenham boys” sing the Tottenham fans revealing possibly, not unexpected sexist attitudes, or more encouragingly that Tottenham girls now comfortably identify as boys if they feel like it. Fifteen minutes are lost to history and Tottenham’s Brennan Johnson is the first player to see the yellow of the referee’s cards. “Oh when the Spurs, Go marching in” sing the Tottenham fans miserably as if they might at any moment burst into tears or slit their own throats, but then their team unexpectedly scores. The best pass of the game so far, some jinking about by Son Heung-min, a low cross and Johnson arrives on time to convert a simple chance.

As supporters of a team that has already lost eight home games it’s a situation we are well acquainted with and is like water off a duck’s back. Within minutes Town have a corner and I am bawling “Come on You Blues” in glorious isolation. Delap shoots and again doesn’t score but the game then takes a surreal turn as alarmingly the Tottenham fans sing “Can’t smile without you” by Barry Manilow, before Son again gets past Godfrey on the left and provides a pass for Johnson to sweep into the Town net and Tottenham lead 2-0. I had hoped for better, and the mood is not lifted as Pat reveals that she has had sciatica all week and has been taking Ibuprofen and Paracetemol. “The hard stuff” says Fiona, and Pat does seem a bit spaced out as she admits that much more of this and her thoughts will turn to the jacket potato she’s going to have for her tea. I can’t help wondering if she hasn’t thought of the jacket potato already, which is why she mentioned it.

In the Cobbold stand, the now jubilant Tottenham fans sing “Nice one Sonny, Nice one Son, Nice one Sonny, Let’s ‘ave another one” stirring unhappy memories of “Nice One Cyril”, which phenomenally reached No14 in the UK singles chart in 1973, although more happily it was released for the League Cup final in which Tottenham beat Norwich City, and it wasn’t by Chas and Dave. In an apparently unrelated incident, Jack Clarke is the first Town player to be booked, probably just to even things up. A Spurs player meanwhile, is down on the ground receiving treatment. “Oh, just dig a hole” I say, having lost my carefree, happy-go-lucky outlook. “That’s an old song” says Fiona.

Four minutes later, and our depression lifts a little as Leif Davis squares the ball for Omari Hutchinson to sweep into the Tottenham goal and cruelly restore hope.

The final nine minutes of the half and three minutes of added-on time play out with Ben Godfrey getting booked, Alex Palmer making a save, Tottenham winning a corner and an obese woman walking down to the front of the stand and then back carrying a pie, a bottle of Coca Cola and a bar of chocolate. Having not had any lunch myself, at half-time I eat a Slovakian Mila wafer and chocolate bar from the Sainsbury’s World Food aisle, but not before I’ve gone down to the front of the stand and spoken with Dave the steward, Ray and his grandson Harrison.

When the football resumes, Luke Woolfenden is on as substitute for Godfrey, who it seems has been excused. Only seven minutes elapse before another substitution is made with a limping Jens Cajuste replaced by Jack Taylor, who fortunately is moving normally. “Edison House Group” says the illuminated advertisement display between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I think of the bubble-gum pop stylings of ”Love grows where my Rosemary goes”, before Town win a corner and have a goal by Luke Woolfenden disallowed for an apparent offside.

More substitutions follow, Tottenham bring on former Canary Maddison to boos from the home crowd and a chorus of “He’s only a poor little budgie…”, whilst the bloke behind me exclaims “As long as he don’t score, I don’t give a shit now”. Tottenham win a corner, Town win a corner, chants of “Come On You Spurs” and “Come On You Blues” are followed by those of “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee”, and then the same again but louder as Mr Robinson ups his game by awarding a random drop ball to Tottenham. Then it’s 3-1 to Tottenham and there’s only thirteen minutes left.

Today’s attendance is announced as 30,003 by the excitable young announcer , who as usual thanks us for our “incredible” support, something that he does with such monotonous regularity that if he weren’t so excitable he would probably now swap the word “incredible” for “usual”. Kalvin Phillips becomes the second Town player to be hurt and unable to carry on, but despite the deepening gloom in the stands the match is being played out under a beautiful blue sky dappled with puffy clouds. “Hot Sausage Co” reads the electronic advertisement hoardings. A fourth Tottenham goal leads to more rancour and “The referee’s a wanker” is chanted enthusiastically as Town win a late corner and the words “Home of the XL vent shipping container” appear on the electronic advertising hoardings to accompany a reprise of “When the Spurs go marching in” before a fruitless eight minutes of added-on time, is added on, fruitlessly.

The final whistle witnesses several sharp exits from the stands of those who of course haven’t already left, whilst others hang on to boo Mr Robinson, or applaud the team, who overall have not played badly, and have for all but four brief, but somewhat decisive spells of play matched their opponents. Sadly, I no longer have my Subbuteo teams, but if did Idon’t think I’d be painting out the blue stripes I painted onto those Tottenham shirts any time soon.

