At the risk of sounding like Michael Parkinson, I think I read somewhere that the city of Nottingham was originally named after a Viking or an Anglo-Saxon called Snot and was known as Snotingaham, which was Old Norse or Old English for Snot’s gaff. But when the Normans arrived, they had difficulty pronouncing “Sn” and so Snotingaham became Nottingham. This was possibly also the inspiration for the 1980’s tv advert for Tunes menthol sweets in which a man with a head cold or undisclosed nasal/sinus problem initially fails to make himself understood when asking for a second class return to Nottingham. I don’t suppose there is anyway of knowing if this is true, but what is certain is that tonight Gippeswic Town are playing Snotingaham Forest and I shall be at Portman Road to see it.
It’s been a nasty, intermittently wet, blustery late October afternoon and according to the message I received on my mobile phone from Greater Anglia, my train to Ipswich is going to be a minute late. But I am not unduly concerned because I am dressed for the weather, as we must in England, with my warm, water-repellent coat, ITFC beanie hat, blue and white bar scarf and home knitted fingerless gloves. My one worry is that I have lost my usual air of mystery and have made it too obvious that I am a football fan heading for a football match. By contrast, when Gary joins me at the next station stop, he is wearing an orange coat and orange woolly hat emblazoned with a logo that announces hashtag 8 Super-Dry, whatever that means, and there is no way of knowing if Gary is a football supporter, an off-duty vicar or just someone modelling trendy ‘streetwear’.
It’s been a fortnight since Gary and I last spoke and we now talk of what we have done in the intervening period. I tell Gary I have been in France and witnessed the manifestations (demos in English) by the school students and people wearing yellow vests (gillets jaune). I ask him if he knows anyone who wants a Dior handbag and then we see one very grubby looking polar bear appearing to stare at a patch of grass as the train descends through Wherstead.
Arriving in Ipswich, the busy station plaza is gently illuminated by a haunting, fading light as the sun sets behind clouds the colour of bruises. We wait to cross into Princes Street to a soundtrack of swishing tyres on the wet road surface. The aural and visual treats continue as we walk up Princes Steet, Museum Street and High Street to the Arb where, although I am first through the door, Gary gets the drinks, a pint of Lager 43 for him and pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and Mick, who isn’t here yet but is on his way. We retire to the beer garden to sit with just two other drinkers in the shelter that backs on to High Street where it is wet and miserable. Occasionally, a strong gust of wind threatens to blow the large garden umbrella opposite us up and away into the evening sky, but fortunately it never does. Mick, who has been in Felixstowe and got stuck in traffic on his way back, arrives, buys more drinks and a serving of cheesy chips. We talk of people not having funerals, Mick’s recent visit to Stirling and Mick’s conversation with a Reform councillor who when asked why he stood for selection as a candidate said something along the lines of “You should’ve seen the others”. Gary says he feels as cold as he has ever done and we move inside, where I buy a further pint of Suffolk Pride for me and a Jameson’s whisky for Mick whilst Gary doesn’t have another drink at all, realising perhaps that drinking more chilled lager will not help make him feel any warmer.
We leave the Arb at twenty to eight, and I’m surprised to find on arrival in Portman Road that there are few queues for the Cobbold Stand. This is a first since technology took over from tickets. The queues to be checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal behind the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand are also shorter than usual, but those for the turnstiles are a bit longer. The normally illustrious turnstile 62 helps delay mine and everyone else’s entry when it refuses to acknowledge my possession of a season ticket when I hold up my mobile phone to the screen. A helpful steward takes me to one side and explores the settings on my phone discovering that something called the ‘NFC’ was turned off. I have no idea what this means and can only tell him I didn’t have problem getting in to see Angers versus Olympique Marseille last Sunday. I suspect meddling by the Russians as part of their plan to so enrage everyone that they lose all powers of reasoning and so vote for Reform UK Ltd.
After venting spent Suffolk Pride I get to my seat to find I have missed the first one minute and seven seconds of the match, but Fiona confirms that I haven’t missed anything important. I will later deduce that Nottingham Forest must have had first go with ball, but it is self-evident that they are aiming it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras, who this this evening only consist of ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Fiona. Apparently, Pat from Clacton has high blood pressure and feels ‘under the weather’ but Fiona has had a message from her to let me know she has remembered to wear her blue pants this evening, which I find strangely reassuring.
