Bobby Robson

Ipswich Town 1 Hull City 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

When did football matches become like buses? None for a month and then three all at once.  Although in rural Suffolk the pattern is slightly different being one of no buses since 1985 except for the occasional rail replacement that takes a wrong turn off the A140.  But if it’s Tuesday it must be Hull City and after a day’s quiet toil in front of a couple of computer screens, and then a late afternoon plate of left over and re-heated cottage pie, I find my self once again walking along my local railway station platform to catch the train to Ipswich.

Evening sunlight abounds, illuminating faces and fascias. A boy with big ears looks up from his phone and smiles and a man in his thirties who is showing early signs of balding carries his grandmother’s handbag, although I suppose she could be his aunt, or even his wife or lover, I don’t ask.  The train arrives and I sit opposite a woman who easily looks sixty and whose blond hair simply has to be dyed, like the grandmother’s was, although she had chosen an improbable ginger  or auburn with grey streaks.  Gary joins me at the first station stop and has been thinking, seemingly at length, about when Ipswich Town’s twice postponed game at Portsmouth will eventually be played.  I tell him I had heard someone say that there is a scenario where it would be on Good Friday although we’re already scheduled to play at Southampton that day.  I guess the idea is that the EFL will say “well, whilst you’re in area, you know, two birds with one stone and all that”.  Gary favours Portsmouth having to waive the fixture and Ipswich being awarded a 6-0 win. Gary, sixty-seven and still a dreamer.

Ipswich is busy with buses and cars filled with people going home from work as we head up Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street to the Arb. As ever, I’m first through the door and soon invest in a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10 something with Camra discount) before we repair to the beer garden, where we sit in the dimly lit and echoey shelter backing onto High Street.  Mick soon arrives, goes to fetch a pint of Suffolk Pride for himself and returns before being served “mini fish and chips”, which we know he ordered when buying his beer.   I ask if it’s the fish that is mini, a Stickleback perhaps, or the portion.  Strangely, the mini fish and chips is served in a ceramic cup of chips with the piece of fish balanced on top, which Mick then has to tip out onto the plate to eat.  Mick explains that this sort of presentation is ‘a thing’ with chefs; “de-constructed” is the word apparently. “Daft” and “poncey” are other words that spring to mind.  I laughingly tell him he should have said “what am I supposed to do with this, drink it?” to the unfortunate fellow who brought it from the kitchen.

Gary reprises his concerns about the re-scheduling of the Portsmouth match, presumably just for Mick’s benefit, before we look at the changes to tonight’s team compared to Saturday’s, and I point out that tonight is our second in three consecutive games against teams from cities which were home to notable British literary figures,  namely Dylan Thomas, Philip Larkin and Joe Orton.  We go on to think of people with the first name Winston but can only come up with author Winston Graham and the fictional Winston Smith, although much later at home I will recall Winston White who played for Colchester United. Gary and Mick both return to the bar for more beer and whisky and once everyone else has left for Portman Road, we do too.

On arrival at Portman Road, I am disappointed to find queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand as everyone is checked for weaponry and scrap metal.  When I get to the front of the queue I am asked by the man wielding the scanner if I have something in my pocket, I reply that I don’t know and I don’t, because I don’t know which pocket he means; I have several in my large black coat.  I am let through without further questions and proceed to the famous turnstile 62.  By the time I’ve vented some spent Suffolk Pride and arrived at my seat the excitable young stadium announcer has already read out the team names, un-necessarily bellowed ‘Blue Army’ a couple of times and weirdly asked us all to be loud and proud.  Naturally, ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here along with Pat from Clacton and Fiona but tonight we are missing ever-present Phil’s son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who has had an operation on his left eye.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they mostly aim in the direction of the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras, and of course Town are in our signature kit of blue and white.  Hull City meanwhile are appropriately kicking in the direction of Wilberforce Street, named after William Wilberforce, who was born and grew up in Hull, and wear their signature gold shirts and black shorts.  Doubtless because Hull City are known as the Tigers, the sleeves on their shirts rather unpleasantly feature a sort of tiger-skin print of the sort you might normally expect to see on a dress worn by the fictional Bet Lynch of Coronation Street fame, or perhaps Eartha Kitt.

The game starts slowly with Town striving to gain an early advantage but becoming mired in Hull’s dense defensive formation. “Windows”, “Doors”, “Conservatories” announce the illuminated advertisement hoardings on the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and confusing which electronic displays are meant to encourage our support for our team, and which are there to just flog us stuff I get the urge to shout the words out. Fortunately, the urge is resisted.  On the pitch meanwhile, several free kicks have already been awarded causing Fiona to remark in a tone of deep resignation “Seems the referee’s not going to let anything go”.

With the tenth minute Town win a corner to please fans of decimals, and Fiona and I are a little shocked to hear a surging chant of “Come On You Blues” emanating from the far end of the ground.  Naturally, we join in and for a few moments Town lay siege to the Hull penalty area until Marcelino Nunez puts a lid on our excitement as he ill-advisedly shoots high and wide of the Tigers’ goal.  Five minutes elapse and Town win another corner and then another, and a more normal, somewhat weedy chant of “Come On You Blues” comes from the usual half a dozen suspects.  With the eighteenth minute Jack Taylor shoots thunderously but narrowly wide eliciting an “Ooooh!” if not from everyone, then from me at least, before Fiona shudders slightly as if someone had “…walked over her grave”, the scientific explanation for which is apparently that it is a release of adrenaline, which is understandable when watching Ipswich Town.

