Ipswich Town 0 Peterborough United 1

This week I have thought very little about football. Until Friday night, when I checked, I wasn’t totally certain even who Town would be playing today.  I am not sure why this was; an unusual and very uncharacteristic fixation with work perhaps? Lockdown fatigue?  Disappointment with recent results? Or may be a suppressed subconscious knowledge that we will be playing Peterborough United and are therefore likely to lose.

It is not until Saturday morning therefore that I log onto the Ipswich Town website, copy my code down and then type that code into the ifollow.  Relieved that I have organised what I consider to be my foreseeable future I leave my wife Paulene at the piano and take a walk out into the cold and gloomy streets, because it is important that we exercise if we are not to become ugly and obese.  About half an hour later I return to find Paulene no longer at the piano and about to finish a twenty minute stint on her exercise cycle before tuning into the BEIN Sports tv channel, courtesy of the Amazon Firestick, to watch Clermont Foot 63 versus AJ Auxerre in French Ligue 2, a fixture which reminds me incidentally that Town’s own Sylvain Legwinski was born in Clermont Ferrand.  I witness Clermont ,who are playing with just Mohammed Bayo ‘up front’,  create numerous chances and then take a 13th minute lead through Jodel Dossou who is playing a sort of Gwion Edwards role wide on the right.  With a little over twenty minutes gone of the match I head to the kitchen to prepare a light salad lunch with Comte cheese and Prosciutto di Parma ham.

Half-time or ‘mi-temps’ arrives at the Stade Gabriel-Montpied in Clermont-Ferrand with the home team still ahead by a single goal. I leave Paulene in the small part of the Auvergne that has become our living room and head to Portman Road, which is back in the kitchen with the dirty plates and cutlery from lunch.  I put the kettle on for Paulene and sensing that I might be in need of an alcoholic crutch, pour myself a pre-match ‘pint’ (330ml) of Westmalle Dubbel Trappist beer (£2.20 from Waitrose).  I enjoy the thought that a Trappist beer should be the beer of choice for the notoriously quiet Portman Road crowd – if there ever is one again.  

The ifollow broadcast begins, with commentary as ever from BBC Radio Suffolk’s Brenner Woolley, and his side-kick Mick Mills, who is straight into his lengthy pre-match soliloquy.  Mick believes that there is no longer a home advantage and that “…it levels off under the Covid situation”.  It’s easy to see why Mick would believe this given Town’s collection of four defeats from their last five home games. Brenner takes up the mike from Mick and I can’t help laughing when he reveals that Town’s new loan signing from Preston North End, Josh Harrop has tested positive for Covid before he’s even kicked a ball for us. If Marcus Evans sold our club, with our luck it would be to Donald Trump.

Town kick-off towards what used to be called Churchman’s and Brenner tells us he is trying to work out if Paul Lambert is on the bench today; apparently it’s difficult to make him out amongst  a dark mass of big black coats and beanie hats down by the touchline.  Sartorially obsessed, Brenner describes what colour kits the teams are wearing and it sounds like he enjoys the alliteration of the Peterborough goalkeeper Pym, being dressed in purple.  The kettle boils and I make a cup of tea for Paulene. Town win an early corner.  “It’s a good start” according to Mick “We’ve forced two or three throw-ins”.  Brenner follows up with “Pressure, early doors” unable to resist the temptation to break open his locker of football-ese expressions at the earliest opportunity, although ‘early doors’ is inevitably at the top of the pile.

The ball is mostly in the Peterborough half of the pitch, but seldom in their penalty area. “Again not good distribution from Chambers” says Brenner as the Town captain lumps the ball forward inaccurately. “He berates himself in the aftermath” continues Brenner, which doesn’t really atone for Chambers’ failings but produces a welcome mental image of the Town stalwart schizophrenically shouting and pointing his fingers at himself.  Town’s positive start has evaporated a little. “Nobody really taking advantage of the game at the moment” says Mick, not quite using all the right words to convey what he wants to say.  Feeling a soft blanket of disinterest creeping over me I glance out of the kitchen window at the two plastic shopping bags that I hung on the washing line yesterday evening. Mesmerisingly, the shopping bags waft back and forth on the faintest breeze.

