Ipswich Town 1 Middlesbrough 1

April 14, 2024April 16, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 3 Millwall 1

November 30, 2023December 1, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The promise of an evening kick-off at Portman Road has been enough to drag me through the drudgery of a Wednesday at work, albeit only the at-home form of work, which doesn’t involve having to go outside in the cold and travel on public transport early in the morning. Today, I get to use public transport at a far more civilised hour, when the late afternoon becomes early evening and people have their tea. Outside it is bloody cold. But I have an extremely warm coat, a hat, scarf and fingerless gloves so I’m ready for anything. A slightly less than circular, pale, golden moon hangs low in the sky and the train arrives a minute late; I board and find I’m in a carriage where all the seats seem to face where I’ve just come from rather than where I’m going. But it’s dark now so it doesn’t matter, it’s like being in a very, very long tunnel. “Shudda scored, it was all Fiorentina second ‘alf” says a voice from somewhere behind me. On the other side of the carriage sits a man who looks like a bearded Trevor Eve, but shorter. “Second time this season, Scum two-nil up and lose three-two” says the voice. From the seat in front of me I can hear snorting noises. I tune out and text my sister to ask her how she enjoyed Thanksgiving (she’s just got back from New York) and what she wants for Christmas.

I exit the train hastily on arrival in an Ipswich wreathed atmospherically in winter fog and police officers in day-glo jackets. I think of Poly Styrene and X-Ray Spex as I head up Princes Street and Portman Road towards ‘The Arb’, pausing only at one of the blue booths to buy a match programme (£3.50). It’s too cold for ice cream tonight, but the streets look wonderful, everything looms out of the mist and is almost monochrome. In ‘The Arb’ I am quickly to the bar and order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, whilst a woman next to me talks to her accomplice about Nethergate White Adder, before buying a glass of Rose. The bar is busy and as I head for the beer garden I meet Mick coming in the opposite direction. We meet again in the beer garden after Mick has bought his own beer. We talk of Ipswich Town conceding early goals, of the person whose funeral I went to last week, of bowels and food diaries, of houses of multiple occupation, of the Lord Lieutenant of Suffolk and what is to be done about the poor.

Our conversation rattles on, breaking only while Mick returns to the bar for a whisky for himself and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me. It’s a good job it’s an eight o’clock kick-off tonight or we’d miss the start of the game and Mick momentarily panics when I tell him it’s nearly twenty to eight. We bid each other adieu until Saturday at the corner of Sir Alf Ramsey Way. Portman Road is less thick with crowds than usual and at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I do not have to queue at all at turnstile 62 and am soon standing between Fiona and the man from Stowmarket whose name is actually Paul. A row or two in front of us is ever-present Phil who never misses a game, but tonight there is no Elwood or Pat from Clacton, who I suspect has been kept indoors by the cold and her arthritis.

Murphy the stadium announcer speeds through the team names as if they’re not important and I give up trying to call out their surnames as if I was French because Murphy is onto the next name before I have uttered a syllable; the names flow freely from Murphy’s mouth like diarrhoea. As the teams parade onto the pitch flames shoot from little black boxes arranged around the touchlines, and we hold our hands out as if warming them by the fireside. I’ll bring marshmallows next time. An enthusiastic hand-warming minute’s applause for the recently deceased Terry Venables follows before tonight’s opponent’s Millwall are given first go with the ball, which they mostly try and direct towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the goal in front of it. Town are as ever dressed in blue and white, whilst Millwall are dressed perfectly for a foggy night, in all over orange, looking like Lyons Maid Mivvis, or how Ipswich will look when we play away to Millwall.

“Millwall, Millwall – Millwall, Millwall, Millwall – Millwall, Millwall, Millwall- Millwall, Millwall“ sing their fans imaginatively to the tune of Que Sera Sera. “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” is the quite a bit less tuneful Ipswich response, and the mist and fog rolls in over the roofs of the stands to replace all the condensing moisture burnt off by the flames moments before. “Addy-Addy, Addy -O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand . Barely six minutes of the usual opening exchanges passes and Wes Burns takes on the Millwall full-back and gets beyond him to cross the ball for George Hirst to head down and back for Conor Chaplin to half volley into the Millwall goal past Bartosz Bialkowski, and Ipswich lead one nil having not conceded an early goal. Conor Chaplin thanks Goerge Hirst who thanks Wes Burns and Sam Morsy gives thanks to Allah.

The cold and the fog are forgotten, everyone is happy. “We’ve got super Kieran Mackenna, he knows exactly what we need” sing the north stand, but it’s only in my imagination that they carry on to chant “Wolfy on the bench, Ladapo on the bench and other people in the team instead”. Town are dominant and surge forward on the end of through balls with regularity. Wes Burns hurdles the perimeter wall to join the people at the front of the West Stand as he evades a challenge from Millwall’s Murray Wallace. The twelfth minute arrives and following an eye crossing sequence of short passes, Conor Chaplin sets the ball back for Massimo Luongo to belt into the net from near the edge of the penalty area ; it’s the second life enhancing goal of the evening and it’s possible Bialkowski never saw it.

A minute later Bart tips a first time George Hirst shot over the cross bar to give Town a corner and ever-present Phil and I manfully chant “ Come On You Blues” as the rest of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand looks on in puzzled silence. Behind me a bloke who doesn’t sound like the usual ‘bloke behind me’ explains Town’s recent success to his accomplice as something to do with passing, but with liberal use of the word ‘fucking’. I don’t think it can be the same as Ruud Gullit’s ‘sexy football’. Town win another corner I don’t pause for breath between lonely shouts of “Come On You Blues”. I can only think all the noisy people I stood alongside in Churchman’s forty years ago have gone to an early grave.

