blue moon

Ipswich Town 1 Leicester 1

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It has been a gloriously dank, miserable, grey, Spring  morning in which I have put some vegetable peelings, apple cores and fruit skins in the wormery at the end of the garden, re-filled the bird feeders in the front garden and annoyed my wife Paulene by somehow implying that I didn’t want her in the kitchen watching Aussie Rules footie whilst I was making breakfast.  It is now still gloriously dank, miserable, and grey as I walk to the railway station and my thoughts turn to Ipswich Town versus Leicester City and by association King Richard the third, Joe Orton, the Engineering Faculty building at Leicester university and the popular beat combo Kasabian.

The railway station is busy with wannabe travellers, and a London bound train squeaks to a halt by the opposite platform pretty much as I reach the anointed spot on the Ipswich bound platform where I will wait.  I don’t squeak like the London bound train but instead speak to a fellow Town supporter who I regularly see near this point on the platform and who has made it into this blog before.  The train is three minutes late and when it arrives the carriage I board is populated at one end by loud, lairy youths unable to converse without shouting at each other; they need to discover narcotics.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and is with a man called Chris, who I used to travel to away matches with about twenty-five years ago and who also used to watch Wivenhoe Town.  Chris is a laughing, smiling, happy man and he is keen to look out for polar bears as we near Ipswich.  We see one which is swimming in one of the pools, although we don’t see a towel laid out at the poolside. Arriving in Ipswich, the town is like a black and white postcard of itself, Leicester City fans are singing in the beer garden of the Station Hotel and we head for the Arb up Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street. Seizing hold of the narrative Gary tells me that he is going to be first through the door of the Arb today and indeed he is as I stand back and accede to his wish.  Gary’s progress to the bar is unhindered and he buys a pint Lager 43 for himself and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and is about to pay when Mick arrives and so Gary buys him a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride too.  We repair to the beer garden where many of the seats are unpleasantly damp, so fearful of the seats of our trousers becoming moist we stand and drink and talk.

Our conversation today lurches between the ownership of the Estrella brewery, my boycotting of American products, today’s team, what food Mick has ordered (Falafel Scotch egg), the lunacy of Christian nationalists, and religion.  Luckily, the arrival of Mick’s food coincides with a table with dry seating becoming available in the shelter that backs onto High Street and we move there as I fetch another pint of Suffolk Pride and another pint of Lager 43 plus a single Jameson whisky for Mick (£14 something with Camra discount).  We are of course the last to leave when we depart for Portman Road shortly before twenty to three.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand the queues to be searched for weaponry and scrap metal vary between short and non-existent today and I am soon through the checkpoint and waiting behind three people at illustrious  turnstile 62, but the person at the head of the queue is either incompetent or trying to use a library card to gain access, and being impatient I switch to turnstile 61, which is almost as illustrious as its neighbour, but not quite.  I am comfortably minus some spent Suffolk Pride by the time I take my seat next to Fiona, next but one to Pat from Clacton, and a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood. The man from Stowmarket (Paul) is still convalescing after the operation on his left eye.   I must have arrived early to day because I am here in time to bellow the surnames of players like a Frenchman at the Stade de Francis Le Ble in Brest as the excitable young announcer reads out Town team.

After the usual rendition of a verse of Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown the game begins and Ipswich get first go with the ball, which they generally aim towards the goal nearest me and my fellow ultras.  Town are of course in our signature blue and white whilst Leicester wear somewhat effete away strip of pale pink shirts with black shorts.

After a few all too brief moments of Town possession, Leicester take over rather and after only five minutes have won a corner.  Happily, the Leicester corner is as useless as most corners are, but Town keep giving the ball away in our own half and it’s fortunate that Leicester’s players seem a bit short-sighted and haven’t quite worked out where the goal is. Leicester’s early dominance has Town supporters in an even more introspective, withdrawn mood than usual and only seven minutes are lost to history before the visiting supporters are chanting “Football in a library, du-du-du”.  Meanwhile, I can’t help thinking that the Leicester players names Winks and Skipp sound like they’re made-up or are just nicknames and not real names at all.   “Winks, didn’t he used to play for Tottenham?” asks Pat from Clacton.  Fiona and I don’t know but I add that he can’t be much good if even Tottenham didn’t want him.

