Ipswich Town 1 Fortuna Dusseldorf 2

July 28, 2024August 1, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s late July already, summer has almost arrived, and so has the new football season. In the Eastern Counties Premier League, the likes of Brantham Athletic and Walsham le Willows are starting their league fixtures today, but I have decided to prolong the sense of anticipation for the ‘real’ stuff and am returning early to Portman Road to witness the friendly between the mighty Blues and Fortuna Dusseldorf, or “Our friends from Germany” as they have become known. I am looking forward to an afternoon of Kraftwerk and altbier.

Pre-season friendlies are strange beasts, and I don’t usually bother with them. Back in the 1970’s my youthful exuberance meant I was as eager to see a Will-hire Cup match against Cambridge United as I was to see any game, but I’m mostly out of exuberance nowadays and I begrudge paying the money just to watch the team train. I last saw Town play a pre-season friendly eight years ago when they met Union St Gilloise from Brussels, a club then in the Belgian second division but now regular Pro-League title challengers, although sadly they never quite manage to win it. The fact that St Gilloise are from Belgium and Fortuna from Germany is significant; I can’t resist seeing teams from abroad, even in friendlies. Maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days before that stupid referendum (emphasis on the ‘dum’) cut Britain adrift, or maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days when competitive European games were regular entries on Town’s fixture list, or maybe I’m just hoping to catch the lingering scent of strong beer, trams, fine wine, fast trains, chocolate and haute cuisine clinging to the replica shirts of visiting supporters.

As befits late July, it’s a fine, warm day with fluffy clouds heaped up under azure skies. My train (return ticket £9.60 with senior railcard) is on time, and as I step on board the chill of the air-conditioned carriage comes as a bit of a shock, as does the smell of the toilet. Reassuringly, the eletronic sign above the gangway tells me that this service for Ipswich will call at Ipswich. On the opposite side of the gangway to my seat a man with two young boys has a voice that sounds like a very sleepy version of the now deceased comic and Eastenders actor Mike Reid; “…know what I mean?” he says to the boys after he explains that he doesn’t think any football ticket should cost more than £50.00. I see all four polar bears at Jimmy’s farm as the train eases down the hill into Ipswich.

I am meeting Mick today, but by way of a change our rendezvous is at the Station Hotel, where Mick is already eating the sightly odd combination of a toasted cheese sandwich and chips with his friend Chris, whom he previously met off the train from Felixstowe. I join them with a pint of something called Platform Number 9 (£3.90) and we talk of summer signings, locally listed buildings, prostates, American politics, how some of the cheese in Chris’s toasted sandwich hasn’t melted and how I have had an air source heat pump installed this week and thanks to various pipes and ducts the back of my house now looks like the Pompidou Centre. Conversation continues with a further pint of Platform Number 9 for me and a Jameson whisky for Mick (£7.85 for the two), before Chris suggests we make a move for Portman Road, which is exactly what we do.

In Portman Road there are queues for the Cobbold Stand where our seats are sat waiting for our bottoms, but first I stop to acquire a programme (£2.50) from one of the blue booths that look as if they should also sell ice creams. The front cover of the programme gives Mick and I something to talk about in the snaking queue to the turnstile as we comment on the casual, hands in pockets stance of Ali Al-Hamadi, Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke, and the somewhat macho “You looking at me?” expressions on their faces. Mick doesn’t recognise Ali Al-Hamadi or Harry Clarke and I can’t remember Clarke’s name at first either. “That full-back” I tell him, “you know, Colin Harper”.

After venting excess “Platform Number 9” we find our seats and almost immediately the game begins, as if they’d just been waiting for us to arrive. Fortuna get first go with the ball , or it could have been Town, I wasn’t really paying attention. Fortuna, in all red, are kicking the ball mostly in the direction of the telephone exchange, Barrack Corner and what used to be Anglesea Road hospital beyond, where in June of 1976 my father had a hernia operation. A couple of months later he and I would see Town beat Go Ahead Eagles Deventer one-nil in a pre-season friendly. Barely four minutes pass and Fortuna score, Schmidt. It’s an overly simple goal with a cross that reveals an absence of marking and ends with an unchallenged header. Oh well, it’s only a friendly.

“Come on Ipswich” shouts a shrill child behind us and Mick and I piece together the line-up of the Town team. The shirts show squad numbers, but the programme doesn’t provide the key to these and the Town players’ names are not on their shirts either. From what’s on the back of their shirts, all the Fortuna players appear to be called Dusseldorf. Not being ones to memorise the Town squad numbers, Mick and I are at a loss to identify Town’s number 14, but the bloke sat next to Mick that isn’t me helps us out, revealing that it is Jack Taylor; it threw us seeing him start a match. We eventually also manage to deduce that the new signings are number 22 Jacob Greaves, number 8 Liam Delap, number 2 Ben Johnson, and the goalkeeper is Arijanet Muric. After eight minutes Town fashion a first shot on goal, a weak effort by Delap.