Town are cruising and even let Millwall have a corner, and Vaclav Hladky also makes a neat save. As the man from Stowmarket will say at half time, it’s as if we’re inviting Millwall to have a go and then we’ll just hit them on the break. I feel a little sorry for Bartosz Bialkowski, although he has the consolation of a psychedelic purple kit with abstract shapes that make him look like he’s wearing the sort of “dazzle” camouflage applied to ships during World War One, which Picasso claimed was invented by Cubists, the camouflage that is, not World War One.

With a quarter of the game gone for ever, except on Sky tv highlights, Massimo Luongo is the first player to see the yellow card of referee Mr Bramall, apparently because of a supposed foul. Wes Burns makes things a bit better with a shot that hits a post that almost lives up to the description “cannons off”. I notice that I am being dripped on by droplets of moisture condensing on the cold steel girders of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand roof, and the North stand deliver a funereal version of “When the Town go marching in” before upping the tempo for a brief encore.

I’m beginning to think it’s been a while since I saw a goal, but as half-time beckons Wes Burns crosses from the right and Cameron Burgess moves into space in front of the penalty area. Everyone wants him to shoot thinking that he’s been possessed by the spirit of Bobby Charlton, but wisely he lays the ball off to an overlapping Leif Davis whose cross is met full on by Nathan Broadhead, who lives up to his name with a very straight and well directed header into the far corner of the Millwall goal net. Town lead 3-0 and every goal has been a sight to commit to memory and treasure. There is not a hint of irony tonight as we all sing “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen”. Three minutes of added on time are surprisingly not enough to give Town a fourth goal, but the applause and appreciation are not diminished by this as the teams leave for their half-time break and I make the short journey to the front of the stand to chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison, who is much taken with ‘new’ Beatles single, which I can’t remember the name of. I tell him it’s not as good as their old stuff, so everything they ever did before really, even Yellow Submarine. I haven’t seen Ray for several weeks and I learn that he has been on two back to back cruises and not on the Orwell Lady either, but down to Madeira and southern Spain.

Back in my seat, I quickly scoff a Nature Valley cereal bar as the fog is thickened by use of the Versailles fountains on the pitch, before the game resumes and Nathan Broadhead is viciously hacked down by some Millwall oik who is then shoved by George Hirst who seems to have come over all protective of his team mate Nathan. An unseemly melee ensues as if the players hadn’t been drinking tea or isotonic drinks at half time but pints of Stella. Eventually however, the original perpetrator, the deceptively bitter George Honeyman, is booked by Mr Bramall and everyone simmers down.

More bookings follow for both teams before the game reaches its 60^th minute birthday ,and Millwall make a double substitution with the plain sounding Billy Mitchell replacing the more exotic Casper de Norre and the boring sounding Kevin Nisbet replacing the equally dull sounding Tom Bradshaw. Town have a brief flurry of attacks, Massimo Luongo shoots very narrowly wide and Bialkowski makes a save, but the fog has thickened and I couldn’t swear to having seen any of it very clearly, and up in the Cobbold stand the Millwall fans are singing “ We can’t see a fucking thing” to which the wittiest of the Ipswich fans in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand reply “We forgot that you were here”, and all to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

The second half is not as entertaining as the first and with twenty minute to go Keiran Mckenna, who must be freezing in what my friend Pete’s mum would have called “just a shorty-arsed jacket”, commits to a mass substitution as Marcus Harness, Omari Hutchison, Dane Scarlett and Kayden Jackson usurp Nathan Broadhead, Wes Burns, George Hirst and Conor Chaplin. Moments later Murphy tells us that there are 27,702 of us here tonight of whom 1,270 are from Millwall, and no one likes them. Murphy thanks us very much for our support, but unusually applies no adjectives to it, which is a good thing.

With time slipping away, empty blue seats are appearing in the Cobbold stand and Millwall supporters would seem to be slipping away too, but then with twelve minutes of normal time remaining a deep cross drops to the far post and Nisbet’s leg reaches in front of Cameron Burgess and he hooks the ball into the net for a Millwall goal. ”We’re gonna win 4-3” sing the Millwall fans admirably, and then “How shit must you be, we’ve just scored a goal” showing a streak of self-deprecating humour not expected from fans of London clubs, although Fulham supporters also have it. For a few minutes Millwall’s supporters have renewed hope as their team get forward, but don’t really threaten the Town goal. It might just be that they are trying to keep warm, but there are some roars of encouragement , a chorus of “We Are Millwall, No one likes us” and one of “One-nil in the second half”, all healthy signs of supporters who know winning isn’t essential and have learned to get their fun where they can.

As the cold begins to get to grips with my woollen socks the sound of the final whistle can’t come soon enough. Jack Taylor replaces Massimo Luongo with a minute of normal time left and, we quickly learn there will be a mercifully brief four minutes of added on time. Man of the Match, Murphy tells us is Conor Chaplin, which draws an impressively uninterested response from the crowd and the final whistle is met with a sharp exit into the fog on all sides of the ground.

It’s been yet another enjoyable game at Portman Road, made even more memorable by three excellent goals, fog and freezing temperatures. Whilst I loved the football, what I think I learned most from tonight is that fingerless gloves do work, I have a very warm coat, but my socks could be better.