As a result of a catalogue of dubious free-kicks our conversation turns to the referee, the diminutive Mr John Busby, who we all agree is awful.  “We’ve had him before, do you remember?” asks Pat from Clacton.  The bloke next to me tells me that Mr Busby was referee for the Preston North End game, which ended in a frustrating one-all draw, although he did award Town a very late penalty.  But then Mr Busby books Leicester’s Luke Thomas and I suggest to Fiona that perhaps Mr Busby isn’t so bad after all – but of course he is.

It has taken until the twenty-first minute for Town to win a corner, and eight minutes later they win another, but not before Leicester win one too.  From the second Town corner Dara O’Shea heads narrowly wide at the far post when it looked as simple to score.  “Come On You Blues” a few of us chanted, and it nearly worked.   The thirty second minute is now here, O’Shea shoots over the Leicester cross bar and I notice that the seat in front of Fiona is occupied today by a man with no hair and the floodlights are reflecting off his shiny bald pate; visually he reminds me of the Catherine Tate character Derek, who would exclaim “How very dare you” whenever anyone inferred from his extreme campness that he was gay.   “Blue Army, Blue Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers as Town begin to dominate.

Perhaps sensing Town’s improvement Mr Busby books Wes Burns before Christian Walton easily gathers a shot aimed straight at him.  On the touchline Kieran McKenna looks a little more tense than usual and his clothes look a bit crumpled too, like he might have slept in his car.  Kieran might dress all in black, but Diego Simeone at Atletico Madrid and Habib Beye at Marseille have the edge on him sartorially.

Back on the pitch Mr Busby just can’t help awarding free kicks whenever anyone falls over and from the latest injustice a deep cross is diverted into the Town goal net courtesy of a bloke from Zambia called Patson Daka.  “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers.  “How shit must you be, we’re winning away” chant the Leicester fans and it’s not clear if their chant is directed at Ipswich or Mr Busby.   Their claim to be the EFL’s most confused fans is quickly confirmed as they chant “Who are ya? Who are ya?” when only ten minutes earlier they had been chanting “Small club in Norwich, You’re just a small club in Norwich”.  They need to make their minds up about what they think they know.

The half ends with Mr Busby once again placing himself centre stage as he penalises the Leicester goalkeeper for holding onto the ball for too long, something for which I don’t’ think I’ve seen a free kick awarded this century.  Fiona has to explain to me that the punishment for this is now a corner kick and by the time she’s done this I’ve missed the chance to bawl “Come On You Blues” and as a result of this Town don’t score, again. A minute of added time is taken from all our futures to make up for the inadequacy of the past, but it makes no difference and with half-time Mr Busby is deservedly booed into the tunnel by those who haven’t already made a dash for the khazi.

I spend my half-time as usual in conversation with Dave the steward and Ray, but either time passes quickly, or half-time is briefer than usual as I don’t get time to vent more obsolete Suffolk Pride and I worry slightly that this could make the end of the game more tense than usual, especially if there is much added-on time.  On the way back to my seat, I speak with ever-present Phil who never misses a game. Phil it seems is full of woe and lists several portents of doom such as his not having stood up until the game kicked-off, Elwood having never seen Leicester City lose and Town not yet having won a match this season having gone a goal behind. I tell him it’ll be alright because I’m wearing a new T-shirt today, but he interprets that as a portent of doom too. 

The football resumes at three minutes past four and from the start Town are on top, never again do they allow Leicester to dominate possession or look in any way like the better team, which of course they’re not.  Within two minutes it looks from where I’m sat that Town have missed an open goal and Leicester will from now on live very dangerously until nearly five minutes to five.  Four minutes later and Mr Busby takes the name of Leicester’s number fourteen, which turns out to be Bobby Decordova-Reid.  I notice and remark to Fiona that the little bald bloke who was sat in front of her hasn’t returned for the second half, how very dare he?