Twenty minutes have now left us and Hull City manage a shot, but typically for a team who seldom venture outside the safety of the area just in front of their own penalty box, it is from distance.  Normal service is soon resumed however as Town win a fourth corner and once again half a dozen of us do what football supporters are supposed to do on such occasions and shout encouragement to our team.  The visitors in the Cobbold stand have by now noticed the reticence of the home supporters to sing and shout much, and respond with an ironic chant of  “Ipswich, Ipswich, give us a song” which isn’t one I’ve heard for several years and  possibly reveals either  imagination or what an out of the way place Hull really is. But moments  later   the Hullensians are singing about football in a library, which I don’t suppose was something Philip Larkin ever considered.

The first half enters its final third and Hull City have become a fraction sharper it seems, with a few awkward looking breakaways but then Jack Taylor has another shot and quickly George Hirst has a header but they are both straight at the Hull goalkeeper Ivor Pander, whose name sounds like an admission that somewhere he keeps a black and white, bamboo-eating bear . Hull then have the cheek to win a corner before Mr Lewis gets to air his yellow card for the first time this evening when some bloke fouls young Eggy.  As if sulking over mean Mr Lewis’s treatment of his team mate, another Hull player goes down injured and as a result we all lose four minutes of our lives waiting a bit longer for half-time.  Pat from Clacton makes use of the time however by finding her friend John in the west stand using the zoom lens of her camera, and Fiona, Pat and I discover that we all know John and we all get texts from him every morning.  The half almost ends with another corner and renewed chants of “Come On You Blues”, but then it does.

Half-time is a whirlwind of talking to Dave the steward, from whom I learn that another Dave with whom we both once worked has been dead for a couple of years, talking to Ray, bumping fists with Harrison, feeling spots of water on my face from the sprinklers on the pitch, and decanting more spent Suffolk Pride. When the football kicks off again it is ten minutes to nine.

The second half begins with Hull looking like they’ve decided they should occupy a little more of their time with the ball at their feet. Within two minutes Hull have a corner, but when Town get the  ball back, it’s as if the home crowd had felt affronted and they react supportively with repeated surging chants of “Blue Army, Blue Army”, which personally speaking is my least favourite chant of all. With the half now ten minutes old, Dara O’Shea surprises everyone by striding forward and having a shot at goal; it’s much less of a surprise when the ball travels over the cross bar.

Town are sometimes criticised by their own supporters for a perceived lack of urgency, but giving the lie to that today Keiran McKenna makes his first two substitutions in the fifty-seventh minute, at least three minutes before he usually does; Wes Burns and Leif Davis replace Eggy and Jacob Greaves. By the time the substitutes would normally be coming on, Town have another corner and George Hirst is directing the ball at Ivor Pander again.  A second Hull player, a huge, bearded bloke called Matt Crooks is booked for a foul on Jack Taylor, but Nunez boots the resulting free kick over Ivor Pander’s bar.  Pander is then booked for time wasting and with only five minutes until the witching hour that is the sixty-ninth minute, Pat from Clacton mentions that she might have to get lucky charm ‘Monkey’ out of her handbag despite the chill in the air.  Anis Mehmeti replaces Jack Taylor with twenty-two minutes of normal time remaining.

Twenty minutes now remain, Hull’s Egan fouls George Hirst and is booked, both Egan and Crooks are quickly substituted, presumably so that someone who won’t be sent off for his next bookable offence can come on and commit any ‘necessary’ fouls with impunity, or at least until he gets booked too.  The excitable young stadium announcer now tells us with uncharacteristic calmness that tonight there are 26,103 of us here and he thanks us for our support but for once does not claim that it is incredible, perhaps because it is not.

A minute later no one cares what the crowd is or who’s been booked as the ball is dribbled in from the left, Leif Davis runs across the edge of the penalty area, squares the ball back to Azor Matusiwa and he gives Town the lead by what can only be described as “twatting” the ball into the top right hand corner of the Hull goal from just outside the penalty area. The relief in the home crowd is palpable, and I can only think the funereally paced rendition of “When the Town go marching in” that follows is an attempt to slow down everyone’s heart rates.

Unfortunately, the final nineteen minutes of normal time and five minutes of added on time do not see Town extend their lead to make the game safe, but nor do Hull succeed in seriously threatening to equalize. Hull nevertheless increasingly find their way into the previously mostly unchartered territory of the Town half; the Town defence however stands firm and Hull never quite manage to locate the goal.  Pat from Clacton helps ease the tension by looking in her purse for the piece of paper that records her entry in the ’draw the correct score’ draw on the Clacton supporters’ bus.  Pat has drawn ‘3-2’; it makes us all laugh.

Added on time melts away without much delay and with the final whistle we do the same to catch our buses and trains.  It’s been a game that‘s made a virtue of patience but now somehow, I can’t wait to get home.  After  Ipswich lost heavily at home to Hull City back in March 2018 I concluded in this very blog that I couldn’t begrudge  any city associated with William Wilberforce, Philip Larkin and Mick Ronson the odd three-nil away win. Tonight however Hull City have failed to live up to the qualities of that illustrious threesome. Ipswich Town on  the other hand have comfortably beaten off all comparisons with the work of Brian Cant, June Brown and Nik Kershaw.