Ipswich Town 3 Leeds United 4

August 27, 2023September 11, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Leeds United form part of my earliest football memories; they were the dirty, losing 1970 FA Cup finalists; I watched them draw the first game with Chelsea at Wembley on the TV on a May afternoon at my grandparent’s house on the Isle of Sheppey. Before that, I don’t remember any games, only World Cup Willie. After that, there were the Esso World Cup coins featuring Madeley, Reaney, Hunter, Charlton, Cooper, Jones and Clarke in 1970, then the centenary FA Cup final victory in 1972, the fondly remembered defeat to Sunderland the following year and then their long unbeaten run in the First Division the season after, when Ipswich were the first team to beat them, albeit in the piffling League Cup. Added to that, I travelled on the bus to school every day with a boy called Andy and he supported them, although he had a good excuse, his whole family were extras on Emmerdale Farm, and whilst that is a lie, they really were from Yorkshire, some people are apparently. Despite a wonky eye (we called him Cyclops), Andy was quite a tidy footballer, much better than me, and he wore blakey’s on his shoes, which clicked and sparked when we played at lunchtimes on the tarmac school tennis court. Everyone who grew up in the 1970’s must have memories of Leeds United; they helped the whole country lose its innocence. I almost feel sorry for the younger Generation X’ers and their successors who have missed out on experiencing 1970’s Leeds United first hand.

Playing Leeds again is therefore a good thing, and I am light of heart as I head for the railway station beneath a sky decorated with fluffy clouds which recede in layers, off into the distance. On the train there is a Leeds fan sat behind me, he’s talking boringly about some player getting “regular game time”. The train smells of toilet cleaner, which I suppose is a good thing too, but then there is a whiff of cloying body spray; it smells a bit like Brut and I’m back in the 1970’s again.

Coming out of Ipswich railway station, by way of a change I turn right along Burrell Road towards what were the docks, but is now the waterfront, and the Briarbank Brewery where there is a beer festival today and bouncers at the door; it’s home fans only. My wife Paulene has encouraged me to do something different and not stick with the routine of going to the ‘Arb’; she says it will be good for my brain, but that’s from the woman who tried to make coffee this morning without putting any coffee in the coffee machine. I follow a bloke in a Town shirt with the name Counago on his back, but I don’t think it’s him. At the Briarbank, I eschew the ‘Yogi Bear’ picnic tables in the yard and head upstairs to what I think is one of my favourite bars anywhere in terms of décor. The wood panels have me in mind of being on a ship, but it also reminds me of the pub next to the high- level bridge in Newcastle, although I haven’t actually been in that pub for about forty years. I order a pint of Briarbank Bitter (£4.20) and take a seat by the window looking out on the Lord Nelson pub opposite and St Clement’s church, it makes me think of Sir Thomas Slade, architect of HMS Victory who is buried in the church and after whom nearby Slade Street is named. I also can’t help thinking of Noddy Holder and Dave Hill.

A bloke stood at the bar with another bloke says “The trouble is I can’t ignore social media all day” and I read the Summer edition of the local Camra magazine ‘Last Orders’. The pint of Briarbank Bitter is so good I finish it and buy another, and watch the cars pass by in the street below, I am struck by how most of them are grey, black or white, it seems a pity. Time runs down like the beer in my oddly shaped glass and after a comfort break in which I discover mats in the urinals which look like slices of melon, I thank the bar maids and leave for Portman Road. I am proud to be the last person to leave and the kindly bouncers bid be farewell and tell me to ‘take care’, which makes me feel like someone with ill intent might be looking for me; I do wish people wouldn’t say that.

There are long queues outside the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, which I blame on all these bar codes and QR codes and the average Alf Ramsey stander being over sixty. Getting through the turnstile just as Murphy the stadium announcer is reading out the Leeds team, I decide to syphon off more Briarbank Bitter to avoid accidents in moments of extreme excitement. I am stood in front of the steel trough as the Town players are announced and tempted as I am to bellow out their surnames in the manner of a French football crowd, I remain politely silent. Up in the stand, my seat is alone in being vacant as I shuffle past Pat from Clacton and Fiona towards the man from Stowmarket; two rows in front, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood are already here too, but then the game is about to begin.

It’s Leeds United who get first go with the ball and they wear all white, with pale blue and yellow stripes along the tops of their shoulders and down the sleeves, disappointingly they don’t have garters on their socks. Town as ever are in blue shirts and socks and white shorts. “Marching altogether” sing the Leeds fans in the Cobbold Stand “…and that’s the way we like it , Wo-oh, Oh, Oh” chant the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. Suddenly Kayden Jackson is bearing down on the Leeds goal in front of us, but perhaps through lack of confidence he squares it hopefully to no one in particular and what looked like a chance dissipates into the mass of legs and turf before us. Then Leeds are through on goal, but the shot is wildly off target and whoever it was, was offside anyway, so all the Town fans jeer derisively. It’s a good start.

“Hark now hear the Ipswich sing” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand, reviving a 1970’s Christmas song from when 1970’s Leeds United were well past their best. The seventh minute and Kayden Jackson races off down the left again and crosses the ball. There’s no Town player to get on the end of this cross but there does not need to be as the ball hits Leeds defender Joe Ridon and rides on onto the net. “Ipswich Town, one-nil up this afternoon, an own goal” announces announcer Murphy and I reflect on how many players have names that are nearly the same as those of American presidents. “What a player, we should sign that centre-back and put him up front.” Says the bloke behind me. Minutes later and Wes Burns has a shot saved and Town have their first corner. “And it’s Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, they’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand to the tune of the Irish Rover, but then sixty-seconds on and a bloke with the unlikely name of Georginio Rutter sort of pirouettes and wriggles and turns between two or three Town defenders before placing the ball in the Town net to equalise. Rutter is from Brittany, so his surname doesn’t sound so incongruous if you roll those r’s. “We all love Leeds” chant the people who all love Leeds.