Ipswich Town 0 Brighton & Hove Albion 2

January 18, 2025January 18, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a much more eventful, activity-packed day than usual, with visits to my dentist and my surviving aged parent, a bit of driving around Ipswich, and spending my once a week day in the office, from the window of which I saw the Brighton and Hove Albion team bus drive by. It’s nevertheless been a grey day, but now, as I pass through the portals of ‘the Arb,’ darkness has fallen and as it’s not raining or snowing the weather is no longer noticeable, although for January it’s quite mild. Most incredible of all however, today is Thursday, and the Town will be playing at home tonight. Foolishly nostalgic, I pine for the days when no football was ever played on a Thursday unless it happened to be Boxing Day, or two clubs were embroiled in multiple FA Cup replays, such as when Ipswich gloriously beat Leeds United on Thursday 27^th March 1975, or less gloriously lost at home to West Ham United on Thursday 6^th February 1986. But whatever, I’m here now.

In the present, Mick is already stood at the bar ordering a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and some food and he kindly buys me a pint of the same, and when I say I want to order some food too, he says he’ll pay for that as well; what a great bloke he is. We repair to the beer garden, which is deserted, and wait for our food. Over vegetarian burgers with what we think are sweet potato chips, we discuss how our lives and attitudes have been shaped by passing the 11-plus and being sent from rural primary schools to ‘posh’ schools at the expense of the County Council, working class people’s mistrust of authority, comedy, and how the environmentally friendly ‘Ecover’ cleaning brand is actually owned by evil multi-national Johnson and Johnson. After another pint of Suffolk Pride for me, and a Jura whisky for Mick because I misheard the bar maid when she said they only had Jamieson Stout and thought she said that the Jamieson is ‘out’, it is nearly ten past seven and time to exit through the now totally deserted bar towards Portman Road.

With ten minutes until kick-off, Portman Road is thick with queues, but I buy a programme from a queue-free seller and make my way around to approach the Sir Alf Ramsey stand from the direction of Russell Road. I join a shuffling queue but am quickly ushered towards a side gate in the style of Mr Benn and find myself inside the stadium just in time to bawl out the surnames of Burns, Broadhead, Hutchinson and Delap like a Frenchman would, as the excitable young stadium announcer reads out the Town team. Around me, the familiar faces of Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, but not his son Elwood, who is absent tonight, await the imminent kick-off to a soundtrack of na-na-nas from The Beatles’ song ‘Hey Jude’. Kick-off is delayed however because tonight is the annual “Memorial Matchday” and we are told that a minute’s applause for recently deceased Town fans will begin with the referee’s whistle, but instead it starts straight away, so keen are the remaining Town fans to celebrate the dead. Perhaps football has finally replaced religion.

It’s Brighton who get first go with ball, which they mostly try to send in the direction of the goal fronting the Sir Bobby Robson stand; they wear a kit of all yellow, just as they did when I first saw them play a league game at Portman Road back in 1980. Unless you’re FC Nantes, in which case it’s your home kit, all-yellow is the anonymous, archetypal away kit, which is what away kits used to be before everything was put up for sale, or ‘monetised’. The Town are of course in blue and white.

“Al-bion, Al-bion” chant the Brighton fans boringly, as if they’re here under duress, before launching off into some song or other which at one point sounds disturbingly like ‘On The Ball City’. On the pitch, Brighton start well, selfishly keeping the ball to themselves. “Who’s the Brighton manager?” asks Pat from Clacton. He’s German isn’t he says Fiona. “I don’t know who he is” I reply, “Alan Mullery?”. “Alan Mullery!” says Pat as if she’s really saying “Pffft”. “I suppose Steve Foster is playing at the back is he?” scoffs Fiona. Behind me, two blokes discuss the Brighton team, although this mostly consists of them saying players’ names and then adding “Yeah, he’s good”.

Brighton claim the game’s first corner in the eighth minute and we are treated to more morose repetition of “Al-bion, Al-bion”, which compares unfavourably with what I expected to hear, which was the much more upbeat “Sea-gulls, Sea-gulls”. But in the final league table of disappointment over the course of the evening I don’t expect it to rank highly. Ten minutes have passed and so far the game is all Brighton, and Ipswich fans are looking to the floor or the sky and whistling as if a little embarrassed, before some Bobby Robson standers eventually sing “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” in an attempt to change the subject.