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol City 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Looking back, as I often seem to do nowadays, I find that the first time I saw Ipswich Town play Bristol City was nearly forty-nine years ago. Back then, both clubs were in what has since become the Evil Premier League but this has no bearing whatsoever on the fixture that is taking place tonight at Portman Road. The past is a foreign country, which makes us all immigrants.

It’s been a dull day decorated with scudding clouds courtesy of a brisk but strangely cold southerly breeze. But then, it is January.  After a day’s work at home, I head for the railway station. The train is on time and Gary joins me on it at the first station stop. It’s dark outside so we don’t see any polar bears as the train reaches Wherstead and I’m not about to suggest the bears begin to wear dayglo gilets.    Leaving Ipswich railway station, the Portman Road football ground shines like a glorious blue and white beacon or even a jewel on Ipswich’s evening skyline. Gary, a man not known for his interest in graphic design remarks upon the clear, classic font of the letters that spell out the words ‘Ipswich Town Football Club’ on the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.

By way of a change this evening, I decide we should not walk up Portman Road, across the corner of Portman Road car park, along Great Gipping Street, up Civic Drive, across the car park where the Civic Centre used to be, up Lady Lane, over the crossing where St Matthews Street meets Crown Street, up St George’s Street, along Upper High Street and into High Street to reach the Arb.  Instead, we just walk up Princes Street and Museum Street and into High Street. Gary thinks the other way is quicker but he’s an Ipswich supporter who is awkwardly unfamiliar with Ipswich’s historic town centre and doesn’t realise how many more listed buildings we have passed tonight.

I’m first to burst through the door when we reach the Arb (not listed), and I get to the bar first to invest in a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£10 something for the two with Camra discount) for myself.  Gary heads for the cool of the beer garden whilst I linger a little longer to select a snack to help sustain me through the evening, choosing a felafel Scotch egg (£8) before joining him in the shelter (not listed) backing onto High Street, which is otherwise empty, for the time being anyway.

Our conversation meanders from Trump to religion to ‘famous’ Bristol City players (Billy Wedlock and Gerry Gow,) to how far south and east we’ve travelled, to tonight’s team and how unexpectedly cold it is this evening.  Gary buys another pint of Estrella Galicia for himself and one of Suffolk Pride for me.  I buy another half of Suffolk Pride and when there is no one else in the beer garden we up and leave; it’s a bit before twenty-five past seven.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand tonight, there are queues to be scanned for weaponry and scrap metal, it’s hard to know why, other than lots of people arriving at once or more people than usual carrying weapons and scrap metal.  But I’m soon on my way through the Football League Champions Memorial Turnstile, number 62, and after releasing spent Suffolk Pride I’m joining ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton on the lower tier of the stand.  There’s no Elwood tonight, nor man from Stowmarket (Paul), although his grandson is here with his girlfriend (Paul’s grandson’s girlfriend that is, not Paul’s), nor Fiona, who is feeling unwell.  In Fiona’s place however is Angie, who usually occupies the seat in front of Pat from Clacton.  I shout out the players’ names as best I can when the excitable young stadium announcer reads them aloud, but he’s not in time with the scoreboard.  In the questionnaire I receive from the club by e-mail after the match I will suggest he goes on a fact finding mission to Lens, Lille or Paris to see how it’s done.

When the game begins it is Ipswich that get first go with the ball, which they send mostly in the direction of me and my fellow ultras.  Naturally, Town are in blue shirts and white shorts but strangely, Bristol City, or ‘The Robins’ as they are known, presumably because of their signature red shirts, are wearing what must be their little-known winter plumage of white shirts and black shorts, like a poor man’s Germany or Port Vale.  Town are soon on the attack and win their first corner after barely three minutes. Angie remarks on the height of referee’s assistant, who although bearded like a garden gnome is much taller than the usual.  “Come On You Blues” five, or possibly six of us bawl and we do it again and then again as Town take two more corner kicks until Bristol goalkeeper Vitek punches the ball high into the air before catching it on its descent to spoil our fun.

It is the ninth minute. Jens Cajuste pirouettes to leave some hired imitation Bristolian in his wake and passes to Jack Clarke.  All floppy hair and loping gait, Clarke drops a shoulder or two, eases the ball on with a stroke of the outside of a boot, and then side foots it inside the far post past a clutch of legs from about twelve metres out. Town lead 1-0.  It’s yet another early goal from the left and Jack Clarke and Jaden Philogene who isn’t playing tonight seem to have become one.

“One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand, mysteriously goading the pensioners and conservative people in late middle age who populate the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand.  Fifteen minutes have melted into history and Town continue to do what is sometimes described as ‘taking the game to the opposition’. “Go on Wes, do ‘im” says Angie as Wes Burns receives the ball on the touchline and runs at the Bristol full-back.

But five minutes later Bristol almost score, as ‘playing out from the back’ fails to live up to expectations and Bristol get gifted a free shot on goal that Christian Walton saves rather well, giving Bristol a corner. Tension is relieved however by the sight of former ‘Blue’ Sam Morsy stepping out from what once was a dugout but now looks like a section from a short but wide open-top team bus. “He’s Egyptian, but he comes from Wolver’ampton” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of “She’s electric” by Oasis, although I might have misheard.  After Wes Burns shoots to win Town another corner that comes to nothing Sam Morsy then replaces a bloke called Adam Randell and everyone applauds arguably Town’s best captain since Matt Holland.