Twenty minutes pass and my interest has mostly only been piqued by the building work on the West Stand, where swathes of seats are missing and it’s possible to see the decorative brickwork of the Corporation bus depot through the gap where there will eventually be more hospitality boxes. I note that our goalkeeper wears pink and that Jacob Greaves wears his hair in a small bun, a bit like former Pompey player Christian Burgess who coincidentally now plays for Union St Gilloise. I do like a centre-half with longer hair, it suggests to me a welcome element of flair in a position not usually known for it.

Liam Delap receives a strangely generous smattering of applause when caught offside and after twenty-five minutes Town win a corner, but then Fortuna are awarded a free-kick by referee Mr Smith and the man next to Mick that isn’t me starts waving his left arm about in anguish. “English, and he’s against us!” he shouts weirdly, as if its 1944 not 2024 and the referee is Lord Haw-Haw. I turn to Mick to tell him how surprised I am at how much some people seem to care so much about a friendly; but soon I’m thinking to myself that I’ve not sat in the Cobbold Stand since the Blue Action group has moved in and at half-way through the half the drums are beginning to get on my nerves. Perhaps with the players feeling the same as me, the twenty ninth minute is an unexpected drinks-break, and Mick checks his phone to see what the temperature is. Twenty-five degrees is evidently warm enough to crack open the Lucozade, or whatever isotonic elixir the modern Premier League player and his coach prefer.

Drinks supped and play resumed, Marcus Harness replaces Wes Burns and I admit to Mick that I hadn’t realised Wes was even playing. Harness’s introduction is an immediate success as his first cross is headed goalwards by Jack Taylor and Town have another corner, which George Edmundson heads at the Fortuna goalkeeper Florian Kastenmeier who interestingly shares his first name with Florian Schneider, one of the two founder members of 1970’s Dusseldorf-based ‘Krautrock’ band Kraftwerk. “Use your height Conor” shouts a man behind us before he laughs at his own ’joke’, hopefully out of embarrassment. Not totally absorbed by the match, I’ve noticed that a lot of surfaces around the ground are now painted matt black, including all the vomitoriums (vomitoria?) and I wonder if this is something required by the Premier League along with canapes and a shrubbery for Sky Sports presenters and a toilet reserved for Alan Shearer.

Three minutes of added on time are announced and I realise that from beneath the roof of the Cobbold Stand I cannot see the sky, it’s like looking out through a letterbox. When half-time arrives, I stay where I am for the duration unable to face the confined spaces beneath the venerable Cobbold Stand, although Mick bravely heads off to the lav.

Predictably, the re-start after half-time brings multiple personnel changes on the field of play and Delap, Edmundson, Greaves and Muric can catch the early bus home as they are replaced by Hirst, Burgess, Woolfenden and Walton. Fortuna win an early corner after a mistake by Woolfenden, who Mick remarks will need to improve to retain his place this season, and I agree with him. Then Marcus Harness equalises with a goal not dissimilar to Fortuna’s in that he is left alone on the right-hand side of the penalty area, but it’s a shot, not a header, at the end of a pass from Conor Chaplin.

After a rather dull first half, Town seem for a short while to have re-discovered themselves, and George Hirst breaks forward and plays in Jack Taylor to shoot high towards goal but have his shot saved. The thrills around the Fortuna goal don’t last however and soon it is the German Bundesliga team that are breaking forward with Ao Tanaka who, running on his toes and with a floppy mop of hair looks a bit like an oriental Trevor Putney. Tanaka misses, but within minutes Tim Rossmann is left with almost a quarter of the pitch to himself and he runs on to shoot past Walton with aplomb, and Fortuna lead 2-1. It’s nearly 3- 1 soon afterwards, again thanks to Tim Rossmann, but this time he misses the goal.

With the German lead restored, the game reverts to how it was in the first half and the Fortuna goalkeeper Kastenmeier has the time to stand and watch a seagull soar and swoop above the pitch and I wonder if he doesn’t get to see many seagulls at the Merkur-Spiel Arena in Dusseldorf. Dusseldorf is some way in land, but it is on the Rhine which I imagine seagulls follow up-stream. Annoyingly, I don’t remember if there were seagulls or not when I saw Town play at the Paul Janes Stadion in Dusseldorf back in pre-season,2015. Whatever the ornithological ins and outs of the Rhineland, nine years on and Fortuna are the better team today. On the touchline, Kieran McKenna retreats to the dugout to peer thoughtfully at a his lap top and rest his head on his chin in contemplation.