Fifty-seven minutes have been spent watching football and Town win another corner. Nunez is yet another player to have his name collected by little Mr Busby.  An hour has passed and although Town are playing well just as they are, Keiran McKenna replaces Dan Neil with Jack Clarke because he cannot not make a substitution with an hour gone.  Best of all however, the excitable young stadium announcer barks out the name “Jack Clarke” in the way that Duff-Man announces his own name in The Simpsons, and merely says Dan Neil like he might say “yes please” if asked if he wants milk in his tea.

The second half has now developed into a litany of Town crosses, Town corners, occasional Town penalty appeals, far post headers from Dara O’Shea, blocked and missed shots and hurried Leicester clearances.  The home crowd are unusually supportive of the team, the inept decision-making of Mr Busby helping us all unite against a common enemy. As the sixty-ninth minute edges closer Pat from Clacton ponders whether to release “Monkey” the lucky charm from her handbag.  She doesn’t and as it turns out she doesn’t need to as in the seventy sixth minutes Eggy lashes the ball into the Leicester net with aplomb at the end of a bout of bagatelle in which Ipswich get the hi-score.    “Oooh, I feel ill now” says Pat from Clacton as the pressure of wanting to win usurps that of obtaining a mere equaliser.

Ten minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young announcer thanks us for our “incredible support” which today amounts to 28,704 of us.  The Leicester fans had been impressively if not incredibly noisy until Ipswich scored, but now they probably feel a bit sick like Pat from Clacton.  The home support has not been as impressive, but has had a better game than usual, mainly thanks to Mr Busby who now has one final trick up his sleeve, a piece of showboating and his equivalent of a couple of stepovers, a scorpion kick or a drag-back. With the game well into five minutes of added on time, a cross from the right sees Cedric Kipre moving towards its trajectory at the far post only to go sprawling in a way that is the very definition of sprawling and looking very much like he had been floored by Leicester’s Hamza Choudhury.

Within a short space of time the game is over amidst much wailing and gnashing of teeth and singing to the tune of the 1934 Rogers and Hart tune Blue Moon, “Short refs, we only get short refs”.  At least I think that’s what people were singing.   Mr Busby is surrounded at the final whistle by Leicester players and coaches wanting to congratulate him on how spectacularly bad he has been.  When Mr Busby eventually leaves the field of play, he is invisible in the middle of a protective shield of stewards, all of whom are inevitably much taller than he is.

An inglorious end to a glorious, dank, miserable, grey Spring day.

Ipswich Town 1 Nottingham Forest 1

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Thirty-eight years ago today, give or take ten days, Ipswich Town played Nottingham Forest in the sixth round of the FA Cup.  I travelled up to Nottingham for the game, taking the train from Brighton where I was at university and then, having met up with three other Town fans in London, by Morris Minor 1000 up the M1.  We spent the night in Nottingham after the match, ate mushy peas and chips, drank large quantities of Home Ales bitter, slept on a floor of someone we knew at Nottingham University and drove back down south the next day.  Nottingham Forest were the reigning European Cup holders and in two months’ time Ipswich Town would win the UEFA Cup.  They were happy times.

Today, both clubs languish in the second division, Town awaiting inevitable relegation whilst Forest struggle in vain for a play-off place; but they meet in the day’s only match between the former winners of European cup competitions. It is a dull, blustery, mid-March day and layers of grey cloud are stacked up overhead as I walk to the railway station.  Blossom from the trees is blown into the gutter.  I pass by a newspaper recycling bin and feel perplexed that it is considered necessary to paint a sign on it advising people not to climb inside.  At the railway station I meet Roly; the train is on time.  Roly shows me a short video on his mobile phone of his eighteen month old daughter kicking a ball. Roly is nothing if not a very proud father.

Arriving in Ipswich the weather hasn’t changed; Roly gets some cash from an ATM whilst a group of Ipswich supporters struggle to get a car park ticket from an automatic machine. We head down Princes Street towards Portman Road and on to St Jude’s Tavern.  As usual people mill about aimlessly in Portman Road waiting for the turnstiles to open, they must retain the hope that one week they will open early, otherwise why get here early week after week after week?  There is always hope.