The first third of the match begins to slip out of sight, except as recorded highlights, and Ivan Azon wins another corner and then shoots narrowly and quite spectacularly over the Bristol crossbar from about 20 metres away.  “Ole, Ole Ole Ole, Azon, Azon” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers as they tuck into their tapas and click their castanets.  Seemingly aiming to please the home crowd further, Sam Morsy shoots wide and everyone cheers ironically, and then with no hint of irony at all the few hundred visiting supporters and possibly the fifteen-hundred or so empty plastic seats allocated to Bristol City but left unsold sing “Your support is fucking shit” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

Nine minutes until half-time and Town notch yet another corner to a tiny chorus of “Come On You Blues” before Bristol City hint at having a pact with the devil as Cajuste’s shot is blocked and Azon’s sudden follow-up attempt is deflected by unseen forces over the bar, although it is goalkeeper Radek Vitek who gets the thanks from his team mates.   With five minutes until half-time the home crowd celebrate again as referee Mr Whitestone selects Bristol’s Neto Borge to be the recipient of his first yellow card, after Borge shoves Dara O’Shea headlong into the West Stand advert hoardings.

The half comes to a close with three minutes of added-on time, another necessary save from Christian Walton and yet another hollow chorus of “Come On You Blues” from me and the other five ultras as Town’s corner count exceeds its ultra count.  Applause greets the half-time whistle, and I take a short trip to the front of the stand to speak with Harrison and his dad Michael, and briefly with Dave the steward before I head indoors to release more spent Suffolk Pride, returning in time to see the football resume at twelve minutes to nine.

Unexpectedly, it is Bristol City who win the first corner within a minute of the re-start, whilst Pat from Clacton shares the news that Angie’s bobble hat was new from the club shop tonight; nine pounds in the ‘under a tenner’ sale.  Angie wears the woollen hat well, but I don’t think such a large bobble would suit me at all.  I might write to the club to suggest the shop stocks blue berets and ITFC pin badges to be sold in tandem with prescription sunglasses for that authentic Ultra look.

Seven minutes into the latest half and Walton makes another save, this time from Emil Riis. It’s an incident that prompts Town fans to plead “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” a minute later.  Clearly struck by the crowd’s imploring cries Town up their game and Azon chases down the right before squaring the ball to Jack Clarke who sweeps the ball very precisely but stylishly inside the far post as only a man wearing a hair band can. Two-nil to Ipswich.  “We’re on our way to the Premier League” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers suddenly filled with a hitherto missing confidence, although they soon reveal that they’re a little unsure how promotion actually works chanting “How do we get there?  I don’t know”.    Moments later however they seem more certain as they launch into “Ee-I, Ee-I, Ee-I, Oh, Up the Football League We Go”, again probably for the first time this season.

Mass substitutions soon follow for Bristol City as their fabulously Germanic sounding manager Gerhard Struber trusts in ringing the changes and bringing on players called Pring and Earthy.  Although often messy, with possession changing hands a bit too frequently, the game provides plenty for the crowd to enjoy and no more so than when, possibly just for old times’ sake, Sam Morsy gets shown Mr Whitehouse’s yellow card.  But Morsy is in good company in this Bristol City team, which almost queues up to be cautioned with a series of assaults on Jack Clarke, Dara O’Shea and Ivan Azon or anyone who runs past with or stands between them and the ball.

Not to be outdone by the former insurance salesman from Austria, Keiran Mckenna makes the customary multiple substitutions too, giving opportunities for the home crowd to give dedicated applause for the excellent efforts of Azon, Burns, Cajuste, Clarke, and Nunez, who have all shown skill and endeavour in the face of a team that with the possible exception of Sam Morsy due to his religious beliefs, probably trains on rough cider.

With the second goal the game had become a matter of will we or won’t we score a third goal.  “I don’t need to get Monkey out do I” says Pat from Clacton, referring to the lucky charm who apparently used to cause instant changes of fortune for struggling Town teams upon leaving her handbag but has since lost his touch a bit.  Angie is reduced to giggling about the surname of Bristol’s Rob Dickie, whilst I enquire of her whether she thinks he’s from Billericay.  I hope she remembers Ian Dury.

It’s been a relatively comfortable game for the Town with the feeling that if we wanted or needed to, we could always try a little harder and score some more goals.  Six minutes of added on time is therefore a little unwanted for both teams probably, but we survive it.  With the final whistle we can clear off home safe in the knowledge that a third consecutive home victory over teams beginning with letter ‘B’, after just one win and two draws in consecutive games against teams beginning with the letter ‘W’ back in September and October is a slightly strange measure of how much the team has improved. It’s just a pity that if things keep on like this, we might end up in the bloody Premier League again

Ipswich Town 3 Blackburn Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Woke up, fell out of bed.  It was damp and dreary outside when I drew back the bedroom curtains.  Feeling inspired, I thought I’d check to see when I had last seen Ipswich Town play Blackburn Rovers, and I was surprised to learn that it was in August of 2018; it was the first game at Portman Road under the pitiful and thankfully brief leadership of the diminutive Paul Hurst.  In case you’re wondering, I missed Blackburn’s last visit to Ipswich in September 2023 because I was in Brest, where I witnessed Stade Brestois beat Olympique Lyonnais one-nil to go top of Ligue1.