More substitutions ensue, but I‘ve lost interest to a large degree and the adverts announcing “University of Suffolk – apply now through clearing” and the sight of OGC Nice club crest catch my eye almost as much as the balding pate of Fortuna’s number 27, the obviously bleached blond hair of their number 18 and the enormity of their number 43 who, for a short while until Mr Smith tells him his fortune seems to ‘want a piece’ of Sam Morsy.

“Mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa, Sam Morsy mwa mwa mwa” says the stadium announcer incomprehensibly as the match draws to a close, and we guess Sam Morsy is man of the match, for what it’s worth. Mick and I share our mild disappointment at having forked out £35.00 between us to watch two teams train, and then our equally mild confusion that there is to be a penalty shoot-out despite the game not having ended in a draw. With Fortuna having lost the play-off match for promotion to Bundesliga 1 on penalties at the end of last season, it almost seems like mental cruelty to remind them of the experience so soon afterwards. On the other hand, there is every chance it will be more exciting than this afternoon’s match was, or at least it would be if anyone cared.

Both teams miss their first penalty and score their next four, and the next one , (or is it two?) after that. When Luke Woolfenden steps up to take the next penalty, I tell Mick that he will miss. Whilst Woolfy’s shot is on target it is nevertheless saved quite comfortably and if these are “sudden-death” penalties Fortuna have won for the second time this afternoon. But then Christian Walton gets to take a penalty, which he scores, and I have no idea what is going on, although looking at my watch I realise I’m going to miss my train, and I do.

Unbowed, or just stupid and somewhat mystified, as we head away from Portman Road Mick and I agree to speak soon to arrange buying tickets for the final friendly of pre-season versus OGC Nice (Olympic Gymnaste Club de Nice) of French Ligue 1. A pre-season friendly against French opposition ? We wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Ipswich Town 3 Southampton 2

April 3, 2024August 19, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I woke up this morning and without moving my leaden carcass squinted at the bedside clock. It was nine minutes past seven. I rolled over and soon descended back into a drowsy, drifting sleep. After what I thought was about twenty minutes I awoke and looked at the clock again. It was seven minutes past eight and l lay there thinking I should get up, whilst also becoming depressed at the thought that this is Easter Monday and I will have to go back to work tomorrow. I guess that with still a whole day of the four-day Easter break in front of me and a trip to Portman Road too, such thoughts must mark me down as a pessimist. I don’t think so though, I think I just don’t like having to work for a living.

Outside it is sunny, but it’s also breezy, so everything in the garden is moving and jiggling about, like I’m watching a Roobarb and Custard cartoon. My internal dialogue adopts the breathless voice of the late Richard Briers and I think of a young Felicity Kendal before wondering what people from the time before television thought of in idle moments. I get up, shower, eat breakfast, drink coffee and probably make my wife Paulene suspicious by performing a range of domestic tasks including ‘hoovering’ and ironing, before we enjoy a comforting late lunch of bangers and mash.

As a I step outside to walk to the railway station, it is spitting with rain; Paulene was watching men in lycra cycling around San Sebastien on the telly as I bade her farewell, and she gave me strict instructions that Ipswich Town must win today because they are playing Southampton and Paulene is a Pompey person, a former joint owner no less, before the rest of them sold out to Walt Disney. The train is on time but it’s an uneventful train journey, there aren’t many other passengers on board, although a young blonde woman asks me to look after her bag when she goes to the loo. I tell her “Don’t be long, I’m getting off in Ipswich.” But she’s back in her seat even before we glide on past one of the Wherstead Polar Bears, who appears to be hiding from the small handful of people who have paid to see him, or her.

In Ipswich, I exit the train and cross the railway tracks by the old footbridge because it has fewer steps than the new one. The streets are busy with policemen in baseball hats and day-glo gilets standing in pairs and watching. As ever, I stop in Portman Road to buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the ice cream booths, the vendor looks very young and is possibly very careless too as the screens on both her mobile phone and card reader terminal thing are cracked. “Did you drop them both?” I ask her, but don’t catch the reply; I’m beginning to worry about my hearing.