At St Jude’s Tavern Roly has a pint of Nethergate Bulldog (£2.50) and I have a similar quantity of the Match Day Special, which once again is St Jude’s own attractively named Goblin’s Piss (£2.50), a name that St Jude’s should really offer to Greene King for their IPA.  We sit at a table next to the usual retirees who meet here pre-match. We talk football.  Another clutch of retirees arrives, “What do you recommend” one asks looking at the beer list, “That you clear off somewhere else” is the response. Statler and Waldorf live. Not entirely satisfied by the ‘tired’ condition of our first pints, Roly and I switch to Nethergate Venture (£3.40) for our second; it’s okay but a bit too ‘floral’ for my tastes.

Jackson

At about twenty to three the pub begins to empty out and Roly and I leave too.  He doesn’t admit it but I suspect Roly wants time to get something to eat, that’s the kind of guy he is.  With fifteen minutes until kick-off Portman Road is busy but the club shop isn’t and I pop in, much as I might pop to the Co-op, and buy a programme, redeeming the 115 loyalty points I have accrued from previous purchases in the process.  In the past week I have now enjoyed two free programmes (at Kirkley & Pakefield and Colchester United) and a cut-price one, I am feeling blessed and if this carries on I will soon have saved enough to retire; hopefully Brexit won’t happen and I can go and live in the south of France, although if it does happen that is probably all the more reason to move to the south of France, or anywhere.

There is no queue at the turnstiles, I smile and thank the moustachioed turnstile operator as I pass through.   After a brief conversation with Dave the steward, a former work colleague, I use the toilet facilities and then take up my place alongside Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his young son Elwood.  There are a lot of Nottingham Forest supporters here today (the score board will tell us during the second-half that there are 1,691 in a crowd of 16,709) and Phil recounts how he visited his mum in Newmarket this morning and as he left he even saw one heading for Newmarket railway station.  The teams enter the field and my view is through the net of a practice goal which hadn’t been wheeled away before the concertina-like players’ tunnel was extended out to the corner of the pitch. 

The game begins with Nottingham Forest getting first go with the ball and playing towards the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and Alderman Road rec’, they are wearing red shirts, shorts and socks.  Town are in their customary blue and white kit, despoiled by an ugly advert for an on-line scamming organisation, a likely contributor to this season’s eventual relegation; they are aiming in the direction of me, Pat, Phil and Elwood, but hopefully a bit to our right.   The Nottingham supporters are in very good voice regaling us with a lyrically altered version of Land of Hope & Glory that tells of how they hate a number of other clubs but love Nottingham Forest, it’s an old favourite and takes me back to the 1970’s; the old ones are the best I think, sounding like my late father and his father and probably his father before that.  Enjoy your youth while you can Elwood, because one day you will be an old git too.

Barely five minutes pass and Town produce a quick move of short passes in front of the East of England Co-operative Stand and the lifeless souls that populate it; Gwion Edwards gets behind the Nottingham defence, delivers a low cross and like a magical genie the hard to hide Collin Quaner appears from nowhere to deftly stroke the ball into the goal to give Ipswich the lead.  It was a most beautiful goal.  I have heard so-called supporters say rude things about Collin Quaner but I like him, he’s German, he has the distinctive, exotic look of an Easter Island statue (minus the big ears), but most of all he plays for Ipswich Town and therefore he’s alright.

The goal gets the home crowd going for a short while, “Allez, Allez-Allez-Allez” some of us sing, enjoying the linguistic abilities that a meeting of two former European competition winners bring.  The noise of the crowd rises and swirls around in the strongly gusting breeze. But by and by the enthusiasm recedes and that goal is one of the last exciting things that happens at my end of the pitch as Nottingham Forest go on to un-sportingly monopolise the remainder of the first half winning four corners to Town’s none and having eight shot to our two.   It’s not long before the home crowd is quiet once again and the Nottingham Forest supporters can begin their goading. “One-nil, and you still don’t sing” they chant to the tune of the Village People’s “Go West”, but without the manly bravura of the original version.  Exasperated perhaps by the lack of a reaction the Forest fans invoke the Beach Boys’ Sloop John B to sing “We’ll sing on our own, we’ll sing on own”, which is probably the sensible thing to do in the circumstances, before their attention then turns to an obese Town supporter to whom they sing “Fatty, Fatty, give us a song”.  After enquiring through the medium of song if he has ever seen his own genitals they entreat him to “Get your tits out for the lads”, he duly obliges.  It’s hard to say if ‘Fatty’ enjoys his five minutes or fame, but he doesn’t return to his seat after half-time.   