“Thank you to today’s sponsors” reads the illuminated strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby stand but I quietly curse Umbro for apparently objecting to the poster style front page of the programme like philistine, money-obsessed bastards. The Brighton fans sing “Football in a library, der, der, der” to no particular tune. Twenty minutes pass and Brighton have dominated them all, but without looking as if they will score, and therefore the belief remains that if only Ipswich can keep the ball for more than a few seconds they might nip away and demonstrate to Brighton what the point of the game is. Brighton win another corner to no effect, before hope springs from the fleet of foot Nathan Broadhead, who runs away down field, shoots and the modern equivalent of Perry Digweed makes a diving save to give Town a corner and an opportunity to shout “Come On You Blues” with feeling . It’s an event that changes the pattern of the game and enlivens the home crowd as chants of “Blue and white army” ring out. The twenty fifth minute, and Omari Hutchinson runs and shoots and ‘Digweed’ saves again. “Town have woken up.“ says the bloke behind me and three minutes later Liam Delap runs and shoots at ‘Digweed’ too. The words “Mezzanines, Staircases” flash across the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and Liam Delap oafishly barges his marker Paul van Hecke, to the amusement of many, and referee Mr Harrington awards a free kick. Moments later Delap is fouled by van Hecke in what looks like revenge, but Harrington plays on. “Winding him up” says the bloke behind me.

The Town continue to look the most likely team to score; Hutchinson sends Wes Burns down the right, Burns pulls the ball back but Jens Cajuste and Hutchinson both go to shoot at once and bounce off one another like Keystone Cops as the ball runs on and is cleared. “Blue and white army, Blue and white army.” Chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers over and over and over again. Pat from Clacton tells me she had her tea before she came out; toad in the hole. Brighton win a corner, “Al-bion, Al-bion.” “Blue and white army, Blue and white army, Blue and white army.” Two minutes to half-time and again Hutchinson shoots and ‘Digweed’ saves. A minute of added on time is taken from the well of infinity and I wonder if we get ‘added on time’ when we’re about to die; if so, I expect to get quite a bit, some for the few days when I was in a coma in 2019, but mostly just for time wasting. With that minute soon gone forever and half-time in full swing I go down to the front of the stand to chat with Ray, who with his wife Ros has been on a cruise to the unfortunately named Canary Isles and has missed the last three home matches. He was sick in the Bay of Biscay too; I’m glad I stayed at home, not that I was invited, that would have been very weird.

The football resumes at twenty-eight minutes to eight. “RJ Dean Plasterers” say the bright lights of the illuminated adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I think of Pearl and Dean the cinema advertisers before Liam Delap seemingly barges Joel Veltman just for the hell of it, like a sort of hobby to undertake in idle moments; Delap is booked. Four minutes later, Joao Pedro, Brighton’s number nine, raises the level of violence as he flies through the air to shoulder charge Christian Walton. Pedro is also booked, despite much baying for a red card from home fans, and VAR confirms that a yellow card is sufficient censure, possibly because he didn’t draw blood.

The half is almost twelve minutes old and the ball drops to Wes Burns in the Brighton penalty area, but his snapshot carries on beyond the far post. It will prove to be the Town’s last decent attempt on goal and the game is about to change course as within two minutes Jacob Greaves can’t quite stop a ball from going beyond him and Yasin Ayari gets behind the Town defence and pulls the ball back to O’Riley, but it’s Mitoma who sweeps it into the net. It’s the goal either Jens Cajuste or Omari Hutchinson would have scored in the first half had they not both tried to score it at the same time.

It’s only 1-0, we’ve been one down before, but from here on Town are not going to be in the game. Pedro turns and forces an excellent flying save from Walton, Brighton win corner after corner and Town play the ball across their defence but seldom retain possession as far away as the centre circle. Substitutions make no difference and finally, eight minutes from the end of normal time a free kick on the left is played into the Town penalty area, is deflected onto Jack Taylor and falls to Georginio Rutter, who is able to turn and stroke the ball into the Town goal. VAR decides that the man on the pitch with the best surname, Lewis Dunk was not interfering with play when stood offside and Town are losing two-nil.

“How shit must you be , we’re winning away” sing the Brighton supporters, putting yet another set of carefully crafted lyrics to the football supporters’ staple ‘Sloop John B’, and the excitable young stadium announcer tells us that our ‘incredible’ support numbers 29,403, although 2,977 of us have been shouting for the wrong but nevertheless winning team.

Six minutes of additional time fail to adequately atone for the lost hope and disappointment suffered, and with the final whistle Pat from Clacton, Fiona and ever-present Phil are away faster than greyhounds out of a starting trap. I’m hot on their heels as I try to put distance between myself and the scene of yet another of life’s failures but feel a bit like I’m the dog who’s been doped. I’ll be back on Sunday though, having forgotten all about it, perhaps until that final moment when my life will flash before me and I head for the ultimate memorial matchday. Once a Blue, eh?

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol Rovers 0

January 15, 2025January 15, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been cold lately, which is reassuring because it is January, and low air temperatures at this time of year are part of the recurring pattern of life that means the FA Cup third round is upon us, albeit a week later than it was when I were a lad. Neolithic farmers had stone circles and henges aligned to the stars to mark the changing seasons, we have football fixtures.