Back on the ifollow and BBC Radio Suffolk, Brenner breaks my concentration. “He’s not done well at all so far, the captain” says Brenner as Luke Chambers makes a two-metre pass to an ungrateful opposition player on the edge of the Peterborough penalty box.  It’s not unusual for Brenner to make a statement and then only tell us who it’s about at the end of the sentence; I suppose it provides a little suspense when the football doesn’t.  Pleasingly Brenner soon has better news and reports that he has evidently spotted Paul Lambert who is wearing a snood, big coat and beanie hat.  I tick it off my list of things I need to know about this afternoon’s match. Having tuned into the theme of winter clothing Brenner then announces “Brown, another player with gloves on in the Peterborough side”. 

The game has entered a mildly engaging phase as the two teams appear well matched, but no one is creating goal scoring chances.  “Cat and mouse” says Mick. “Even Stevens” says Brenner, not to be outdone by the expert.  “They’ve done well so far, Ipswich Town” adds Brenner using his back to front sentence construction again.  Gwion Edwards is awarded a free-kick on the left of the Peterborough penalty area after a foul by Frankie Kent.  After a lengthy description of the event Mick concludes that he’s not sure if it was a free-kick at all. Unperturbed, presumably because he’s not listening to BBC Radio Suffolk , referee Mr Coggins doesn’t change his mind.  The ball is played to little Alan Judge who shoots and misses.

Flynn Downes commits a couple of his trademark, pointless, petulant fouls but escapes a booking.  “Chambers on the left, Chambers on the right” says Brenner probably correcting himself, but possibly showing that he is confused about where Luke Chambers is, or about which is his left and which is his right. Nearly a third of the game has passed and Peterborough win their first corner and then a second before   Siriki Dembele gets the “first sight of the goal for Peterborough United” according to Brenner; Dembele misses and Mick launches into a long monologue about why the game is even.

 Out of the blue Siriki Dembele has a run into the penalty area in the company of Aristote Nsiala. Nsiala makes a tackle, Dembele falls to the ground and after initially giving a corner referee Mr Coggins, who shares a surname with the amusingly named American TV evangelist Pastor Randy Coggins the second, awards a penalty to Peterborough.  Peterborough’s top scorer, Jonson Clarke-Harris, who greedily has three surnames, steps up to blast the ball into next week and over the cross-bar.  “Brilliant!” says Mick enthusiastically as I simultaneously guffaw loudly.  “If you go that high, there’s a risk you can hit it over the bar” says Mick sagely, but apparently not realising that if you put it that high it will always go over the bar, because the bar is set at 2.44metres above ground and doesn’t move. 

In my back garden it’s snowing, and at Portman Road Mick advises that Peterborough are “starting to loosen up a little”, although I don’t think the two things are related.  Mick is having a good afternoon at the microphone and cheekily rivals Brenner with some superior football-speak as he pleasingly refers to Town’s new Covid-infected signing as “The boy Harrop”.   Sadly Mick goes on to state the obvious as he explains about footballers that “You can almost say they’re successful by stats”, proposing that the players who score most goals and make most decisive passes are the better players.

Back on the pitch Luke Chambers spectacularly slices the ball away and it travels high up into what I still call the Pioneer stand. Evidently the ball lands near the commentary position and Mick is moved to boast that had it landed just a little bit closer to him, he would have played it back to Luke Chambers’ feet, he probably would have too; he certainly wouldn’t have sliced it.  A minute of added on time is played once the first forty-five have elapsed and it’s half-time.

Grasping the moment I put the kettle on and grab a half-time snack consisting of a Nature Valley peanut and chocolate protein bar.   Back in the Auvergne, in the living room, Clermont still lead Auxerre 1-0; they almost double their lead in the dying moments of the game but don’t, but nevertheless climb to second in the Ligue 2 table above Toulouse, who don’t play until Monday.  On BEIN Sports tv attention moves north and east to Hauts de France and the Stade Felix Bolleart-Delis where RC Lens are playing Olympique Marseille in Ligue 1. 