Times change, but Ipswich Town are playing Blackburn Rovers again today (Brest are away to Lyon tomorrow) and today’s match kicks-off at the silly time of 12:30pm, when civilised people should be eating lunch, in the pub, or still in bed.   I catch the train to Ipswich, looking up I notice it isn’t late, and I have a carriage to myself until Gary joins me at the first station stop in his brightly coloured anorak. The train speeds on through a damp and dismal winter wonderland of bare trees and decaying vegetation, brightened only by the sighting of two very off-white polar bears that live by a lake in Wherstead.  Arriving in Ipswich, pale sunshine is straining its way through the cloud because the sun always shines in Ipswich or tries to.  As we cross Princes Street bridge there are just two people sat in the beer garden of the Station Hotel and they look very young; they’re probably drinking Vimto.

In Portman Road, a crowd of people loiter, waiting for the turnstiles to open.  Gary and I speculate as to the attractions that Portman Road holds ninety minutes before kick-off but can’t think of any.  I am first through the door at the Arb and with no other punters at the bar I am soon paying for a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint each of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for Mick and myself (£14.90 with Camra discount).  We repair to the beer garden to sit in the shelter that backs on to High Street, joining a solitary man with glasses and tied back hair at the end table having first asked if we may; we may. Mick is late, but it’s not long before he arrives.  We talk of the African Cup of Nations, how Mick will miss Tuesday’s match because he must go to Scotland for a funeral, of the Tory councillor from Lymington in Hampshire sent to prison for twenty weeks for stalking former Tory MP Penny Mordaunt, and jury service.  Gary buys more drinks and we leave for Portman Road at about ten past twelve once we’re happy that we are the last to leave.

We part ways near Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue; Mick and Gary heading for the west stand whilst I make for turnstile sixty-two and the cheap seats of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, where a smiling man first scans me for concealed weapons and scrap metal.  From outside, I have already heard the excitable young stadium announcer reading out the names of the teams and I didn’t join in.   After disposing of spent Suffolk Pride in the proper manner, I make for the stand, pausing only to allow the minute’s applause for all deceased Ipswich Town fans to end. I’m not a fan of the mawkish, public sentimentality of the ‘Memorial Day’.  Grief is private, life is for the living and we’re all going to die.

Kick-off is moments away as I shuffle past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat a row or two behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood, and two along from the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who today is making his return to Portman Road after missing several matches. When the game begins, it’s Blackburn who get first go with the ball, which they launch in the general direction of the Vets for Pets premises on Handford Road and the Co-op next door. Blackburn are wearing an unpleasant looking yellow kit, which from where I am sitting looks as if it is covered in brown smudges, ‘skid marks’ perhaps.  According to the Lancashire Telegraph however, the shirt is gold in colour and is a ‘love letter to Blackburn’ featuring several of the town’s landmarks throughout the design.  I squint and think I might just be able to make out the four thousand holes, give or take three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.  Aside from the shirts, the first two minutes of the game are ‘all Blackburn’ and in the third minute their number 20, Erain Cashin scores a spectacular goal, albeit in his own net.   Nunez and Philogene exchange passes before Nunez delivers a low, hard cross, which Cashin belts into the top corner of the goal from a seated position, thereby promoting himself as the possible answer to Town’s perceived need for a ‘top striker’.  Town lead one-nil.

The goal results in Ipswich gaining the confidence for Eggy to have a volley tipped over the crossbar by Blackburn goalkeeper and ancient Egyptian deity Toth.  The Blackburn number 10 is jeered by home supporters. “That’s Cantwell” says the fella in front of me. “Whoever he is” I respond, genuinely not knowing who he is although I’d seen his face before.  “He used to play for Norwich” says the fella.  “Like Nunez” says Fiona.  Ipswich have a corner “Come on You Blues” chant at least five of us. A far post header sends the ball into the six-yard box, Toth smothers the ball but then doesn’t and Jack Taylor belts it into the roof of the goal net from less than a metre out. It’s a goal ugly enough to have travelled through time from the days of Mick McCarthy.   Town lead 2-0, although I had expected the goal to be disallowed, but that was before I remembered we’re not in the Premier League anymore.

“All games should start like this” I think to myself and then tell Fiona.  Seventeen minutes have left us, Town still lead two-nil, Blackburn win a corner. Eight further minutes pass into history and Blackburn’s Atcheson claims the day’s first booking after fouling Jaden Philogene. I had been wondering how many goals we might score but things have quietened down.  A long throw from Darnell Furling momentarily excites. “A helluva throw” says the bloke beside me, “Like a bullet”, and it was.  Then Blackburn win another corner. “Wanker, wanker, wanker” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers, and “He’s only a poor little budgie” to the tune of ’The Sparrow’, a Christmas 1979 hit for The Ramblers, a choir from the Abbey Hey Junior School, Manchester, and along with Brian and Michael and St Winifred’s School Choir, a rarely celebrated part of the ‘Madchester scene’.  I assume the target for the abuse is Cantwell, a man who sports a mullet, which makes him resemble a cross between Jerry Seinfeld and Mickey from the Job Centre in the BBC tv series  ‘The League of Gentlemen’.