Feeling at one with Mother Earth, I walk beneath a pale blue, winter afternoon sky to the railway station, where I meet Roly, who will be attending his first game of the current season after three failed attempts to score a ticket for a league match, which has left him bitter and disconsolate; this is what being in the Premier League does to people. A young girl stood next to us on the platform with what are possibly an older brother and her mother, remarks that I am wearing odd gloves (a blue and red one and a black and orange one) and so I explain to her that the other halves of the pairs of gloves had holes in them, although I don’t tell her that one of the gloves is a “Marcus Stewart” glove, because I guess that she wouldn’t know who Marcus Stewart is. Her brother supports West Ham, and her mother seems to be ignoring them both, and I sense the children are pleased that someone is talking to them, even if it’s Roly who is now feeling left out.

At the first station stop, Gary boards the train and soon joins us on our journey having made his way down the carriage. Like the three witches in Macbeth in reverse, we discuss when we all last met and decide that like so much, it was ‘before lockdown’. But then, if you’re no longer at primary school most things were before lockdown. We continue to talk aimlessly until like pensioners on a sightseeing trip we all peer out of the window to catch a glimpse of the polar bears that mark the approach to Ipswich. I think I see one lying on its back as if sunbathing, but it might just be my excitement playing tricks on me.

Once in Ipswich, I struggle at the platform barrier with my electronic ticket as Gary and Roly, who relied on cardboard but had to kill a tree in the process, wait patiently on the other side. We amble up Princes Street and Portman Road and take turns to buy programmes from one of the ice cream kiosks, and then complain that there is no groovy design on the cover, (damn you Umbro) or anywhere come to that, and the programme is a bit thin for £2.50. “Less of the usual rubbish to read though “I say cheerfully as we walk on up to the Arb, and occasionally I steer Roly in the right direction, as he seems to have forgotten the way; he’s only forty-seven.

On High Street, Roly reaches the front door of the Arb first, but ushers me through before him like a man much practiced in avoiding buying the first round, or any round. But then, he does have a wife and child to support, and he clearly gets his haircut more often than me too, although he doesn’t buy many razor blades. We are soon clutching pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, Nethergate Venture and Lager 43 (£13 something for the three with Camra discount) and greeting Mick, who is already sat in the shelter in the beer garden with a pint of Suffolk Pride of his own. We talk of this and that and sometimes we laugh. Gary buys another round of drinks after a while, but this time he and Roly only have halves and Mick has a whisky. By twenty-five to three our glasses are once again empty and so with at least one other Town supporter still in the bar, if his shirt is to be believed, we leave for Portman Road.

In Portman Road the queues at the turnstiles are impressive in their length and the variety of speeds at which they move. We join the queue for turnstile 62, but as ever it seems slower than the others and so we slip across towards turnstile sixty as two young women wave illuminated scanners at us. I tell them I can save them some effort if they let me know what they are looking for; apparently it’s weapons. We hand over our assault rifles and grenades and move on up the queue.

Once in my seat, I find I have missed the excitable young stadium announcer’s reading out of the team, which is mildly disappointing, but more so is the absence of Pat from Clacton, although Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here, even if many other regulars aren’t. Fiona tells me that Pat had said she wasn’t going to come to this game, sadly it seems she’s no longer turned on by the FA Cup like we all are.

It’s the Town who get first go with the ball, which they pass around in the general direction of me and my fellow ultras; Town wear blue and white of course, whilst Bristol Rovers sport a change kit of plastic green shirts decorated with areas of black check, like a small geometric rash; their shorts are black like the rash. The words “External Render” flash across the illuminated strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the Bristol Rovers supporters mournfully sing of when the Gas go marching in, and how they want to be in that number, or pipe, when it happens. It’s the sixth minute and Ipswich have a free kick from which they win a corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues”. Fiona gamely joins in, but we are lone voices in a sea of silence. A second corner follows but things don’t improve chorally. “You’re supposed to be at home” sing the Bristolians to the tune of Cwm Rhondda and then they shout a short chant of “Football In a Library“, which quickly fades away into a stifled mumble as if someone had disapprovingly raised their finger to their lips and pointed to a sign that says “Silence”.

It’s the twelfth minute of the game now and Jack Clarke falls to the turf in the Rovers penalty area, raising his head and looking pleadingly at the referee as he does so. He should probably be booked for such a poor attempt at scamming a penalty but isn’t. Meanwhile, the Rovers supporters start singing “Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be, We’re going to Wemb-er-ley, Que sera, sera” revealing an unexpected love of the hits of Doris Day, a healthy optimism and a sense of the ridiculous all at once. Town have a corner, and a game of head tennis follows before the ball is claimed by the Bristol goalkeeper Josh Griffiths, and the Rovers fans begin to goad the pensioners and small children in the adjacent Sir Alf Ramsey stand by singing “Small club in Norwich, You’re just a small club in Norwich”. The Rovers fans will later realise their mistake as they begin their drives home by looking for the A11.