The game carries on and Ipswich are denied what looked like a corner “That was literally in front of you, you Muppet” shouts a woman from behind me at the linesman.  Would that we could really have Muppet linesman I think to myself; the FA and The Jim Henson Company should forge closer links.  I note how many foreign players Nottingham’s are fielding and am impressed by the performance of Pele at number 28 which is remarkable for a man in his seventies, but I am surprised to learn from the tiny little Guinea-Bissau flag against his name on the back of the programme that he is no longer Brazilian.  My attention is also drawn to Forest’s number 29, Tunisian Yohan Benalouane who, with his completely bald head and pale complexion makes me think of Nosferatu; I don’t get a look at his finger nails.

It’s just gone half-past three and Nottingham Forest win a corner, the ball is directed towards goal, Bartosz Bialkowski dives to his left, Nottingham players raise their arms and the diminutive referee Mr Keith Stroud signals a goal, which the scoreboard attributes to the Malian number 13 Molla Wague, although it will later be said to be a Jon Nolan own-goal.  It’s a shame for Town, for Molla Wague and for Jon Nolan and given that the goal has brought so much disappointment I am surprised it is allowed to stand.   “Que Sera Sera, Whatever will be will be, You’re going to Shrewsbury, Que Sera Sera” sing the gloating Nottinghamians, revealing a hitherto unexpected admiration for Doris Day, although the earlier Go West song was perhaps a clue as to their preferences.

Half-time arrives and briefly Portman Road is once again back in the long lost 1970’s as the PA system provides an aural treat in the sound of Bachman Turner Overdrive’s  “You ain’t seen nothing yet”, a song which makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I visit the facilities beneath the stand to drain off some more of that Goblin’s Piss; at the urinal I stand next to a man who is simultaneously either texting or checking the half-time scores on his mobile phone.  I find the scene rather disconcerting and leave as quickly as nature allows before consuming a Panda brand liquorice stick as a tasty half-time snack and to help me forget.

The second half begins and Trevoh Chalobah replaces Cole Skuse.  At ten past four Trev’ unleashes a spectacular shot that whistles just centimetres outside the right hand post of the Nottingham goal.  Sometimes such a narrow miss is more thrilling than a goal, particularly an opposition one.  The second half turns out to be much better than the first for Ipswich and Town dominate the attacking play, although admittedly without making too many clear cut chances to score.  Chants of “Come on You Blues, Come on Blues” burst from stands on all sides of the ground and with increasing frequency. The referee Keith Stroud, who ‘has previous’ as far as Town fans are concerned adds to his record of failure and bias by not awarding Town free-kicks whilst giving undeserved favour to Nottingham, whose fans are now largely quiet.  “Short refs, we only get short refs” sing Phil and I to the tune of Blue Moon. On the touchline Paul Lambert, as ever in his black v-neck jumper and black trousers, swings his arms about encouraging his team and the crowd.  Little Alan Judge crosses the ball and Jon Nolan heads wide of an open goal.

On the Nottingham bench Roy Keane at first looks his usual sullen self, but as Town dominate more and more and the game moves into its last ten minutes he stands in the technical area gesticulating, looking annoyed and filled with murderous intent.  The combination of the ‘enigmatic’ Martin O’Neil and psychopathic Roy Keane as a sort of latter day Celtic incarnation of the Clough/Taylor partnership can surely only end badly, but it could be fun to watch. I ensure that when the game is over I stay on long enough to boo Keane from the field for what he did to Ipswich Town.  I offered to my friend Mick to boo Keane on his behalf as he could not be here today, he said to feel free and he was happy for me to spit for him too if I wanted. I thought that was going a bit far, although I imagine it is the sort of protest Keane might respect as he would then feel justified in meeting it with extreme violence.