This is an unexpected set-back, but another corner goes to Town soon after and a couple of shots go wide to give us hope, but then a cross from the Leeds left perplexes the Town defence and Willy Gnonto is left to score from very close range and Town are losing. Far behind us at the back the stand, a Leeds supporter or supporters celebrate as one does when one’s team takes the lead and a few uppity Town fans are mortally offended and begin to rail and moan and whine and generally behave as if someone has murdered their children and eaten them along with their pet dog, garnished with their favourite houseplants. In the Cobbold stand meanwhile, the Leeds fans who are as far as we know innocent of infanticide sing “Top of the league, You’re ‘aving a laff”, treating us to their short vowels and wit all in one fell swoop.

Just four minutes later, as the home crowd begin sixty-seconds applause for a supporter who has died, Leeds break down the left, the ball is crossed and after a first shot is blocked, another close-range finish, this time from Joel Piroe, puts Leeds into a 3-1 lead. It hardly seems possible, we’d got used to always being the ones in the lead and not conceding goals, and the applause just adds to the surreal nature of it all. The Leeds goals have been scored by a Frenchman, an Italian and a Dutchman.

Town settle down and still look capable of scoring and a Wes Burns cross elicits a Kayden Jackson backheel which produces another corner. The Leeds fans of course remain horribly buoyant, to the extent that like people on an 18-30 holiday they lose all self-respect and sing “Agadoo” by Black Lace (1984) as well as “Rocking All Over the World “ by Status Quo (1977). If only Stephen Foster had still been stadium announcer, he’d have played the originals I’m sure.

“Get a bit fucking tighter” bawls a bloke a few rows back as Leeds go forward again and the bloke behind me is similarly afflicted with doubt as he says to his neighbour “He always fuckin’ loses it don’t he?” as Massimo Luongo is surrounded by Leeds players who he doesn’t manage to dribble between. Another man, possibly the one who was so enraged by the Leeds supporter in the ‘home end’, shouts out something about Jimmy Savile and the Leeds fans sing a song which alludes to people with six fingers. On the pitch, Wes Burns is through on goal again but delays his shot, and a defender slides across to block it just as his foot makes contact with the ball. “De-de-de, Football in a library” chant the Leeds fans, possibly planning what they’re going to do with their time next week. Half- time looms as Nathan Broadhead shoots wide, and Wes Burns shoots over. There will be six minutes of additional time and Sinistrerra blazes a shot over the bar with spectacular aplomb for Leeds, Sam Morsy is booked and finally Kayden Jackson robs the ball off the toe of a defender and pulls it back from the goal line to Nathan Broadhead who makes the half-time score 2-3.

I go down to the front of the stand to chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison, who enjoyed the Robyn Hitchcock CD (Life After Infinity) which I gave him at the Stoke game. Ray thinks Town are not quite as quick as Leeds, he might be right.

With all the goals and shot of the first half I feel as if I’ve already seen a whole match, so it’s almost a shock when the second half begins and Leeds begin by substituting the substitute who they brought on just twenty odd minutes ago. I think we can take a lot of positives from this says the bloke behind me,” sounding like someone who has watched too many football managers being interviewed on TV. The Sir Bobby Robson stand reprise “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” as Town begin to dominate possession and push for an equalising goal. Massimo Luongo is booked, and I opine to Fiona that it’s his first foul. “But it was a good one” she says, referring euphemistically to its severity as ‘good,’ and I can’t really disagree.

Leeds full back Ayling emerges as this afternoon’s pantomime villain as he collapses under a challenge from Leif Davis, but the referee Robert Madley and his assistant aren’t fooled and give a free-kick to Town. “Ayling wasn’t ailing” I tell Pat from Clacton, who says she might have to get ‘Monkey’, the Cambodian masturbating monkey charm out of her bag if we don’t score soon. Then Vaclav Hladky makes a good save; Fiona had thought it was going to be a goal and with about twenty minutes of normal time left Town make mass (three) substitutions with Nathan Broadhead, Harry Clark and Kayden Jackson swapping places with Omari Hutchinson, Bradley Williams and Freddie Ladapo. It’s a change which brings almost immediate results as five minutes later Williams fails to prevent the appropriately named Sinisterra running down the left, cutting into the penalty and shooting beyond Hladky to put Leeds 4-2 ahead.

Behind us, at the back of the stand the Leeds fan or fans show their pleasure again and the grey-haired man who got so upset before becomes apoplectic with rage, as do several others. He’s running up the steps of the stand demanding that the Leeds fan is evicted from the ground. I think he might be a Nazi. “Who cares?” I ask the bloke behind me rhetorically. “I expect there are people in the crowd who vote Tory, but I don’t want them chucked out, live and let live, surely?” There’s enough hate and intolerance in the world without people getting weird just because someone cheers for another football team, or worships another God. Happily, I think it is the Nazi who gets removed from the ground.

With the uproar over, we return to contemplating defeat. “We can’t win ’em all” says Pat from Clacton philosophically. “Yes, but we had started to”, I reply. The fourth goal has made a comeback unlikely, but we continue to live in hope and Town are dominating the game. More substitutions are made in the absence of the ability to perform ‘fresh leg’ transplants and the search for at least two goals continues. Pat tells me that she’s having chicken drumsticks and salad for tea, she bought them from the new ‘out of town’ Marks & Spencer store in Clacton. After a couple of corners, five minutes of added on time is eventually all that holds our slender hopes of avoiding defeat. The stands start to empty out as those of little faith and others who never stay until the end because of a morbid fear of queuing traffic, or because they ‘must get home’ bugger off. The game is nearly over when Conor Chaplin scores; a typical shot into the corner, and hopes, though slender, suddenly fatten up. The re-start after the goal is greeted with slightly tired encouragement from the crowd and for a moment, Town surge forward, but only for a moment, and then time inevitably runs out. We’ve lost.