Town are dominating the game, which is taking place mostly around the Bristol Rovers penalty area and with seventeen minutes lost to the history of the world’s oldest cup competition, it is from just outside that penalty area that Kalvin Phillips strikes an exquisitely placed shot into the left-hand corner of Griffiths’ goal, and Town lead one-nil. For a while, Phillips’s name and image do not appear on the scoreboard, almost as if they can’t be found because he hadn’t been expected to score, but eventually we get to see him, and his haircut. “Sing when you’re winning” chant the Rovers fans and they’re not far wrong, except today most of us aren’t even doing that.

Town’s one-nil lead lasts just six minutes and then makes way for a two-nil lead as Jack Clarke is suddenly left with the simple task of passing the ball into an unguarded net after a shot by Ali-Al-Hamadi is blocked. “Fawlty Towers Dinner Show” announces the illuminated advert strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand before the game descends towards half-time, and as Griffiths receives treatment, everyone else receives fluids, succour or remedial coaching on the touchline as required.

With eight minutes of the first half remaining, Town score again as Jack Taylor is suddenly stood before Griffiths with no one else near, and confidently strokes the ball past him, almost as if taking a penalty. The excitable young stadium announcer weirdly tells us that the goal is scored by “our Jack Taylor” and we wonder if Bristol Rovers score will he say the goal is scored by “their” whoever. We very nearly find out in the forty-third minute as Aro Muric passes straight to a Bristol player, but Muric then saves the resulting shot with his feet. He hasn’t had much to do in the first half, so perhaps it was just Muric’s way of keeping his eye in. The half ends with another Town corner courtesy of Wes Burns, and two minutes of additional time, but no more goals are scored and with the half-time whistle it’s time to quickly visit the facilities, because it’s a cold day and those two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride were seemingly only on hire.

Three-nil up with not much effort and the second half is anticipated eagerly, pregnant as it is with the possibility that ex-Town players Grant Ward or James Wilson might score own goals, and the excitable young stadium announcer will say that the goals are scored by “formerly our” Grant Ward or James Wilson. Half-time passes with me turning round and recognising the man sat behind me; we both used to drink before matches in St Jude’s Tavern; apparently, he doesn’t anymore because his knees mean he no longer rides his bike.

The football resumes at four minutes past four and our Ben Johnson, as opposed to the seventeenth century playwright and poet, replaces our Wes Burns, as opposed to just any Wes Burns. Mick is eating a vegan pie, which he says is very good. After five minutes Town earn another corner and then a minute later are awarded a penalty as Grant Ward (not to be confused with Grant Wood, painter of ‘American Gothic’) does his former team a favour by handling the ball. Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to fool Griffiths by shooting hopelessly wide of his right-hand post with one of the worst penalty kicks ever seen at Portman Road.

The embarrassment of the penalty miss seems to put a damper on the whole match now, which like me never seems to recapture its initial zest for life. At half-time the names of two-hundred people (mostly children by the look of their fashionable 21^st century names) attending their first game appeared on the electronic scoreboard and I’ve now come to notice several people in pristine examples of what can only be described as ‘this season’s blue and white knitwear’. My reverie is broken by a rare Rovers corner. “Come on Rovers, Come on Rovers” chant the Bristolians, and I enjoy the burr of their west country accents, which can plainly be heard in the word ‘rovers’. Bristol’s brief brush with attacking football ends with a free-kick to Town, which displeases the travelling supporters. “Wankerr, Wankerr” they chant at the referee Mr Langford, and then, strangely obsessed with masturbation “He wanks off the ref, He wanks off the ref, Ed Sheeran, he wanks off the ref” to the tune of Sloop John B, something that Brian Wilson probably never foresaw, despite tripping on LSD, when the Beach Boys popularised the Bahamian folk song back in 1966.

The match drifts on towards the inevitable final whistle; I tell Mick that I saw some of the ‘new’ film version of ‘West Side Story’ on tv the other night and liked it, a bloke somewhere behind me believes Al-Hamadi is trying too hard and Mick and I agree that a city the size of Bristol should really have a team in the first division, “Like Lincoln” says Mick, misguidedly.

There are still more than twenty minutes left as Bristol bring on the clunky sounding Gatlin O’Donkor in place of Chris Martin, who in another world would have been made to play alongside Michael Jackson (Preston & Bury) and Paul Weller (Burnley & Rochdale). I tell Mick that I think we’ve reached the stage where someone now needs to release a dog onto the pitch. More substitutions ensue for both teams, but they don’t compare to bringing on a dog, and then the excitable young announcer thanks all 27,678 of us (541 from Bristol) for our ‘incredible’ support.