Ipswich deserve to score again but don’t and the result is yet another one-all draw.  This has arguably been the best game of the season at Portman Road and curiously despite being bottom of the league by several points for several months, with very little or no hope of staying up and only two home wins since August it has been the most enjoyable season for several years.  What is more, the crowd are at last getting behind the team; if this is what it takes perhaps Town should just go for relegation every year.

To the tune of Auld Lang Syne….all together now…

We’ve won the League, we’ve won the Cup

We’ve won in Europe too

Now every week we draw one-all

There’s f-all else to do.

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol City 3

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Night matches at Portman Road have become like buses supposedly are; I’ve not seen Town play at home in a night match all season and all of sudden two fixtures arrive almost together. In truth I’ve rarely lived in the sort of places where the bus service is frequent enough for that to happen, it’s more likely the bus won’t turn up at all and nor will the next one and on recent Town form that’s likely to be a better analogy.
Unlike last week’s evening match, tonight I am not leaving off early to use up flexi-time; tonight I am staying a bit later to rack-up some hours instead. By ten-past five however, everyone else has cleared off and I can’t stand to be alone in this place any longer so I make my way out into the deepening gloom of early evening, seeking the light of St Jude’s Tavern. The streets around the ground are quiet;

their stillness frozen by the harsh white glow that spills out from the hot food stands that are already set up and feeding stewards and those mysterious supporters who arrive hours before kick-off.
In St Jude’s it’s quiet too, with just four or five other drinkers scattered about as I order a pint of the Match Day Special (£2.50), which tonight is Mr Bee’s Best Beer. I sit and read ‘Unreliable Memoirs’ by Clive James, but with so few people in the bar it’s hard not to overhear conversations. A woman at the bar has a theory that a male friend is gay; something to do with him trying to ‘feel up’ another friend after a night out. No other evidence is put forward, and I don’t learn if the attempt to ‘feel up’ were successful or not. Relief from this gossip arrives in the shape of ever-present Phil who never misses a game; he has arrived hot-foot from Northampton. I’m soon chatting with Phil whilst eating a steak and kidney pie (my first choice, beef and onion was out of stock) and savouring a pint of Cliff Quay Brewery Tolly Roger (pie and a pint £5.00). I don’t like kidney but when I find a bit I just swallow it whole so as not to taste it. We’re not long talking before Mick arrives and he kindly buys me another pint of the Match Day Special whilst also getting one for himself. Phil leaves about ten to seven, which Mick puts down to Keenness but our conversation isn’t diminished, oiled as it is by another pint of the Match Day Special. It is twenty-five to eight by the time I leave Mick at the corner of Portman Road and I only just get to my seat in time for kick-off, therefore missing the match ball being plucked from its plinth as the teams walk out. “What time do you call this?” asks Ray. I don’t have a satisfactory answer other than to give him the correct time, which I sense wasn’t the true purpose of the question. Bristol City begin the game, un-necessarily wearing a change kit of white shirts and black shorts when their first kit is all-red; a polyester precis of what is wrong with modern football. Town are kicking towards me , Phil, Ray and Pat from Clacton, and of course wear blue and white and provide their own summary of football’s modern failings with the hideous logo of a gambling company, as ever despoiling the front of their shirts. If Town are relegated this season that logo and choice of an on-line gambling business as sponsor will be partly to blame. There are about ten thousand fewer people here than there were for the last game, but surprisingly the match atmosphere doesn’t seemed diminished by a corresponding 44%. The 13,436 of us here (that excludes the 290 Bristolians) are the hardened rump of Town’s support; we are , I like to think, the ones who care the most and so the sound of our anguish is louder and maybe we breathe more heavily.
Seemingly oblivious to the fact that their players are wearing a change kit, the Bristolians assembled in the Cobbold Stand chant “Red Army, Red Army” as their team has a couple of shots blocked and then earns a corner when Bartosz Bialkowski has to make the first save of the game. Perhaps through the eyes of a die-hard Robins fan Bristol City are always in red. But the Red Army domination is brief and Freddie Sears runs at them and has a shot blocked before then shooting wide. There’s enough here to please a home crowd whose desire to see Town win a home game almost has a physical presence. On the pitch there are fouls and free-kicks and a general lack of precision, which is what we’re used to. Jordan Roberts is the first name to be recorded by referee Mr David Webb, who like last Friday’s referee is not a tall man. “Short refs, we only get short refs” I sing, to the tune of Rodgers and Hart’s Blue Moon, but to no one’s amusement save my own.
Ipswich captain Luke Chambers makes a mistake to let in a Bristol player who shoots over the bar. “Should’ve volleyed it” says a lad behind me to his dad authoritatively. “I would have” he adds unconvincingly. He doesn’t say if he would have scored though. There is a touchline contretemps and Paul Lambert, as usual wearing his Marks & Spencer black jumper and black slacks, points and  jabs angrily. He is surrounded by coaches and trackie-bottom wearers all  trying to be as tough and angry as him, but their big, padded, shiny coats  say they never will be.