Approaching ‘the Arb’ however, I can hear the distinctive burble of pub conversation and the chink of glasses. Inside, ‘the Arb’ is heaving with people gathered around the bar, although most of them aren’t buying the drinks, but just waiting for them as if worried that theirs will be forgotten or slyly stolen. Next time I buy three drinks or more at once, I’m going to ask for a tray and reduce congestion at the bar; I urge everyone to do the same. But today it is academic as I am on my own; Mick still convalesces from the operation on his foot, whilst Gary has travelled by car with his brother. After acquiring a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.78 with Camra discount) I retire to the beer garden where there are no unoccupied tables except for one which would seem to be designed for standing at, so that’s what I do as I flick through my programme. Nearby, at a metal table a Mick Channon era Southampton shirt stretches across a beer belly and has me thinking about the first time I saw Ipswich play Southampton. It was during the three-day week, on a Saturday evening in February 1974 and Ipswich won 7-0. Southampton would go on to be relegated from what people now call the Premier League, along with Manchester United, and Norwich. The Seventies weren’t all bad.

Not getting a seat and having to queue at the bar felt like conceding early goals, but I’m back in the game with a second pint of Suffolk Pride, for which I don’t have to queue, and a seat at a Yogi-Bear style picnic table as the Johnny-Come Lately’s to Portman Road, who possibly weren’t alive in 1974, leave early for kick-off and a chance to be on the telly. By ten past five I’m on my own as a Town fan in the pub garden, or in the pub itself for that matter, so feeling lonely I drain my glass and head for Portman Road too.

I arrive at turnstile 62 early and have to queue, but I’m seemingly in the company of people who are unusually proficient in the wielding of bar codes and after a succession of green lights I’m soon bidding good evening to Pat from Clacton, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), as I settle in a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood. The teams parade onto the pitch and I feel the warmth of the pyrotechnics on my face, a mildly spectacular if not poetic expression of professional football’s double-standards. Murphy the stadium announcer does his stuff and for a second game in succession reads out the Town players’ names as they appear on the scoreboard, and we all pretend to be in France as we bawl out their surnames together. By ‘all’ I mean ever-present Phil and me. It’s taken him a while, (eighteen matches excluding the one he missed) but to mis-quote Rex Harrison (Henry Higgins) in the film My Fair Lady, like Eliza Doolittle “By George he’s got it!” I should really write to congratulate him.

At twenty-eight minutes to six the match begins very noisily. It’s Southampton that get first go with the ball, aiming it roughly in the direction of the telephone exchange and London Road Baptist church whilst wearing an un-Southampton-like kit of what looks like red and pink halved shirts with black shorts, “Are they in red and pink?” says a text from my wife, who I am guessing is no longer watching blokes in lycra on bicycles. In fact, the pink turns out to be an optical illusion created by very thin red and white stripes. Town of course are in their signature blue and white.

The visiting supporters are in good voice, probably as loud as any away fans this season as they launch into “When the Saints go marching in”, although I still prefer Louis Armstrong’s version from 1938. “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go” sing supporters of both teams being equally optimistic, but with eight minutes gone Southampton are selfishly keeping the ball to themselves to the extent that I momentarily lose interest and count the number of seagulls on the girder that holds up the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand; there are eight of them. A minute later and the Southampton fans start to sing “Your support is fucking shit” but strangely their chant gets drowned out by the noise as Leif Davis sweeps the ball wide of the goal for the game’s first missed chance.

Four minutes later and the ball is briefly becalmed in midfield before Sam Morsy plays it wide to Leif Davis, who takes one touch before it hits the back of the Southampton goal net. From my seat, almost directly in line with Davis’s shot, I feel as though I must have momentarily blinked; one second the ball was at his feet, then it hit the net. I guess the Southampton goalkeeper feels much the same way, but just a little less cheerfully so, although he had an even better view than I did; except for the hitting the net bit, that is.

I will admit the early goal was unexpected; I had been prepared to wait a while against one of the teams capable of packing out their goal mouth with parachutes stuffed full of cash. I sit back to enjoy the spectacle and unfortunately so do the Town players as a low cross from in front of the Cobbold Stand is tapped home from close range and Southampton equalise with what can only be described as indecent haste. There seems to be some debate as to the validity of the goal in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, where the conclusion is quickly reached through the medium of song that “Linesman, linesman, you’re a cunt”. The miracle of television however, will later confirm that it was a valid goal, although it won’t mention the status of the linesman.

Things soon get worse as a Southampton player falls over and the referee Mr Michael Salisbury heaps the blame on Sam Morsy, whom he books. “Sing when you’re winning” chant the Southampton fans, which is a bit odd given that Town were barely winning for long enough for anyone to clear their throats, let alone start singing. They proceed to follow it up by letting Conor Chaplin know that like the linesman earlier, they think his GP is actually a gynaecologist, and all because long ago he played for Pompey.