On the pitch, Julio Enciso claims the honour of first shot at goal, after five minutes, but two minutes later Christian Walton is making a necessary save before Abdoul Outtara also has a shot at goal for Town. But overall, Nottingham Forest in their signature red shirts and white shorts, are looking much the better of the two teams and there is little consolation in the spectacle of the red and blue-shirted players looking like a real-life version of the Subbuteo Continental Club Edition from my childhood. There is no consolation at all when in the thirteenth minute Nottingham stretch the Town defence for Neco Williams to score a goal, which from my seat I get an excruciatingly good view of. The only positive is that the goalscorer makes me think of the alluring Christa Paffgen and the Velvet Underground’s weird and wonderful 1967 debut album “The Velvet Underground and Nico”.
The goal inspires Town to play better and they begin to not let Nottingham have the ball so much. Enciso hits a free-kick high over the cross bar, but with the exception of a decent shot straight at the goalkeeper Philogene is giving the sort of performance that in the hey-day of Brian Clough would have had him being labelled ‘a big fairy’. The first half of the first half drifts out of view and both Florentino and Enciso shoot at the economically named goalkeeper Matz Sels, before Nottingham have the only two corners of the half in quick succession and the second one is headed wide. “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” entreat the home crowd somewhat desperately. “Fuck off Ipswich, Fuck Off Ipswich” comes the unwarranted reply from the Nottinghamians in the Cobbold Stand as they collectively imagine themselves as modern day Arthur Seatons.
Ipswich are awarded a free-kick. “You don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Forest fans and a third of the match is only available as replays on Sky tv. Ten or so minutes later however it is Forest’s Nikola Milenkovic who doesn’t know what he’s doing as Julio Enciso nicks the ball off him and embarks on an unhindered run at goal before shooting simply past Sels at his near post and the score is one all. “Oh when the Town, go marching in” drone the home crowd as if in mourning. There’s time for Nottingham to almost take the lead again as Leif Davis clears off the goal line before two minutes of added on time are added on and half-time arrives with the promise of a trip downstairs to the gents.
The football resumes at four minutes past nine and after just six minutes the spectre of VAR appears as Issa Diop slides across the pitch on the wet grass and a Nottingham player sprawls headfirst. Referee Mr Thomas Bramall plays on initially but then VAR announces a review for a possible red card and having seen the tv camera’s view Mr Bramall shows Diop his yellow card and gives Forest a free kick. The Forest fans can’t see the wood for the trees and predictably bleat on about Mr Bramall not knowing what he is doing again. Three-minutes later the bookings are evened up as Town’s Emmerson is fouled by Murillo, a player who interestingly has a haircut that looks like Davey Crocket’s hat.
Nearly an hour has been added to history as Nottingham earn another corner and Walton needs to make another couple of saves before the first substitutions are made and the excitable young announcer introduces “Jack! Clarke!” and Zian Flemming as Philogene and Emmerson take their rightful places on the bench.
Nottingham are dominating again, but more so. “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” we plead en masse, and I give some encouragement to time itself to hurry up a bit. Maeda replaces the ineffective Fatawu and Rory Delap misses two opportunities for Forest in quick succession as he heads over the cross bar from close in and then shoots past a post. “Nottingham, Nottingham, Nottingham” chant the Nottingham supporters imaginatively but more or less to the tune of John Philip Sousa’s “The Stars & Stripes Forever”.
The final ten minutes of normal time are with us at last and again we plead “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” and Town grimly hang on as they struggle to get any touches on the ball, which they never manage to retain when they do get it. Desperate for something to change Matusiwa and Akpom replace Florentino and Enciso but it’s a change that seems unlikely to make a positive difference in terms of ability. Today’s attendance is announced excitably as 29,198 and we are thanked for out “incredible support” even though it’s a few hundred less incredible than it was for the last match, but perhaps we’ve been noisier per head; it’s the sort of thing they never tell us.
The final minute turns up seemingly on time but is apparently eight minutes early, giving the opportunity for Forest’s Hudson-Odoi to shoot narrowly wide and then, more importantly, Jack! Clarke! to run across the edge of the penalty area and also shoot narrowly wide, although this late in the game he usually scores. Just four added on minutes remain to be added on as Nottingham substitute Rory Delap for Chris Wood, a footballer whose surname hopefully determined that he should play for Nottingham Forest rather than his ability. Fiona and I agree, now that he has left the pitch, that Delap was rubbish and we’re glad Town sold him.