Town win their first corner and the half empty ground resounds or may be echoes to chants of “Come On You Bluuuues” But only the side netting is struck , and high hopes tumble. Paul Lambert swigs heavily from a bottle, of water, which doesn’t go un-noticed by the lad behind me. “ Lambert likes his bottles of water doesn’t he?” he says to his dad, omitting to tell him how he would have drunk it.
It’s a bit after eight o’clock when Cole Skuse passes to Freddie Sears and I get a head on view of Freddie’s gently bending shot into the back of the Bristol goal and Town are winning. There are scenes of gay-abandon and 13,000 odd people dare to wonder if Town might win. The lead remains intact and half-time is a happy event which follows rich applause. I celebrate by dispensing with some used up Match Day Special and by talking to Ray who offers me a bun made by his wife Roz, I accept the offer graciously.

Half-time flies by and the game begins again.  Ten minutes pass and Bristol City equalise. A hopefully swung boot from Bristol’s Senegalese Famara Diedhouru (who incidentally I believe I saw play for Gazelec Ajaccio in the French Ligue National in 2014) sends the ball towards Bartosz Bialkowski who is out of his goal. If Bart leaves the ball it will probably sail past the post, but he doesn’t and with a jerking, un-coordinated movement of his outstretched and be-gloved right hand he diverts it into the goal. It’s not really bad goal keeping, it just seems he can’t do right for doing wrong. He didn’t look like he wanted to do it, but he couldn’t stop himself.
From here the game becomes silly. Only three minutes later Freddie Sears scores and everybody other than the 290 temporary migrants in the Cobbold Stand is happy once again and daring to imagine Town winning. But the happiness is fleeting as a minute later the boyish sounding Jamie Paterson scores for Bristol and then an indecently brief four minutes later Famara Diedhiou makes a lonely run towards the ball as it is crossed into the box and from embarrassingly close range heads what will prove to be the winning goal.
The hope and belief of the crowd of six minutes ago is gone, it is nowhere to be heard. There is no reaction to this adversity, no will to spur their team on, to come back. Like cattle to the slaughter the home supporters accept their lot and give up. They seemingly have no conception of what to do. There are a few in the North Stand who try, but there are either too few of them or they lack decent singing voices. They need someone on a ladder with a megaphone; perhaps Marcus Evans could do it as penance. By contrast the Bristol City fans are able to indulge in the easy task of triumphalism and sing to tune of The Sparrow, recorded by the Abbey Hey Junior School choir about a “ …poor little Gashead (Bristol Rovers supporter), his shirt is all tattered and torn” and how they proceed to “hit him with a brick, and now he don’t sing any more”. Generously they avoid gloating about Town’s league position, possibly because they feel our pain from bitter experience of their own. On the pitch Town struggle on. Substitutions are made but they outnumber the decent attempts on goal. Behind me the lad says to his dad “It’s just a disappointment now isn’t it?” Although his dad doesn’t tell him he’s right, he is; there’s nothing like taking the lead twice only to lose to make you disappointed; except perhaps taking the lead three times, or four…. or five….or… may be things aren’t so bad.
With the final whistle there are some boos, I hope they are from people booing fellow spectators, for their poor support, but I doubt it. The meagre crowd disperses quickly to the exits but I stay to applaud, just a little. I’m used to this now, but I’m sure we’ll win next time.