A seventy-eighth minute corner for Town raises a spark of interest and mysteriously several people all around the stadium illuminate the torches on their mobile phones; Aro Muric is swapped for Cieran Slicker, who Gary is convinced is no longer an Ipswich Town player. Not ‘our’ Cieran Slicker at all then, according to Gary. A final hurrah sees George Hirst lob the ball over both Griffiths and the Bristol cross bar, and some late enthusiasm amongst the crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand has some gobby pre-pubescent chanting “Blue Army” and a lot of people echoing his chant; it sounds dreadful, and I imagine the participants all with drippy grins on their faces thinking how cute it is.

Just a minute of added on time is to be played, which is unbelievably brief given the number of substitutions made, but I guess the fourth official is as keen for this all to end as I am. Town have won, and won easily, and it’s not what we’re used to anymore. As the man from Stowmarket (Paul) said at half-time, it’s bit of a Sunday afternoon game, one put on for the children. Gary and Mick are quickly off into the night after the final whistle and I soon follow, for what else is there to do but await the fourth round draw.

Ipswich Town 0 Liverpool 2

August 18, 2024August 19, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The start of a new football season feels a bit like flying to Australia; you depart Heathrow in the spring and in the space of less than twenty four hours, you’re in Sydney, Melbourne or Perth and it’s autumn. Where did the summer go? Did it ever come?

To add to my feeling of disorientation today, Town are playing Liverpool, who I don’t think I’ve ever heard of. I am of course familiar with The Beatles, Ken Dodd, Jimmy Tarbuck, Derek Hatton, Cilla Black, Sandra and Beryl the Liver Birds, Roger McGough, Adrian Henri and Brian Patten, the Mersey Sound, The Scaffold, the Pier Head, Paddy’s Wigwam, Hope Street, Lime Street station, Penny Lane, racing from Aintree, the Albert Dock, St George’s Hall, the Queensway tunnel, the Three Graces, Brookside, the ferry ‘cross the Mersey, the ‘Boys from the black stuff’, Littlewoods Pools, Letter to Brezhnev, dodgy blokes in shell suits with ‘taches and perms, the Anglican Cathedral, Alexei Sayle, the Echo and Scouse, but who knew there was a football team too? If they’ve got one, they certainly haven’t been frequenting the sort of exotic places we’ve been visiting in recent years.

It was only when staring into the distance and idly reminiscing about when Ipswich used to nearly be the champions every year, a long time ago when we was ‘fab’, that I remembered that it was a team called Liverpool that mostly were the champions every year. Then I remembered Mich D’Avray heading home a cross from Kevin O’Callaghan as Sammy Lee sat on his bum on the wet turf and watched, and eventually, much later, Adam Tanner and Marcus Stewart scoring winning goals at Anfield. Yes, I remember Liverpool now.

I meet Gary on the train to Ipswich, and he tells me that only one of the current ninety-two football league teams is in a parliamentary constituency that has a Tory member of parliament; he asks me which one I think it is. I think for a moment and say “Cheltenham”. But I’m wrong, it’s Bromley. So much for Siouxsie Sioux and the ‘Bromley contingent’, although I guess that’s what they were escaping from, even if some of them did like to wear swastikas. We carry on talking as if life is a pub quiz and Gary seems impressed that I know that when George Best played for Dunstable Town, Barry Fry was the Dunstable manager. Suddenly, following a tangible moment of recollection that is visible on Gary’s face, he pays me for his ticket to see Stewart Lee at the Chelmsford Civic Theatre next February (£31 including booking fee) and we complain to each other about the scandal of booking fees. I never paid a booking fee to see Rick Wakeman at the Ipswich Gaumont in 1975, or for my FA Cup final ticket in 1978, or to see Buzzcocks at the Brighton Top Rank Club in 1979, when I recall being handed tickets by a person from behind a glass screen and not having to print anything myself using printer ink, paper and electricity paid for by me. If they’re going to riot, this is what people should be rioting about, not a few unfortunates being made to waste away their days in a Best Western.

Disappointingly, we do not see the polar bears of Wherstead today as the train descends into Ipswich, but at least the bloke mowing the grass in their enclosure lives to mow another day, and arriving in Ipswich we head for the Arboretum, travelling via the ice cream kiosks that sell match programmes. We buy a programme each (£3.50) and are both impressed by the design of the front cover, which has taken a step away from the usual boring fare, although it’s a shame about the same old drivel inside, and the price. Portman Road is busy; very busy considering that there are another two hours to pass into forgettable history before the game begins. Middle- aged blokes with estuarine accents hawk blue and red scarves that are half Ipswich and half Liverpool, no one seems to be buying. At the Arb’ there is no queue at the bar, and I quickly order a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£8.35 including Camra discount). In the beer garden all the tables are occupied, so we sit on a park bench and have barely discussed anything before Mick arrives, before leaving again to acquire his own pint of some beer or other, probably Suffolk Pride, before returning to discuss ‘half and half’ scarves, which Mick says are like being bi-sexual. It’s much worse than that I tell him, and we all laugh, much more than we probably should, and for a variety of unspoken reasons.