There are twelve minutes remaining until half-time and as we wait for Leif Davis to take a corner having chanted “Come on You Blues” a few times for luck, Fiona comments on the grubby appearance of Blackburn’s yellow shirts that look like they’re covered in brown marks of unknown provenance.  An injured Jaden Philogene is replaced by Jack Clarke, Blackburn win another corner and two minutes of added on time are stolen from our futures before half-time arrives.

During half time, I talk to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who has been in hospital.  He tells me all about it and I can only marvel again at the NHS and the beautiful idea of distributing resources amongst the population for the common good and according to people’s needs.  I vent more spent Suffolk Pride and at twenty-six minutes to two the football resumes beneath a hint of winter sunshine.  Five minutes in and Ipswich have a corner.  The crowd is mostly quiet today because Blackburn have had a lot of the ball, albeit without doing much with it.  But Ipswich are dominating now and the Sir Bobby Robson standers sing “When the Town go marching in” at a depressingly funereal pace appropriate for ‘Memorial Day’.  Five minutes later however they feeling are more up-beat as they chant ‘Blue and White Army’ and it works as Town win another corner.

But Ipswich’s domination is fleeting as a Blackburn shot is blocked and another goes tamely wide.  When Blackburn win another corner, I see just how bad Cantwell’s mullet is and so advise him to “get your ‘air cut, Cantwell” as any responsible citizen would.  “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” pleads the home crowd and as if in response Eggy and Hirst are replaced by Ivan Azom and Wes Burns who draws a cheer for just trotting onto the pitch.  “I don’t need to get Monkey out, do I?” asks Pat from Clacton, and Fiona and I agree we don’t need any lucky charms yet, because we’re still two-nil up. 

In the final twenty minutes of normal time three more Blackburn players, Trondstad, Cantwell and Cashin are booked by referee Mr Kitchen, all for fouls on Jack Clarke who has become Blackburn’s target man since Philogene had to go off.   Mr Kitchen meanwhile sports an impossibly neat but receding hairline as if like a 1960’s Action Man his hair has been painted on to his scalp.   More substitutions are made, Pat from Clacton tells me about the pantomime she saw, the dame was called Belle Ringer, and for a short while my mind wanders off, I’m not sure where but I’m back in time for the eighty-eighth minute when Jens Cajuste surges forward, slips a through ball to Wes Burns and his square pass is swept into the Blackburn goal by Sammy Szmodics.  Town lead three-nil and five minutes of added on time make no difference, although it sounds like Cedric Kipre has been chosen as man of the match by something called Holiday Testing Concrete Limited; I expect it’s something to do with Brutalist architecture.

The final whistle sounds and people stay and leave in equal measure to cheer the victors or catch buses and trains or queue in car parks. or just walk home.  It’s been a slightly odd game, good in parts, very good in flashes. Ipswich have been too good for Blackburn whose greatest contribution to the spectacle has been providing a pantomime villain in Cantwell. Most significantly however, for the first time this season the visiting supporters have failed to sing “Football in a library, do-do-do”.  Having had to get up in the middle of the night to travel over 400 kilometres for a 12:30 kick-off I don’t suppose they could be bothered.

Ipswich Town 2 Oxford United 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I just can’t help it but this morning I feel bright and optimistic. It’s the dawn of a new year, I had a good night’s sleep, a pale winter sun is shining, and I still haven’t forgotten Ipswich Town’s fabulous two-nil win at top-of-the-table, previously unbeaten at home Coventry City last Monday evening.  So cheerful am I that I can’t help feeling that everyone else must feel the same too.  Indeed, supporting my theory, yesterday in a work e-mail from my boss, he couldn’t resist telling me that he too was still “buzzing” from Monday’s win.   To add to the mix, today Town are playing Oxford United, who are just part of the sludge at the bottom of what I call the second division.

I’m not sure that I am buzzing or have ever buzzed, but I think I can at least lay claim to a pleasant hum as I make for the railway station, where the train arrives on time and I sit next to a man who will remain almost bent double over his mobile phone all the way to Ipswich.  Gary joins me at the first station stop and after the usual polite enquiries about our respective Christmases, he is eager to tell me about how Celtic lost the 1926 Scottish FA Cup final two-nil to St Mirren wearing white shirts.  Being at best still Medieval in outlook, Celtic blamed the shirts for their defeat and quickly off-loaded them onto Barhill Football Club in Ayrshire, who had conveniently just written to both Celtic and Rangers asking if they had any old kit they didn’t want.  The punchline to Gary’s tale of silly Scottish superstition resulting in generosity is a photo on Gary’s phone of four Barhill footballers, one of whom is Gary’s grandfather, each wearing one of the said shirts.  The story is the highlight of today’s journey because we fail to spot a single polar bear as the train eases down the gentle incline through Wherstead into Ipswich.