Helplessly I return to Portman Road where I pour the tea into my TSV 1860, mug which my friend Mick (not ‘Millsy’ sadly) kindly brought me back from Munich in 2019. I still imagine Mick descending the steps from the aeroplane and announcing not “Peace in our time” but “Tea in this mug”. One of the things I like best about the mug is the word spulmaschinebestandig printed on the bottom, which is German for dishwasher-safe.

On the ifollow the action resumes, it is four minutes past four. Within seconds Peterborough win a corner but it comes to nothing.  “Lots of huff and puff” says Mick misquoting the wolf in the story of the three little pigs. “No real quality at either end of the pitch” he adds a little unnecessarily for anyone who’s watched Ipswich previously this season.  Brenner then refers to Mark McGuinness as “the teenage defender” and I think what a good title that would be for a super-hero, before Andre Dozzell makes a raking diagonal pass to no one in particular, apparently because that’s what he does. The ifollow has become staccato with frequent buffering and for a short while the broadcast becomes almost unwatchable. Weirdly for someone doing a live commentary Brenner seems to have the same experience “Time seemed to stop there for a second” he says as Teddy Bishop loses the ball, then pushes his opponent over rather than try and get it back.

“The passing isn’t very good” says Mick, confirming for the BBC Radio Suffolk listeners what the ifollow watchers have probably already noticed.  Over an hour has been played and a caption appears on the screen to tells us that the proportion of possession is 51% to 50% in Peterborough’s favour, which is mind blowing and proves that anything, even the impossible,  is possible in the EFL.

The sixty-ninth minute arrives, the ball is crossed into the Ipswich penalty area and with the grace of a giraffe that’s been stung by a bee, Mark McGuinness the “teenage defender” slices the ball into the Town goal to give Peterborough what will prove to be a winning lead. “Oh bugger” I say, sensing that the game is probably lost even with twenty minutes to play; and I’d had such high hopes.

Little Alan Judge, the sadly anonymous Aaron Drinan and Teddy Bishop are soon replaced by Luke Thomas, on loan from Barnsley, Freddie Sears and Jon Nolan.  Nolan quickly hits a shot over the cross bar from 25 metres.  “ Town have really come to life since that triple substitution from the bench” Brenner tells us, suggesting, but providing no evidence, that substitutions from other places are possible too.  Gwion Edwards has a shot which is apparently deflected away from goal by a Peterborough player but no corner is given by the tv evangelist’s namesake.  It is now snowing.  A close-up of the electronic scoreboard at Portman Road shows that the ifollow on-screen clock is twenty seconds ahead of the actual game, which implies Brenner was right and time really did stand still.  If only time had stood still a bit more and it was still 1981.  There are just ten minutes left of normal time and Brenner is clutching at straws on behalf of Town supporters as he speculates that there won’t be enough snow to have the game called off now.  More sensibly Brenner then plays with words saying  “Up goes Downes”.

With time running out Brenner gets to use his “..runs into traffic” phrase as Jon Nolan runs into two opponents at once; five minutes of added on time are announced.  Tomas Holy goes up for a corner but the ball is carefully directed away from him, and although Toto Nsiala gets to volley it spectacularly in to the Peterborough net, it had gone out before it was played back to him.  Coggins calls time, Ipswich lose at home, again.   “A better performance than a week ago at Burton” concludes Brenner. “A fair result would have been a draw” says Mick.  

I turn off the ifollow and draw down the blinds to shut out the gloom.  I think I shall pretend this never happened. There’s another game on Tuesday, perhaps we’ll win that.