It’s been a great game, very entertaining and Town have played well despite losing. The analysis will perhaps suggest both team’s defenders were outplayed by their opponents’ forwards, but the Leeds forwards outplayed Town’s defence just a little bit more than Town’s forwards outplayed the Leeds defence. Either way, as Pat from Clacton rightfully said, we can’t win ‘em all.

IpswichTown 2 Sheffield Wednesday 2

February 12, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

In my near fifty-two seasons of watching professional football, I’ve seen Sheffield Wednesday play twenty-five times, and today will be the twenty-sixth. The majority of those games have also involved Ipswich Town, with just two being against Colchester United. Like those Colchester matches, today’s game, in common with the previous two is a third division fixture. This is a very boring introduction to this match report, but it’s about history, which for many is possibly the whole point of watching football. Both Ipswich Town and Sheffield Wednesday have a history of glory which they currently exist in the shadow of. Ipswich’s glory was over forty years ago, but it’s recent compared to that of Sheffield, which was over forty years before that, with Wednesday last winning the FA Cup in 1935 and the League in 1930, beyond living memory for most mortals. Today is important therefore.

Looking forward and only in my rear view mirror when necessary I park up my air-quality enhancing Citroen e-C4 and head across Gippeswyk Park for Portman Road and the joys of ‘The Arb’ beyond. The streets are full of policemen in uniforms that look as if they have been designed to be wipe-clean. A tall, wide-eyed man approaches me and asks what the score will be. “2-0 to Town” I say because I always expect Ipswich to win and he cheers and lurches off up the road. Two policemen eye him suspiciously as if it might be a crime to be a bit eccentric or off your gourde. In Portman Road, the boringly grey Sheffield Wednesday team bus is backing into its parking space behind the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. I stop at one of the kiosks which look like they should sell ice cream, and attempt to buy a programme (£3.50) using my season ticket card. Predictably this doesn’t work, but I realise my mistake at the about the same time as the young man in the kiosk and blame it on my bank card and season ticket card both being blue.

At ‘the Arb’ I order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.41 with the 10% Camra discount) and retire to the beer garden where the covered shelter is occupied by people who seem unable to talk without shouting; it’s as if I’m hearing a conversation between a group of town criers. I move away into the beer garden fearing permanent damage to my ears. Mick soon appears, unexpectedly making his entrance through the side gate. He disappears into the building and quickly returns with his own pint of Suffolk Pride and packet of Fairfield’s Farms cheese and onion crisps. We talk of our distrust and dislike of Ipswich’s Tory MP’s and their attempts at political point scoring off Ipswich’s Labour led council, of forthcoming fixtures, of Grayson Perry, of transitioning and of sexual politics.

At about two-thirty the beer garden suddenly falls silent as everybody else departs for the match leaving just Mick and I supping alone. For a moment we don’t know what to say other than to remark on how quiet it is. We drain our pint glasses and it’s not long before we leave for Portman Road ourselves, feeling like reluctant followers of fashion. We part in Sir Alf Ramsey Way as I head off between the assembled supporters’ buses and coaches towards the Constantine Road entrance and Mick finds a place to park his pushbike. At the portal to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand there are no queues and of turnstiles 59 to 62, only the latter is not open, I choose turnstile 61 and am entreated to “enjoy the match” by the brown-haired woman who nonchalantly scans my season ticket card. In the stand, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, the man from Stowmarket, and his grandson are all here and the sense of anticipation is palpable.

As stadium announcer and former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster reads out the Town team I shout out the surnames in the French style and am pleased that ever-present Phil joins in , although I botch it a bit because the scoreboard isn’t keeping up with Stephen Foster and I find I’m not quite as good at picking the right surnames to match the first names as I ought to be. It’s a lot of fun nevertheless, but then we pause to show our respects to the many thousands who have died in the recent earthquake across southern Turkey and Syria. The silence is well observed as it should be; the only sounds being the squawking of seagulls and shushes from the Sheffield fans to those of their number emerging onto the stand ignorant of the gesture being made.

At two minutes past three o’clock the games begins with Town getting first go with the ball and hoping to stick it in the net closest to me, Pat, Fiona and Phil. Town are in resplendent in royal blue shirts and white shorts whilst Wednesday are anaemic in pale yellow shirts with pale blue sleeves and pale blue short; it’s a kit that looks like it’s been washed too many times or has faded in strong sunlight whilst on the washing line. “Hark now here the Wednesday sing, United ran away” chant the northerners in the Cobbold Stand showing an unexpected appreciation of Harry Belafonte and Boney M, which is matched by the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson stand who proceed to sing the same song but about Town and Norwich. Other parts of the ground remain silent as if still remembering the earthquake victims.

Almost a quarter of an hour passes before any football breaks out and supporters are reduced to jeering and cheering throws and mis-placed passes. A tall man sat next to me tenses and jerks forward every time it looks like the ball will come near the goal. Conor Chaplin bounces a shot into the ground which is easily collected by the Wednesday goalkeeper Cameron Dawson, who is a vision in cerise. A Wednesday shot travels spectacularly high over the Town cross bar. “Tell you what, they’re big at the back int they” says the bloke behind me of the three Sheffield defenders Akin Famewo, Dominic Iorfa and Aden ‘Larry’ Flint. Iorfa previously played for Town, but looks to have been on a course of steroids since then.

The afternoon is dull and still, the flags on the Cobbold stand hang lifelessly beneath heavy grey cloud, it’s like a summer’s day, just a bit colder. The fifteenth minute brings a corner to Town and then another. With the second corner kick Wes Burns falls to the ground inside the penalty area. I see him fall but don’t spot the perpetrator who must have had a getaway car waiting, and it seems like that is everyone’s experience including the referee’s assistant who gingerly and briefly signals for a penalty kick. The referee, Mr Geoff Eltringham walks over to speak to his assistant before a posse of Wednesday players run over to argue the toss like professional footballers always do. “Get over it” I shout, uncharacteristically. “Haven’t you ever conceded a penalty before?” I’m not sure what’s the matter with me.