Mick asks what time we should leave for Portman Road, anticipating that the turnstiles will be busy. I tell him that its likely all our fellow drinkers will leave here long before we do because they will be wanting to experience the Premier League circus, and we should be able to rock up just before kick-off and walk straight in as if we were playing Preston North End. My prophecy will come to pass, but we nevertheless agree to depart shortly after midday, and after Mick buys a round of three more pints, which he sensibly carries from the bar on a tin tray, that is what we do, although not before discussing why Mick may not go to Nice next weekend after all, today’s team selection, how to spell Szmodics and how I don’t feel as excited as everyone else seems to be; it’s just another new football season, another game.

Portman Road is still busy, mostly with queues for ice creams that turn out to be programmes. At turnstile 62 at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, there are no queues, but a man who looks older than me seems to be struggling to get his season ticket to work, so rather than create a queue with just me in it I use turnstile 61 and am soon hugging Pat from Clacton who then photographs me in an embrace with ever-present Phil who never misses a game. Ever-present Phil’s son Elwood, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket are all here too of course and soon the teams are on the pitch and flames are leaping into the air which are much bigger than any flames that we’ve ever seen before at Portman Road, because these are Premier League flames.

The teams are announced by an enthusiastic bloke in a grey suit who looks about half the age of Murphy, the now pensioned-off, one season wonder of an announcer who took nearly all of last season to learn how to read out the names of the team. Unfortunately, Portman Road is so noisy today and the PA system so unintelligible that I can’t hear a word this fresh young fellow says and am reduced to having to try and lip read as he tells us the Town line-up, but I think I do a reasonable job of bellowing like a French football supporter the surnames of the players as he says them. Except for the obvious and necessary concrete bits, the stands are mostly a sea of blue shirts.

‘The Knee’ is taken, which we haven’t seen for a while, and the game begins with Liverpool having first go with the ball and wearing all red, pretty much like they did back in 1974 when I first saw them at Portman Road and Bill Shankly spoke to me, telling me in his gravelly Ayrshire accent “Aye, you’ve a good team”. As ever, Town are in blue and white and when they get the ball, they send it in my direction and that of ever-present Phil, Elwood, Fiona, Pat and the man from Stowmarket. My early impressions are that there are new illuminated advertisements between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, one of which advertises Universal Customs Clearance, whatever that is. I like to think it is something to do smuggling because this fits in with my pre-conceptions about the dodgy owners and sponsors of Premier League clubs. I also notice that the Liverpool number four has the name Virgil on his shirt and so I think of both the Aeneid and Thunderbirds. Sadly for Town, from his stature, Virgil looks more likely to be a classical hero rather than a jiggly puppet that appears like all Thunderbirds puppets to be suffering from Parkinson’s Disease. Omari Hutchinson has an early shot on goal for Town but Liverpool are awarded the game’s first free-kick. After six minutes Luke Woolfenden greedily claims the first booking of the Premier League season for some shirt grabbing and torso grasping of Jota who had run around Woolfenden as if he was a large bollard with a blond wig.

The game is even, with Liverpool having more possession but Ipswich looking no less likely to score, albeit on the break. Thirteen noisy minutes have disappeared for ever, only to be repeated on satellite tv and Match of the Day, and Omari Hutchinson is booked for a supposed foul, for which any decent player would be embarrassed to be awarded a free-kick. We need to keep an eye on the referee Mr Tim Robinson, he may prove to be a bit of a berk. The game continues in much the same manner to a back-drop of general noise, but no discernible organised chanting, as if the Premier League just makes everyone talk very loudly, which I think in some ways it probably does. Town win a free kick and Jacob Greaves heads the ball straight at the Liverpool goalkeeper; would Terry Butcher or Kevin Beattie have scored? We’ll never know, so it doesn’t really matter.

The first half is half over and referee Tim Robinson, whose name is a little too much like ‘Tommy Robinson’ for comfort, confirms that he is a complete berk as he books another Town player, this time Wes Burns, for a supposed foul that most under-fourteen players would not have noticed. Much booing ensues and I join in, swept up in the maelstrom of silliness that is the Premier League, and we haven’t even had the VAR out yet.

Less than a third of the half is left and after a Liverpool corner Omari Hutchinson breaks away, beats two Liverpool players and then shoots, but not well enough to avoid the goalkeeper’s elongated but comfortable looking dive. “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” chant the Town fans at a Liverpool player whose truss has come apart, or may be at the Liverpool fans who are quietish and so far don’t compare for enthusiasm to those of clubs in the second division that are only ‘fashionable’ in their home towns.