The final whistle brings relief and with reports of trains being delayed due to the weather, Fiona and I both clear off sharpish, although I needn’t have bothered because there will be no trains south tonight thanks to a tricky tree that has fallen on the line between Ipswich and Manningtree. As I make arrangements to get home, I reflect that Town may have been the poorer team tonight but happily they were probably the luckier one, a bit like how Gippa, the bloke after whom Ipswich was named was luckier than the bloke called Snot.
Spread Eagle, a Grade 2 listed building that dates back to the 17th century, where I drink Grain Brewery Best Bitter (£3.50 a pint). The leather aprons of the bar staff remind me of Fred Gee, the pot-man at the Rovers Return in Coronation Street, but I don’t suppose he’s still in it, particularly since Fred Feast, the actor who played him died in 1999. Roly and I continue not to talk about football, not from any previous agreement, but just because there doesn’t seem anything to say. From the Spread Eagle it is a bit more of a walk along Orwell Place and Tacket Street, up Brook Street and Buttermarket, over Giles Circus and Cornhill, along Westgate Street to St Jude’s Tavern in St Matthew’s Street. They may not all be looking at their best, but Ipswich’s medieval or even Saxon pattern of streets remains and is brim-full of fine buildings; if only the locals appreciated it. 
The visitor looks somewhat bemused and blurts some exasperated expletives in the direction of one of his fellow supporters; his thick Midland’s accent rendering them incomprehensible and unpleasantly nasal. I pass the grinning statue of Bobby Robson; his best playing days were arguably with the ‘Baggies’ of West Bromwich, but thankfully he never picked up the accent.
unequal lengths.; with a self-satisfied air of streetwise, intellectual superiority I join one of shorter ones and am inside the ground whilst others still queue. On nights like this it’s fun to laugh and sneer at those people who aren’t regular supporters and are only here because the tickets are cheap. I head for the betting shop bit beneath the stand where the handy shelf gives me somewhere to write the greeting on Elwood’s birthday card. I stop to talk to a steward I know called Dave, but at the very moment I arrive at his side so does another acquaintance of his who begins a personal monologue. I wait for the other man to pause so that I might speak to Dave, but the other man breathes through his ears and doesn’t draw breath for a second; so I screw my eyes up at Dave and nod sympathetically; I imagine my face might look a bit like the one Gary Lineker pulled in the 1990 World Cup semi-final after Paul Gascoigne was booked and became tearful. But tonight I’m not indicating that Gazza is upset, I’m signalling to Dave that I’m going to bugger off, and that’s what I do.
misses a game and son Elwood are already here and I settle down a couple of seats along before giving Elwood his birthday card and a few ITFC ‘goodies’. Phil tells me that earlier in the club shop Elwood had handed in an ITFC badge that he found on the floor to the staff serving behind the counter. One of the things I have given Elwood is such a badge; it seems like Elwood has been rewarded for his honesty and whilst we all know that’s not true, in an ideal world it would be. 
odd West Bromwich Albion supporters cooped up in the corner of the Cobbold Stand. In the corner, in the bottom of the North Stand blue and white flags are being waved and drums drummed and voices voiced; for a little while anyway. But West Bromwich Albion are better at football than Town and as they start to dominate, some of the enthusiasm ebbs away, which is the opposite of what should happen of 
course because it obvious that a struggling team needs most support. But then logic is not always a strong point in ‘Leave’ voting Ipswich. The West Bromwich fans soon sense our weakness and after first chanting something stupid about being a “…shit Norwich City”, which is a bit rich from people supporting a team wearing yellow and green, they go for the jugular with the reliable old “ Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit”. Cut to the quick I try some chants of my own but the cowering reticence of the Suffolk public means I’m beaten before I begin, even with my cardboard clapper, which is a little too lightweight and disintegrates as I bash it relentlessly on the back of the seat in front of me. Only ten minutes have gone and Town’s Matthew Pennington is booked by referee Mr Keith Stroud who is possibly the
smallest referee I have ever seen; he doesn’t even rival Paul Hurst in stature.