Eventually, about four minutes later, the penalty is taken and Conor Chaplin’s kick fails to find any of the important corners inaccessible to goalkeepers and instead it strikes the diving figure of Dawson. What disappointment. But life and the game carries on. “He’s a unit, we’re not gonna beat him in the air” says the bloke behind me of ‘Larry’ Flint, still obsessing about the size of the Wednesday defenders as a Wes Burns cross is repelled. It takes twenty-five minutes, but finally the Wednesday supporters find their Welsh hymn books and sing “Your support , your support , your support is fucking shit”. Two minutes later their piety and use of rude words is rewarded as Town ignore the fart-joke aficionados’ favourite player Josh Windass, allowing him as much time and space as he wants to cross the ball for the more prosaically named Michael Smith to twist a spectacularly decent header from near post to far post and into the Town net, and Sheffield lead.

Depression is setting in at Portman Road and only mild relief comes from Geoff the ref showing Wednesday’s Will Vaulks his yellow card for aimlessly wandering off with the ball in an attempt to waste time. The pleasure this brings is soon lost however as a minute later Wednesday score a second goal when the ball is crossed and then drops to the ground conveniently for George Byers to smite into the goal. Another goal almost follows as Town get in a muddle and Vaulks has a shot saved by Christian Walton. A few rows behind me it’s all too much for one bloke who erupts into a tirade of expletives and sounds like he might burst into tears at any moment. A woman with him seems to plead for a more rational approach but this only seems to fuel his ire provoking a full scale ‘domestic’ which ends with what sounds like him telling her “Leave me alone”. All this and a football match to watch too!

The quiet, even silent brooding of the home crowd ,with the obvious exception of the two having the domestic, is worrying me and as Town win a free-kick for a foul on Nathan Broadhead near the penalty area I begin to sing “Come On You Blues” and “Allez les bleus” in the hope that others will join in to build a crescendo of noise which will carry the team to victory. Ever-present Phil joins in and I think Fiona and Pat do too; I keep it going for long enough for several people to look round fearfully to see who the weirdo is. Then Nathan Broadhead takes the free-kick and hits the top right-hand corner of the goal net with the ball, it’s a fantastic goal. “Your singing, it worked” says a young girl in front of me smiling broadly amongst the cheers and the joy. Well, why wouldn’t it?

Four minutes of added on time are the prequel to half-time and I go down the front to see Ray and his grandson Harrison. The consensus is that Wednesday are big and physical and do a lot of pushing for which the Geoff the ref has not given us the appropriate number of free-kicks. Also, until we let Wednesday score we were doing alright; after that it wasn’t so good. Ray asks about my solar panels because his wife has asked him to ask me about them. Regrettably I have not come to football armed with the facts and figures, so I tell him I will have to gather the data and let him know, although the main point is that money aside, whilst the solar panels are making electricity no one is having to burn fossil fuels to power my house or car, hence life on Earth will be saved and future generations will be able to enjoy football like we do.

Returning to my seat, the bloke behind me apologises for his language, I shrug my shoulders and purse my lips as if I were French. I hadn’t really noticed to be honest, and he should probably apologise to Pat rather than to me. The game resumes. Within five minutes the scorer of Wednesday’s second goal, Byers, is booked for a foul on Conor Chaplin and from the free-kick Leif Davis launches the ball into the top corner of the goal. That’ll teach Byers. It’s a fabulous comeback by Town and without doing much more than taking a couple of free-kicks after getting hacked down by the dirty Wednesday players. I am at once both ecstatic that we are no longer losing but disappointed that we haven’t yet scored a proper goal by carving open the opposition defence with cunning passes and superior wit. Pat from Clacton reveals that in the ‘draw the correct score’ competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus she has drawn 3-2 to Town.

The second half largely belongs to Ipswich. Corners are won and the ball is passed and seldom comes near Christian Walton’s goal. Town have shots on goal, but most are blocked and when Conor Chaplin fashions a seemingly spectacular effort, turning and striking the ball athletically in a single movement it seems impossible that it ends up going straight to the goalkeeper for an easy catch. The usual clutches of substitutions are made, and for once they don’t make much difference. For a short while Wednesday get back into the game as they hurl in some long throws and win a couple of corners that threaten, and ‘Larry’ Flint finds space to head across goal and then blast the ball over the cross bar. Today’s ‘sold out’ attendance is announced by Stephen Foster as 29,072 with 2,148 fans from Sheffield although he doesn’t mention that where I am sat there are at least six empty seats within a couple of metres of me. For a sell-out crowd the level of vocal support for the Town has been very disappointing however, just as it was against Plymouth, with an aire of tortured anxiety pervading the stands.

The game rolls on towards its not fully satisfactory conclusion. Desperation arrives as Pat from Clacton releases the figure of the masturbating monkey from her bag and rubs his head for luck. Sadly, the powers of this Cambodian or Vietnamese lucky charm seem to have drooped or left him altogether. Sheffield Wednesday substitute their small Scottish captain Barry Bannan for Dennis Adeniran and I remark to Fiona that there have never been many players called Barry, past or present. We try to think of some, but all I can come up with are Barry Sheen and Barry White, neither of whom were footballers. At primary school a teacher sat me next to a boy called Barry, hoping I would be a good influence on him, but sadly it was bad Barry who had more influence on me. A late flurry sees Freddie Ladapo have a shot which looks like it is goalward bound, but it flies past the side of the goal post that doesn’t have a net to stop it and that’s that, the game is drawn.

It’s both a point gained and two points lost for Town today, so it’s best not to dwell on it, we can leave that for the future when it won’t feel like it matters so much and it’s just history .