Long Melford 2 Newmarket Town 1

Long Melford is a big village, one of the most appealing and attractive in Suffolk according to Suffolk Tourist Guide.com with, according to Wikipedia, a population in 2011 of some 3,518. Melford, as it is known locally, is just a few miles north of Sudbury, it used to have a railway but since 1967 and the evil Doctor Beeching, the line now terminates at Sudbury. If you want to get to Long Melford by public transport therefore, it is necessary get the No 753 bus from Sudbury to Bury St Edmunds. Like the train service from Marks Tey, the bus service runs hourly, but as this is England the trains and buses are not properly co-ordinated; the train to Sudbury arrives at 13.08 and the bus conveniently leaves at 13:30, reaching Long Melford Post Office ten minutes later. On the return journey however, the 754 bus passes Long Melford Post Office at 17:11 and arrives in Sudbury four minutes after the train has left, at 17:20, so there is nearly an hour’s wait in Sudbury for the next train at 18:16.
Today however, I am driving to Long Melford’s Stoneylands ground because I have agreed to give a lift to a man called Roly, who lives in nearby Borley. I happen to know Roly’s house is within walking distance of Stoneylands because Roly has walked it before, but I was in generous mood when we discussed by text message going to the game and very slightly inebriated.
It is a grey, still, cold winter’s day as I make the twisting, undulating drive through Chappel, home of the East Anglian Railway Museum, Mount Bures with its excellent Thatchers Arms pub, Bures with its large empty bus depot, the edge of Cornard and through busy Sudbury before taking the turn towards the wonderfully named Foxearth. In Borley, Roly’s Victorian cottage home is a scene of domestic bliss; his partner Sarah reclines on the sofa with their young baby Lottie, whilst Penny the dog rolls over at my feet and wriggles excitedly. But I don’t linger, there is football to go to and within



minutes Roly and I are bouncing down the pitted, puddle filled private road that leads to the football ground and my Citroen C3 gets a taste of what it must have been like to be a Citroen 2CV carrying a tray of eggs across a field somewhere in the Auvergne.
Getting parked takes longer than it should as the man in the car in front seems to want to park as close to the entrance as possible, which means reversing gingerly and at first unsuccessfully into a narrow space despite the presence of acres of car free space just 15metres away. There is an air of the village hall about Melford’s ground from the


outside and indeed the club’s nickname is The Villagers. There is no turnstile as such here, just a few metal and plastic barriers herding would be spectators towards a kiosk of the type that used to be at the exit to municipal car parks back before the days of Pay & Display, when a bloke stamped your ticket and took your money as you left. There is a short queue to get in because it takes the


grey-haired woman in the kiosk a little while to root around for change from a plastic tub. A board on the side of the kiosk announces the price of admission, but in reality it’s just a green smudge of felt tip pen; fortunately I’ve done my homework so I know from the club website that admission is £7 including a programme.
Once inside, Roly buys me a bottle of Nethergate IPA (£3.50) in the bar, which is the least he could do after I went out of my way to drive him here, selfishly he gets one for himself too. We drink bottled beer because sadly the hand pump on the bar is covered over with a tea towel, which is very disappointing. The woman serving is struggling for change and asks rhetorically how she is expected to run a bar with a float of just four pound coins. I empty my pockets and find just short of ten pounds in change, which she is happy to exchange for a ten pound note; I’m 40p up!


We sup our beer in the company of other middle-aged and older men stood around tables as men do in bars, but soon we are aware that the teams are coming on to the pitch. We leave the clubhouse just as the line-up for the obligatory handshakes is dissolving away into the two halves of the pitch. Newmarket Town are the visiting team today and they sit seventh with 53 points from 31 games in the Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties Premier League table; Melford are 16th with 39 points from 32 games. It’s a clash between a village known for antique shops and a town known for horse racing. I suspect that watching local football puts us firmly outside those two spheres of activity although weirdly I think, there is an advert in the match programme for “Wealth management advice”, whatever happened to plain old financial advice?
The 1970’s pop blaring from the tannoy stops abruptly as Newmarket, nicknamed predictably as the Jockeys, kick off towards the dull, suburban estate-style houses at the Sudbury end of the ground. Newmarket’s club colours are yellow and blue, but for some unknown reason today they are wearing a rather ugly all red kit with white stripes below the chest, as if they’d brushed their teeth before coming on and dribbled Colgate down their stomachs. Melford play towards the dilapidated wooden fence, shelter and open fields to the north, wearing their signature black and white striped shirts and black shorts. Melford’s kit is embellished with name of the excellent Nethergate Brewery, who have newly built premises at the entrance to the village by the turning to Foxearth.
Newmarket start well, passing neatly and getting forward, but Melford suddenly win possession, breakaway and have a shot, and so it continues. Both teams have a lot of players with beards. Newmarket have the ball most of the time, but Melford spring the occasional surprise, getting the ball to their number seven Hassan Ally who is always in the right place, but never quite makes the final telling cross or pass. The Melford cross bar is hit by a header and then at about twenty five past three a long ball to the right is chased down by Lewis Whitehead who shoots across the Melford goal keeper; Newmarket lead and a number of middle aged men cheer unexpectedly. No one in the crowd is wearing club colours but for a Bedlington Terrier in a red coat, so the presence of away supporters is a surprise.