The first half is now half over as one bloke in pink passes to another, who runs half the length of the pitch and passes to another who strokes the ball beyond Vaclav Hladky and Town are losing. “Top o’ the league, you’re avin’ a laugh” sing the Southampton fans to the tune of Tom Hark before turning the knife with chants of “Football in a library, doo, doo, doo”. We are no match for their untamed wit, but I gain some solace from a Southampton free-kick hopelessly launched into touch as the occupants of the Cobbold stand shield their eyes from the slowly setting sun.

Southampton are keeping the ball to themselves still, and they’re still winning, and a Conor Chaplin shot goes straight to the visiting goalkeeper before the clock turns six and it’s time for a drinks break as Keiffer Moore is attended to for what looks like a bad back. Within five minutes Ali Al-Hamadi has replaced him. Kayden Jackson gets to chase a ball into the penalty area, but stupidly opts to fall over and look around expectantly for a penalty, when if he’d carried on somebody might really have kicked him. “We need to start waking up” says the bloke behind me as a low cross travels the full width of the Town goalmouth.

After seven minutes of added on time, a Southampton corner and fulsome roars of “Come On You Reds” . It’s half-time and, as I tell Dave the steward , we can but hope for a better second half. I predict we will win 5-2 because that’s what we did in February of 1982, and when it’s not doing something different, history repeats itself. I speak to Ray, his son Michael and his grandson Harrison and offer them Marks & Spencer mint choccy speckled eggs because it’s Easter. Ray doesn’t seem as cheerful as usual and bemoans that Axel Tuanzebe is really a centre-half playing at full-back, and although he can be a bit unreliable at times he’d rather see Harry Clarke.

Back in my seat, I share some speckled eggs with Fiona and Pat from Clacton and at twenty to seven the football resumes. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” sing the Sir Bobby Standers to no particular tune that I know of, as Mr Salisbury picks up where he left off and doesn’t award Town a free-kick. Southampton win a corner. “Come on You Reds” we hear. Southampton win a free-kick. Vaclav Hladky makes a fine flying save. Southampton win a corner. “Come On You Reds” again. Not fifteen minutes of the half have gone and I look up at the scoreboard, it still reads 2-1 to Southampton, but it feels like we’re losing by more. Southampton win another corner.

The game is two-thirds over and it’s the traditional time for mass substitutions. Kayden Jackson, Axel Tuanzebe and Massimo Luongo are replaced by Nathan Broadhead, Harry Clarke and Jack Taylor. Murphy announces this evening’s attendance as 29,393 with 1,969 from the place my wife calls Scumton. “Here for the Scummers, You’re only here for the Scummers” chant the Scummers to the traditional Hampshire tune of Guantanamera, and some people applaud. I can’t work out if they’re applauding themselves, each other, Murphy, the singing or just life itself.

Six minutes later and it looks like Ali Al-Hamadi must score, but his shot strikes a goal post, although from where I’m sitting it looks like he’s shot horribly wide as the ball rebounds back at an angle. “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Standers, and then possibly again, but I’m not counting. The substitutions have made a difference and just to prove it Jack Taylor plays a first time pass to Nathan Broadhead who from just inside the Southampton penalty area turns and scores, shooting beyond goalkeeper Bazunu, who interestingly also used to play for Pompey, just like Conor Chaplin, who Fiona and I both decide must, for the sake of the Southampton fans, now score the winning goal.

Southampton are no longer dominating possession, and Town only have to win a throw-in for the home crowd to roar them on. “Come On Ipswich! Come On Ipswich!”. The stands are moving with waving, punching arms and fists and wide-open, shouting mouths, and probably some spittle too. Pat from Clacton tells Fiona and me she’s been ill during the week; I ask her if she brought the lurgi back from Norfolk where she was playing whist in Great Yarmouth the week before. She won £95.00, she tells us.

“Oh when the Town go marching in” bawl the far end of the ground gloatingly, as if only the supporters of the team in the ascendency are allowed to sing black spirituals. Ali Al-Hamadi runs at goal and Conor Chaplin shoots wide with fifteen minutes left of normal time before Southampton substitute Che Adams, whose parents I like to think were, and hopefully still are, both Marxists, with Sam Edozie. Five minutes later and Southampton make a double substitution bringing on the lanky and totally bald Will Smallbone, who sounds like a character from a novel by Charles Dickens (born in Pompey) and looks like the popular perception of what an alien looks like, which is a remarkable coincidence because the other Southampton substitute is called Rothwell, which is how people who lisp pronounce Roswell.

Five minutes of normal time remain and as ever Leif Davis runs down the left, but this time he will be through on goal if defender James Bree doesn’t foul him and get sent off. Bree makes the long walk of shame to the dressing room last as long as he can, doing his best not to look ashamed or remorseful and as Nathan Broadhead lines up to eventually shoot the ‘Bree-kick’ into the defensive wall, I count fifteen seagulls on the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand; squawks have spread .