Post Script: I remember Barry Butlin playing for Luton Town.

Ipswich Town 4 Rotherham United 1

January 8, 2023January 15, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The year of our Lord 2023 has not started well. I have been suffering with diarrhoea all week and on Friday evening the teams I was rooting for in their respective ties in the ‘round of thirty-two’ in the Coupe de France (Montpellier HSC, Nimes Olympique, RC Strasbourg and LB de Chateauroux) all lost. Today began as dull and grey and has progressed to become both wet and miserable, but my gloom and despondency have lifted as today is also the third round of the FA Cup and mighty Ipswich Town have a home tie against mighty Rotherham United.

When I saw my first FA Cup third round tie back on 5^th January 1974 (Town v Sheffield United) it would have been inconceivable to think of first division Town beating fourth division Rotherham as ever being a giant killing, but forty-nine years on the tables have turned a bit. With Rotherham now in the second division and Town in the third, if Town win today I shall be claiming this as a ‘giant killing’, albeit one akin to a school child who is rather big for their age thumping one who is small for theirs but in the year above.

Ipswich is grey, Gippeswyk Park is wet underfoot and traffic is queuing to get over the bridge opposite the railway station, but Portman Road is quiet as I step up to the first booth I come to to purchase a copy of today’s programme. “Let me guess, £2.00 today” I say to the young woman in the booth. She smiles perhaps through pity but I like to think she almost appears impressed as I hand her a single coin and tell her it wasn’t that big a deal, I’ve been to Cup matches before.

By and by I cross the threshold of ‘The Arb’ and at the bar tell the barman that I ought to have something non-alcoholic; he directs me to the third shelf from the bottom of a tall fridge with a glass door which is packed with cans of ‘craft’ beer. I pick a can of Big Drop Galactic Milk Stout and returning to the bar the I hear the voice of Mick saying “I’ll get that” which is characteristically good of him. Mick has a glass of an anonymous amber bitter and packet of Fairfield’s Farms cheese and onion flavour crisps. We repair to the garden where we meet Gary coming in the opposite direction who texted me early this morning, but I didn’t reply because I hadn’t noticed. Gary is on his way to buy himself a beer and returns with a pint of unidentified lager; Gary is from Essex.

The three of us talk a little of football, the tv series ‘detectorists’, but also of death, as ever. Mick’s daughter’s neighbour died this week from cardiac arrest and Gary tells of a man whose birthday coincided with his wife being admitted to hospital and her father dying. Aside from the big things like wars, famine and climate change life can be pretty miserable on a micro-level, which puts football into perfect perspective, so we really should try and enjoy it whatever the result.

Not much after twenty-five to three we head for Portman Road, returning our glasses to the bar on the way and noting that ‘The Arb’ now has a menu for dogs; I make a silly comment about restaurants in Malaysia. Sir Alf Ramsey Way is thick with people queuing to get into Sir Alf’s eponymous stand and the Magnus west stand, but we carry on towards the Corporation bus depot and find no queue at all at the end turnstile, where for the first time in my life I gain entry by my wife having downloaded my ticket on my mobile phone and having it scanned. Mick and I were both nervous that this would work but it did. I find myself marvelling at the wonder of modern technology in the manner of uncle Bryn in tv’s ‘Gavin and Stacey’.

Having syphoned off some beer, Mick and I find our way to the ‘posh’ padded seats in Block Y from where will be watching this afternoon’s game. Gary only bought his ticket last night and so is away in the humbler surroundings of F Block. Courtesy of his season ticket, Gary normally sits in J Block which Mick tells me is also the name of an Ipswich drugs gang from the mean streets between Bramford Road and London Road. In the oppressive dim light of the upper tier of the Magnus west stand, we edge ourselves past an unsmiling man and his unsmiling wife, although she could be his floozie, and we find our seats. A little weirdly to my cold, unfeeling mind, today’s game is, according to page 23 of the programme, the Club’s annual Memorial Matchday in which members of the Blue Army who died in 2022, or ‘passed away’ as the programme calls it, can be remembered. Before the game can begin the names of the deceased appear on the scoreboard and they receive a minute’s applause. “There are an awful lot of names” says Mick, who for a moment thinks these are all former players. I’m not sentimental and find this Memorial Match idea a bit odd, but I am reminded nevertheless of former manager John Duncan and the excellent, original David Johnson, John Jackson and, although I saw none of his thirty-four games for Town, Aled Owen. I recall seeing Jackson’s only game for Town, a 2-1 win over Manchester United and that Aled Owen played a single league game in the Championship winning season of 1961/62. I think of fellow fan Andi Button with whom I saw many an away game in the 1980’s and 1990’s and even travelled with him by car to see Doncaster Rovers v Colchester United for what was the last game at Belle Vue before Doncaster were relegated from the Football League in 1998.

With applauses clapped and knees taken the game begins, Rotherham having first go with the ball, hoping to kick mostly towards the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and looking like Derby County or Germany in white shirts with black shorts, despite their proper kit of red shirts with white sleeves and white shorts not clashing at all with Town’s blue and white ensemble. Perhaps the absence of the red kit is a sign that Rotherham haven’t turned up as themselves today and aren’t much interested in the Cup, but in fact their team shows just one change from that which lost in the league at Millwall last weekend.