Eight minutes until half-time and Christian Walton makes a fine diving save from a Luke Woolfenden diversion, but by way of balance Axel Tuanzebe heads the ball onto the roof of the Liverpool net before Town win a corner, and in the last action of the half the Liverpool have their first recognisable shot on goal, courtesy of the lengthily named Trent Alexander Arnold, whose names seem to have either been arranged back to front or mostly taken from a map of Nottingham. After a minute of added on time spent finding the ball after TAA’s shot, Robinson blows his whistle and we all get the opportunity to boo him again as he and his minders wander off for a cup of tea and to do whatever referees and their assistant’s do at half-time.

The consensus amongst those around me is that it was a satisfactory half in which Town did pretty well and arguably had the better chances to score, although it could be a worry therefore that they didn’t. For half time entertainment Ray’s son Michael and a much larger man wearing possibly an XXXL Town shirt take part in a little quiz, the first few questions of which are stupidly easy and appear on the large screen between the Cobbold Stand and the Sir Alf stand. Later questions unfortunately, do not have multiple choice answers and are therefore read out over the incomprehensible PA system, so we have no idea what is going on.

At twenty-seven minutes to two the second half begins, and Liverpool have substituted their number 78 for a more sensible number 5, who is Ibrahima Konate and also plays for France, so is therefore likely to be pretty good. But, eight minutes into the half and it is Town who are appealing for a penalty as Leif Davis is barged over. There is a brief VAR check, during which I find myself praying to someone or something, perhaps divine providence, but conveniently for Liverpool and the status quo, the linesman has his flag raised for offside. The bloke behind me jokes that with all the recent works to the stadium the electrics for the VAR haven’t been finished yet, so the protocol is just to wait for five minutes and then say “No”.

As if being denied penalties isn’t bad enough, Wes Burns seems to be hurt and has to be substituted for Ben Johnson. Three minutes later Christian Walton has to make a fine save and then gets lucky as the ball is crossed back in and an unmarked Jota heads wide of an open goal from close range. Just a minute further on however, Jota scores as the ball is pulled back from the by-line and the Town defence is ripped apart. The Liverpool fans in the Cobbold stand can suddenly be heard, and above the general hubbub comes a jubilant roar. “Someone’s just found a quid I reckon” says the bloke behind me.

Town substitutions follow in the 64^th minute with Conor Chaplin and Massimo Luongo being replaced by Marcus Harness and Jack Taylor. Just a minute later Liverpool lead 2-0 as Salah tucks the ball neatly over Christian Walton from an angle. Liverpool seem to have simply changed up a gear and Town have been overrun. Omari Hutchinson manages a volley from quite close in that might have headed goalwards, but doesn’t, and the bloke beside me says “A goal would be nice, wouldn’t it?” The bloke behind me says “Yes”. Marcus Harness has a shot, but it goes high over the bar.

More substitutions follow, Ali Al-Hamadi and Sammy Szmodics replacing Liam Delap and Axel Tuanzebe but Liverpool are still the better team. I ask Pat from Clacton what she’s having for her tea tonight. A baked potato with barbecued chicken slices is the answer. Fiona and I are both having left over curry from Thursday night, both our curries were home-made, not takeaways. The attendance is announced as 30,014. It’s the first time there have been over 30,000 people at Portman Road since 20^th April 1981 when we played Arsenal; we lost that afternoon 2-0 too, and I remember standing with my father in the North Stand, it was the only place where we could get in. It was a result that severely and unexpectedly dented our hopes of winning the league and I can still recall vividly how royally peed off I was, I think I still am.

It is now clear that Town are going to lose today, and Liverpool come close to scoring several more times as Christian Walton plays an absolute blinder in the Town goal, a state of affairs confirmed by the Sir Bobby Robson stand’s embittered chanting of “Two-nil and you still don’t sing” followed by a reprise of “Your support, Your support, Your support is fucking shit”. A monstrous eight minutes of added on time is announced to give us hope of a miracle, and last season Town would probably have won, but today it’s Liverpool who nearly score again, twice, with Christian Walton making a brilliant ‘double save’ although ‘man of the match’ is awarded to Jacob Greaves. Scant consolation for the result arrives in the form of a late booking for Liverpool’s number 18 Cody Gakpo, which is greeted with ironic cheers and sarcastic ripples of applause from the home crowd. The bloke behind me wonders if Mr Robinson had lost his yellow card somewhere and only just found it.

The final whistle draws appreciative applause from all around the ground and it has been a decent couple of hours of football, although after Liverpool scored Town were no longer in it to win it, only to keep the score down, which they did. “You’re gonna get relegated aren’t ya? ” Says a Scouser to me as I walk back to the station. “Not today” I tell him. “We’ll be alright”. The football season has started so it may be approaching autumn, but it’s not winter yet, and I’m still hoping for an Indian summer.

Ipswich Town 2 Huddersfield Town 0

May 5, 2024May 27, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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