After Conor Chaplin is substituted for Jeremy Sarmiento, who of course is on loan from Brighton (the Seagulls), in the final minute of normal time I put my notepad and pencil away in my coat pocket knowing that if Town score now I might throw them up in the air and never find them again. Seven minutes of added time is more than enough for Town to score again and somehow I think they will, perhaps because it seems they always do, and it seems like everyone else feels the same.

The final minute of added on time inevitably arrives on time and equally inevitably Sam Morsy finds Leif Davis on the left. Davis plays the ball into Jeremy Sarmiento, who ‘skilfully’ meets it with his left foot as he stumbles forward, falls, and stabs it with his right into the corner of the goal as he gets up again. The roar from the crowd is the biggest I’ve heard at Portman Road since Jim Magilton slalomed through the Bolton defence to score in the play-off semi-final twenty-four years ago. Men, women, children are hugging each other in scenes of reckless abandon, not the sort of thing that happens in puritan Suffolk at all. Like in a dream there’s barely time for the game to re-start before it ends, and yet again Town have won.

One day I might wake up and not find myself in another dream, but I hope not.

Ipswich Town 2 West Bromwich Albion 2

February 11, 2024February 12, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Waking up on a Saturday morning is never quite as good as I think it should be. All through the week I’m usually awake shortly before my alarm clock goes off and I lie there in my warm bed, longing for the weekend, drifting in and out of cosy consciousness, wanting to go back to sleep but knowing that in a few minutes the alarm will sound, and I will have to get up and get ready for work. But on Saturdays, despite the fact that I can go back to sleep, I seldom do, and the lovely lazy feeling of luxuriating in a warm bed somehow doesn’t materialise. It’s as if existence just wants me to be dissatisfied.

Today is Saturday, and having risen from my bed, showered, prepared and eaten a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and honey with both tea and coffee to help it down, and then kissed my wife goodbye, I am off to face the world of trains, public houses and football. I hurriedly leave the house to escape the sound of The Stone Temple Pilots who my wife has invited to play very loudly because she knows I won’t be there to complain; not that I would, I’d just stick my fingers in my ears and pull faces or go and play outside. Outside, it’s a beautiful, clear, bright Saturday morning beneath blue skies dappled with altocumulus. At the railways station I look over the wall at the back of the platform to see three Christmas tree baubles and I count five ladybirds on surrounding plants. I didn’t know ladybirds celebrated Christmas, and in February too. Once on the train I am vexed by one bloke in a group of four ‘lads’, who cannot speak without shouting as they talk of Ibiza, women and Fantasy Football. I peer out of the train window at the wet fields; after a couple of days of rain everything is sodden and today courtesy of Sky TV it’s another sodden 12:30 kick-off; it will be gone three-thirty by the time I get home, virtually a whole day gone, and at my age I don’t know how many I’ve got left.

Arriving in Ipswich, I head for ‘the Arb’ via Portman Road, where I stop at a kiosk to buy an ice cream but ask for a programme instead (£3.50). The girl who effects my debit card transaction is the youngest looking person I have ever seen working in retail, she looks about twelve. I thank her sincerely and she thanks me in return but doesn’t wish me ‘bon match’ as a French programme seller would, if they had them. At ‘the Arb’ I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra discount) and retire to the garden to await Mick. I sit in the shelter that backs onto High Street , but plagued by more people who can’t talk quietly I move to sit in the open where piercing voices won’t echo off the roof and walls. It’s not long before Mick appears from the back gate and once he has acquired his own pint of Suffolk Pride we talk of honey, Europe’s most obese nations (Greece and Croatia) , kebabs and takeaway food, e-numbers, water filters, bowel movements, blood tests and prostates, driving to France, Spain , Italy and Belgium, and Mick becoming a grandfather again next week and having an operation on his foot. At some stage I also buy another pint of Suffolk Pride and a Jamieson’s, ‘Stout’ Whisky for Mick (£8.56 with Camra discount).

It must be nearly 12:15 by the time we leave for Portman Road, and I consider it a badge of honour that we are the last to leave. We go our separate ways near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey as Mick makes for the West Stand and I head to what will to some always be Churchman’s; I pause on the way to help a short woman of Asian origin who is trying to take down the portable gazebo from which East Anglian Daily Times ‘goody bags’ were being sold. There are no queues at the turnstiles, but disappointingly I am directed away from turnstile 62 by a steward because it doesn’t seem to be working properly; I use turnstile 61 instead, which is almost as good, but not quite. After syphoning off some excess Suffolk Pride, I emerge onto the stand where Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) are already in position as the team walk on and flames erupt around the edge of the pitch, warming our faces and any other bare patches of flesh we may have on show. Meanwhile, Murphy the stadium announcer makes his usual appalling hash of reading out the names of the Town team, failing hopelessly as ever to synchronise with the names appearing on the score board. By the latter half of the team, I just give up and simply shout the names out as they appear, regardless of what Murphy is reading out.