The crowd is loud with a good noise from the Sir Bobby Robson stand where the most vocal support, Blue Action, has re-located itself from stuck up the corner to the central section. Despite the impressive support, the game starts slowly, very slowly, with Richard Keogh and George Edmundson frequently standing still with the ball at their feet before merely passing the ball between one another. As I remark to Mick, it’s not exactly a ‘blood and thunder’ cup tie. I spend my time getting used to the unfamiliar surroundings of Block Y with its tight legroom and padded seats and the man behind me with a loud voice who likes to explain things to his children, although to be fair they are asking questions, as children do. Slowly, Town venture forward and a couple of forays on the flanks nearly produce moves worth applauding and some people do. Both Conor Chaplin and Kayden Jackson have shots on goal, but both are poor efforts. Then twice the ball is given away cheaply in the Town half and luckily Rotherham fail to take full advantage, Jamie Lindsay trying and failing to pass when he should have shot and then most luckily of all the ball is sent from close range into the Town net only for the ‘scorer’ to be flagged offside. The home crowd is in good voice with the lower tiers of both the Sir Alf and Sir Bobby stands looking full.

Freddie Ladapo chases a through ball. “Way offside” calls a bloke behind me in a tone of voice that implies that Ladapo being offside is a given. “Way offside” he says again scornfully and then once more for luck when the assistant referee finally raises his flag. This bloke behind me would seem to have turned up simply to let the world, or at least an unfortunate part of Block Y know that he doesn’t rate Freddie Ladapo. The larger part of the first half is marred by such carping “Here we go, what are you gonna do with it? Do something with it” says another know-it-all as the opportunity for a match winning pass once again fails to materialise. Much more enjoyably, when Kayden Jackson is fouled but gets no free-kick, a high-pitched, pre-pubescent voice from behind calls “Get your bloody glasses out”.

A half an hour has gone and whilst Ipswich have dominated, they have not been incisive, and shooting has been snatched at and inaccurate. The children behind are eating savoury snacks that smell like a dog has farted. In the corner between the Cobbold Stand and the Sir Alf Ramsey stand I can see a patch of blue sky above what must be Holywells Park. A fine rain has started to fall and it’s nearly half-time. Kayden Jackson breaks down the right wing, as the Rotherham defence back pedal, Jackson sends a low cross towards the back of the penalty area, Conor Chaplin can’t reach it, but Cameron Humphreys is running in and strikes the ball smoothly inside the left hand post beyond the diving Viktor Johansson, and Town lead 1-0, it’s a fine, fine goal.

Half-time follows on quickly and the crowd seems happy, a goal always works wonders. Mick had departed early to siphon more used beer and I meet him in the bar where we watch the half-time results on the tv and play spot the ‘giant-killing’ which leads to a discussion about which league clubs are in and how it was easier when it was divisions one to four. I admit to Mick that I still refer to divisions one to four bloody-mindedly to show my dislike of ‘modern ways’ in the same way that I call the internet the interweb. Mick says he does the same when he still calls Ipswich’s ‘waterfront’ the docks.

The game resumes at five past four and it’s still raining, just a bit harder. We’ve barely got comfortable again before Keogh and Leif Davis get in a muddle and allow Conor Washington to slip between them and get beyond Keogh who stretches out a leg or two giving Washington the opportunity to fall over him and win a penalty, which being unfamiliar with the Corinthian Spirit he naturally takes. Washington recovers sufficiently from his ordeal to score the penalty and the hard work of the first half is laid to waste. Keogh hasn’t had a great match today, he could be the new Luke Chambers although happily he’s no Mark Fish or Ivar Ingimarsson.

The match resumes again and despite no doubt the worst fears of the crowd, Town continue to be the better team and Rotherham don’t look like scoring again. The rain continues, swirling and drifting through the beams of the floodlights as natural daylight fades from the streets around the ground. Over an hour has passed and Marcus Harness replaces Sone Aluko, Rotherham bring on the only player from their last league match who didn’t begin the game today, Dan Barlaser, who sounds like a character from a sci-fi novel.

Town play a patient game, which is just as well because there are twenty-six minutes to wait until Freddie Ladapo, with his back to goal is wrestled to the ground by Rotherham’s Wes Harding. Conor Chaplin scores the resulting penalty and the Sir Bobby Robson stand channel the spirit of Doris Day with an essential but tentative chorus of “Que Sera, Que Sera”. “It wasn’t even a great penalty” says the know-it-all behind me. Four minutes later Town make mass substitutions, which as often seems to happen bring quick relief to our pain and Freddie Ladapo gets a free run at goal; he rounds the goalkeeper and shoots low and hard to put Town 3-1 up, much to the chagrin no doubt of the know-it-all.

Today’s attendance is announced by the dangerously up-beat Stephen Foster as being 15,728 with 215 of that number being Rotherhamites. It has to be the biggest crowd for an FA Cup match at Portman Road in at least ten years, probably more. Rotherham continue to flounder. “Ha-ha” says the child behind me sounding like Nelson Munce from the Simpsons as a rare Rotherham foray forward squirms away over the line for a goal-kick. All around, except up in the Cobbold stand there is a sense of joy. Cup fever has broken out at Portman Road and is spreading fast through a crowd previously thought to have been vaccinated against it. The until now totally reserved man beside me begins to mutter “Ole, Ole, Ole” to himself following the lead of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, only they’re not muttering.

Eight minutes of normal time remain and a Kyle Edwards shot hits a post. Gassan Yahyi replaces Freddie Ladapo and then Kane Vincent-Young takes advantage of a shove by Hakeem Odoffin and Wes Burns adds a fourth goal from the penalty spot as a result. “Championship you’re ‘avin’ a laugh” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers safe in the knowledge that we can’t possibly lose now, and after three minutes of added on time Town’s ball books its place in the velvet bag for the fourth-round draw.

As we descend the stairs and head out into the drizzly darkness Mick and I reflect on our afternoon of FA Cup giant-killing . I venture that it was pretty good. “After a very slow start” says Mick, tempering my enthusiasm, but I’m sure he’s only trying to keep my feet on the ground. Wemberlee!