Half-time arrives and Newmarket would seem to be in control. Roly has already treated


or ‘tret’ himself, as he would say in his quaint rustic dialect, to a cheeseburger (£3.00) from the food bar which the programme tells us is called Deb’s Diner. The concluding paragraph of the joint managers’ column in the programme says “Whatever happens, we hope you enjoy your afternoon here in Long Melford, get yourself something to eat and drink…” and Roly has clearly taken note. I don’t ask him if it was an early tea or late lunch or just a celebration that his NHS health check during the week had shown him to be a well man, clearly capable of absorbing the ill-effects of junk food, for the time being at least.
We go into the club house again for two more bottles of Nethergate IPA and to catch the half-time scores on the TV and are much heartened that Ipswich are winning 2-0 at Sunderland. The club house is recently refurbished after the roof fell-in last year and there are several marvellous photos on the walls of past achievements such as Suffolk Senior Cup wins. A trophy cabinet contains a couple of old brown leather footballs which impress me more than the cups and trinkets. When there is a cosy clubhouse, half time is never long enough and it’s soon time to re-join the rows of middle-aged men hanging over the rail around the pitch.

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The second half is not the same as the first, roles are reversed and it is the Villagers who more frequently have the ball at their feet whilst the Jockeys chase about in vain and are pushed back into their own half. For the second half we stand on the opposite side of the ground to the clubhouse near the dugouts and in front of a coniferous hedge, carefullyOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA and neatly cut into a modernist architectural shape; behind the hedge a close-board wooden fence is in places nailed to its thick trunks. In its neatness the hedge is only matched by the Newmarket goalkeeper’s haircut, but is less contrived. There is more noise on this side of the pitch as the coaches of both team teams shout and urge their teams on.
As the game continues Melford dominate more and more and Newmarket are getting tetchy. Whilst there were hardly any fouls at all in the first half, tiredness and desperation and swearing are introducing a new kind of entertainment. A Melford player goes down and the Newmarket number two complains to Mr Pope and anyone who is listening, because Mr Pope isn’t, that Melford have some right prima donnas, although he pronounces it pre-madonnas. Another foul and a free-kick on the edge of the box and then another. Then, whilst Roly is in the toilet, Melford win a third free-kick. Despite referee Mr Pope taking time to book the perpetrator, Roly still isn’t back by the time Ross Waugh scores, apparently with a header, although to be honest it was one of those messy goals and I had lost track of the ball.
There are only eight minutes left and the blokes in trackie bottoms and sports coats onOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA the touchline are visibly tense. The Melford number ten Scott Sloots is hurt and is substituted; as he hobbles off the pitch one or two of his own players seem to be complaining that he is taking his time. “Come on ref, make him get off quicker” I hear. I hadn’t previously realised that there was a point where team togetherness and the will to win would clash. But nevertheless, Melford continue to push forward and in the final minute of injury time there is a run down the left, the ball’s in the box, a shot is blocked and Hassan Ally is in the right place to score from the rebound. Rarely have I seen such elation from a team sixteenth in the league to a winning goal; both coaches burst onto the pitch to celebrate with the team as if this was a most crucial victory. I’m all in favour of making your own fun but this seems to be going a bit far.
To his credit, Mr Pope the referee makes nothing of the exuberance of the Melford coaches and in no time at all the match is over. Roly and I stroll round to the club house to make final use of the toilet before applauding the Melford team from the pitch. It’s been a very entertaining game with a dramatic finale and I’ve made 40p.