In historic, interesting Ipswich the sun still shines as we make our way down Princes Street and Portman Road and then uphill towards ‘the Arb’ on High Street.  Pints of Lager 43 and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (Eight pounds something for the two with Camra discount) are soon sitting before us in the beer garden, where we talk of Gary having only watched Tanzania in the African Cup of Nations on the telly, whilst I have watched at least some of almost every game.   Our conversation progresses onto  the defining characteristics and dates of Generations X, Y, Z, the “Great Generation” and the “Silent Generation”,  the merits of Dad’s Army, Porridge, the Detectorists and Morecambe and Wise, and the novel ‘The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist’ by Robert Tressell, which we decide is as relevant today as it was when it was first published in 1914.  By the time Gary fetches two more pints our fellow drinkers in the beer garden are fewer in number than they were, and eventually at twenty to three we retain our record of being last to leave.

Gary and I part ways somewhere near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey, bidding each other adieu until next Saturday’s eagerly awaited FA Cup tie versus Blackpool.  As has become normal, there are no queues outside the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, only men in black of mostly south Asian heritage each brandishing some sort of hand-held detection equipment. For a moment as I pass through the famed turnstile sixty-two, I speculate whether a sitcom set outside a football ground and amounting to Citizen Kahn meets The Detectorists could be funny.   Having never watched Citizen Kahn I decide I ‘m not going to know.

After venting spent Suffolk Pride I emerge into the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand just as the excitable young stadium announcer is reading out the Ipswich Town team and failing to co-ordinate his reading with the players’ names appearing on the score board.  I bellow out the players’ surnames, nevertheless, sounding like the echo to a public address system more than I do the crowd at Stade de l’Aube in Troyes or Stade de Furiani in Bastia. Before the na-na-nas of The Beatles’ Hey Jude can ring in the new year I wish a happy new one to Pat from Clacton and Fiona and nod to ever-present Phil who never misses a game and who is accompanied by his son Elwood, although the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is once again absent.

The final prelude to the match beginning is a minute’s applause for recently deceased former Town player Robin Turner, who in ten years started only twenty-nine games with thirty-three as substitute, but nevertheless famously kept Town on course for the 1978 FA Cup with two goals away to Bristol Rovers.  The respect shown for Robin is only very slightly diminished by the scoreboard at the Sir Bobby Robson Stand end of the ground showing his name as ‘Robin Tuner 1955-2025’, but it sounds worse than it looks as if aurally he might have been related to that Lesley Dolphin on Radio Suffolk.

When the game eventually begins it is today’s opponents Oxford United who get first go with the ball, which after a couple of short passes they boot in the general direction of Cumberland Towers and the YMCA.  Town soon have possession however, which they rarely lose, but they seldom make much of it either, although it feels like it will just be a matter of time before they do.   Oxford lack bold intentions and it smacks of gloating by Oxford tourist guides grown big-headed on fancy college architecture when their supporters’ chant that Ipswich is a “shit ‘ole”, when plainly it’s not.  But weak revenge is wrought on the hopefully thinned skinned academic visitors with the words ‘Cambridge Windows’ scrolling across the front of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand in brightly illuminated letters.  “Is this a library?” chant the Oxonians ironically in response, as if they don’t know what a library is and before anyone can chant “Oh fuck off you privileged twats”  to the tune of something by Gaz Coombes of Supergrass, they launch into “Football in a library , do-do-do” just like every other bunch of away supporters that ever visits Portman Road.

“Columbus Mechanical” announces the Sir Bobby Robson stand illuminations, and then “We are Columbus”.  I ask, but Fiona has no more idea of who Columbus might be than I do before she has a conversation with Pat from Clacton about this year’s pantomimes.  The sky has turned from blue to pale grey, Eggy loops a shot lazily over the Oxford crossbar. Only twelve minutes have dissolved into the past and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow, and perhaps as many as half a dozen people join in or at least turn round to stare at the idiot making all the noise. The early pussyfooting has gone; the corner came to nought but five minutes on and Town now attack with pace and clever passes. Oxford intercept the ball, they think it’s all over, but Chuba Akpom wrestles the ball back, Jaden Philogene advances feints, turns, twists feints again and shoots, and Town lead 1-0. Wow. I can feel myself smiling so much it makes me smile some more.

So how many more can we score? Eggy crosses to the far post, Davis heads the ball back and Philogene swipes the ball narrowly over the angle of post and bar from 12 metres or so.  As a brief side-show Oxford’s Siriki Dembele, who has replaced the poorly spelt and now injured Tyler Goodrham, looks to shadow box Town’s Darnell Furlong and is booked for his trouble by referee Mr Finnie, another one of those small, very neat men who seem attracted to officiating.

A half an hour has disappeared into the past and strangely Oxford have a corner. “Yellows, Yellows, Yellows” chant the Oxonians up in the corner of the Cobbold Stand, and some big bloke wearing a yellow shirt heads high over the Town goal.  Then Oxford equalise.  A poorly protected left flank, an unhindered run to the penalty area, an exchange of passes and someone with the unlikely surname of Lankshear scores.   We have ten minutes to live until half-time.  In the fifth of those minutes Furlong surges into the Oxford penalty area, squares from the by-line and Chuba Akpom diverts the ball into the Oxford net, well wide of goalkeeper Jamie Cumming. Town lead 2-1 and the world’s natural order is restored.