Today’s opponents are West Browich Albion and it is they who get first go with the ball as they attempt to put it in the goal net at the Castle Hill and Akenham end of the ground. Whilst Town are in their signature blue and white, West Brom are kitted out in an all-peppermint green number, which seems ill-advised, although conceivably it has been devised to simply perplex the opposition who will be too busy mouthing “WTF” to one another to properly defend set-pieces.

The Albion supporters are in good voice and immediately break into a song about Albion which sounds suspiciously like one that Town fans sing about ITFC. Not sixty seconds have elapsed and West Brom’s number 31 has the game’s first shot at goal, albeit way off target. West Brom then win the game’s first corner and it takes repetition of the mantra “Blue and White Army” at least three times to get the ball back off them. “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” enquire the West Brom fans in generous mood and as fictional supporters might have if there had ever been a Hollywood musical about football. I notice that West Brom’s number four is called Cedric Kipre and hope his surname is pronounced ‘Kipper’, but I don’t suppose it is given that he’s from Cote d’Ivoire.

Suddenly, it looks like Town might be on the attack, but Wes Burns is offside, and we get to see how unfortunate he looks with his new haircut. He needs to grow it back as soon as possible and I hope the barber asked if he wanted anything on it to help it grow, and that he accepted. There used to be a barber and avid town fan on Felixstowe Road (John) who would always ask that, it was one of the reasons I used to go there. “We want the action down this end” complains Pat from Clacton as I see that the West Brom goal-keeper is called Palmer, which depending on how good he is might almost be a case of nominative determinism.

It’s only the fifteenth minute, but I seem to have been here longer. Seagulls are hovering above the Cobbold stand perhaps looking for burgers and other mechanically reclaimed meat products hurriedly discarded in Portman Road before kick-off. West Brom win another corner “Come On You Baggies” chant their fans. The corner takes an age to be taken and results in a shot over the Town bar. Two minutes later Luke Woolfenden looks to be brushed off the ball a bit too easily and West Brom’s number thirty-one Tom Fellows runs on to score rather too easily. The only good thing is that I am momentarily reminded of Graham Fellows and his alter ego “Jilted John” , who along with his album “True Love Stories” was another of many highlights of 1978.

The West Brom team have an extended celebratory drinks party on the touch line before returning to resume the match, whilst the referee Mr David Coote, who sadly isn’t bald (unless he’s wearing a toupe) , looks on pathetically. Two minutes later and Town have a corner of our own and I bellow “Come On You Blues” as loudly as possible to make up for the thousands who remain silent, lost in quiet contemplation. The corner is far too easily cleared and frankly wasn’t worth my effort. The Baggies fans continue to sing and the Town fans don’t, although someone is banging a drum, albeit mournfully.

I don’t realise it at the time, but the twenty-fourth minute is the peak of the first half for Town as Nathan Broadhead glides into the penalty area and pulls back a low cross which Conor Chaplin proceeds to boot high above the cross bar with ‘the goal at his mercy’. I shake my fist at the sky. The West Brom fans couldn’t laugh more if they’d been watching Charlie Chaplin. “Bus stop in Norwich, You’re just a bus stop in Norwich” they sing. “Better than being a public convenience in Smethwick” I think to myself in a Midlands accent. A half an hour has receded into history and Sam Morsy is booked for bumping into Fellows twice in a few seconds, “David Coote’s a Moron” I sing to myself in the style of Jilted John. Four minutes later Sam Morsy has a shot on goal, but it’s too weak for Palmer to even have to palm away. “There’s more of them on the pitch than us” complains Pat unhappily. I tell her it’s an illusion created by their peppermint shirts.

There are less than ten minutes to go until half time and it seems like West Brom are going to try and spend the whole nine minutes taking a throw-in. We wait and wait, and Mr Coote starts waving his arms about as if relaying what the odds are on a thirty-sixth minute throw in, before circling his hands about one another like a John Travolta hand jive in Saturday Night Fever. Town win another corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues” again, not discouraged by the fate of the last corner kick. Two minutes later, Wes Burns shoots and a deflection produces another corner, and I’ m bellowing once more, but to no effect. “We all hate Walsall” chant the Baggies fans, I think. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” sing the home fans and the Baggies claim that they had forgotten the home fans were here, although I bet they can remember who won the FA Cup in 1968.

It’s the 43^rd minute already and Palmer palms a fine Harry Clarke shot over the cross bar and for the final time this half I get to bellow to no effect. Two minutes of added-on time are added-on and as the first half approaches its finishing line Darnell Furlong dillies and dallies with a throw-in and encouraged by the home crowd, Mr Coote shows him the yellow card. Time remains however for a final through ball into the penalty area which Conor Chaplin can’t quite reach, “because his legs are too short” suggests Fiona, and we agrees that some sort of clown shoe could make the necessary difference.

With the half-time whistle Mr Coote is booed from the pitch, but it seems likely he’s used to it. I head down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison, stopping briefly to speak with Dave the steward with whom I used to work back in the 1980’s and early 1990’s, in the days of Frank Yallop, Graham Harbey and Ulrich Wilson. Ray shocks me by saying that a profile picture I posted on social media made him think of how he imagines a young Boris Johnson might have looked. I may not speak to Ray at the next home game.

No sooner has the match re-started than Ipswich equalise, George Edmundson nodding the ball on for the excellent Nathan Broadhead to skilfully and acrobatically prod inside the far post on the half-volley. Nathan Broadhead is such a beautiful player to watch, with great balance and poise; he just needs longer hair. Town will surely now go on to win provided Mr Coote allows it, although very soon he is suggesting he might not as he books Harry Clarke for a supposed tackle from behind, but then he does award a free-kick after a foul on Keiffer Moore, which invites ironic and prolonged jeers from the home crowd.

Town are now the better side and dominate possession. Another corner is won by Town, and Sam Morsy shoots over the cross bar before West Brom decide something better change, and they make two substitutions. In an isolated West Brom attack, a free-kick is handled into the Town goal by an Austrian whose name looks like he could be Scotsman, Andi Weimann (Andy Wee-Man), and he is rightly booked, although why keeping the ball out of the net by handling it is a sending off offence, but putting it into the net by handling it isn’t is a mystery; it’s all cheating of the worst kind that could directly affect the result.

A half an hour of normal time remains and at the Sir Bobby Robson Stand end of the ground “When the Town going marching in“ is sung as if someone has died, although a minute or two later a more cheery version is heard. Meanwhile, West Bromwich have a man down as the Town fans sing “Sky TV is fucking shit”, a point of view with which I concur incidentally, although much more politely. The club golf buggy appears and as the game is put on hold it trundles around the pitch to collect the unfortunate Darryl Dikes and transport him back to the player’s tunnel. He sits on the back in a pose that resembles Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker”. The buggy moves slowly. “Put your foot down” I shout, eager for the match to resume; the driver takes no notice. The bloke behind me suggests this has been the highlight of the whole match.

In due course the match resumes as before with Town actively seeking a goal and West Brom hoping for one. Marcus Harness and Omari Hutchison replaces Conor Chaplin and Wes Burns. Murphy announces today’s attendance as 29,016 including 1,670 Baggies fans. The scoreboard operator, seemingly unable to resist the joy of mental arithmetic, shows the attendance as 30,686. “They’re there for the taking “ says the bloke beside me. Moments later West Brom’s number 19, John Swift shoots from outside the Town penalty area and scores, the ball somehow evading the outstretched hands of Vaclav Hladky, who looked all set to save it. “Wasn’t expecting that” says the bloke behind me, and indeed there had been no indication whatsoever that the next goal would not be in the West Brom net. It feels a lot like fate has been conspiring against us lately.

As Town get back to staying in the West Brom half, the visiting fans come over all religious and start singing Psalm 23, and indeed divine intervention would seem to be the only plausible explanation for their team once again being ahead. Town win consecutive corners but a lot of time is taken up with West Brom goalkeeper Palmer catching Town crosses. Seven minutes of normal time remain and Massimo Luongo and Nathan Broadhead make way for Ali Al Hamadi and Jeremy Sarmiento. Seven minutes later and there will be at least another eight minutes to play. Two minutes in and Town win another corner before a game of bagatelle ensues with crosses and shot being blocked before the ball drops to Omari Hutchison. At first it seems he hasn’t controlled it, but then as it drops for a second time he strikes it through a crowded penalty area, past Palmer’s palm and on into the goal and Town have equalised again, and deservedly so.

The relief is palpable, isn’t it always? But Town should have won this game and continue to want to do so. A shot, a save, another corner; almost another minute over the eight, but there is no third goal, and the game ends as a draw. At least we haven’t lost. As I leave for the railway station, I think how, much like waking up on Saturday mornings, football often isn’t as good as it should be, but then again I think I might be wrong.