Forty-two minutes lost to the past and Nunez shoots, Town have another corner. “Come On You Blues” I bawl, but the Oxford goalkeeper gathers.  “Down with the Norwich, You’re going down with the Norwich” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of ‘Guantanamerra’, although stupidly keen to imagine university-based puns I like to think they are singing “sent down with the Norwich, you’re being sent down with the Norwich”.   “Two-one and you still don’t sing” is the Oxonians momentarily inaccurate but understandable response, followed up with an ironic “Your support is fucking shit” from a group of fans who would need to have bought two seats each to fill their allotted space in the Cobbold Stand.  Jaden Philogene shoots wide and three minutes are stolen from the future never to be returned, and are added to the first half.

With the half-time hiatus I vent more spent Suffolk Pride and then head for Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison at the front of the stand, stopping briefly to speak with Dave the steward on the way.   I tell Harrison to check out a music artiste called Spencer Cullum, whilst Ray tells me he won’t be at the next match because he is off on a cruise in the Caribbean; I hope it’s not on a Venezuelan fishing boat.

The football resumes at five past four as Portman Road is briefly enveloped in a radiant, pink sky like the backwash to an unexpected mid-afternoon aurora borealis.  Two more Town corners ensue and along with Oxford’s Brown, Chuba Akpom’s name is entered, no doubt very neatly into Mr Finnie’s notebook when his ire is stoked by the rough conduct of the Oxford defender. “Hot Sausage Company” read the Sir Bobby Robson stand illuminations.  As the violence continues, Helik scythes down Akpom and the home crowd jeer, singing “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you” to the tune of “Cwm Rhondda”, boastful of their ignorance of the Polish international defender.  Mr Finnie again licks the end of his pencil and re-opens his notebook.  “We forgot that you were here” sing the Oxonians, again ironically because judging by the empty seats in the away enclosure many of them genuinely aren’t here, although at £38 a ticket I can’t say I blame them. Whatever happened to ‘twenty’s plenty’?

Almost two-thirds of our afternoon’s ‘football experience’ has been experienced. Leif Davis crosses low, Nunez shoots, Cumming saves and Town have another corner.  Fiona and Pat from Clacton discuss Pat’s handbag.  Pat says she won’t get the masturbating monkey lucky charm out today, it’s too cold; anyway, we’re still winning. A Town free-kick is awarded; Nunez curls the ball over the defensive wall towards the top corner of the goal, but Cumming claws the ball away spectacularly.

It’s time for substitutions and Eggy and Nunez leave, making way for Wes Burns and Jack Clarke.  “Burns, Burns will tear you apart, again” predict the Sir Bobby Robson standers with help from Joy Division.  There is another Town corner and we are thanked for our incredible support by the excitable young stadium announcer, who tells us that we number 28,199.  Will Vaulks completes the neat list of Oxford names in Mr Finnie’s notebook, yet more substitutions are made and yet another Town corner and even an Oxford corner come and go.  At last, another additional three minutes are drawn from the infinite bank of time and then Town are up to second place in the league table because Middlesbrough have lost; vanquished Oxford face the ignominy of being one place below Norwich City who have beaten some Park Rangers belonging to the Queen.

The new year has begun, Ipswich Town have played and I’m still feeling optimistic.  As Pat from Clacton told me earlier, it’s the Chinese year of the horse, which it was in 1978 when Town won the FA Cup and in 1990, 2002 and 2014 when they didn’t.

Ipswich Town 0 Charlton Athletic 3

/ martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

The waking hours that fill most of the time before a mid-week evening fixture are a bit odd.  I’m ‘at work’, albeit at home but my thoughts are mostly of knocking-off and travelling to Ippy, of pre-match pints and the match itself as I wish the day away waiting for the main event, the floodlight beams and the darkened streets.

It’s been a miserable day of showers and grey, threatening clouds and just as I walk out of my front door a heavy squall sends me back indoors looking for an umbrella.   The train is on time however, and even though kick-off is not for nearly another three hours blue shirts bearing the mysterious word ‘Halo’ are out in force.  Gary is soon sitting next to me having negotiated the assault course of the narrow aisle between the carriage seats.  We see a polar bear through the deepening gloom outside as we settle into our familiar pre-match world.

In Ipswich the streets are wet and shiny as the traffic swishes up Civic Drive and what I still think of as a corporation bus lurches round the roundabout by the spiral car park, all glowing interior, rain-dappled windows and blurry faces heading home for tea.  Low, setting sunlight shines onto the plate glass windows of the abandoned Crown Court building as Ipswich slips towards darkness.  I remark to Gary how beautiful it all is, but I’m not sure he’s as moved as I am.   At ‘the Arb’, homely electric light spills out into High Street, a welcoming beacon for the pre-match drinker.  I buy a pint of Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella lager for Gary (£10.21 with Camra discount) and we choose what we are going to eat before heading out the back to the beer garden, where we get out from under the spits of rain in the long rustic shelter that backs onto the road

By the time Mick arrives Gary and I are about to tuck into pulled pork and Haloumi chips respectively, and we talk of boycotting the World Cup in the USA, Mick’s work and who saw Ipswich lose at Middlesbrough on the telly last Friday.  Because he bought me my Haloumi chips, I buy Gary another pint of Estrella, and a Monkey Shoulder whisky for Mick and more Suffolk Pride for myself, before Gary then buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride and another Monkey Shoulder for Mick, and I tell him I fancy mooching around Europe for a bit when I retire.   All the time our conversation has to compete to be heard above that of the half dozen blokes at the table at the other end of the shelter.  I can’t quite decide if they’re loud or if the tin roof makes for unhelpful acoustics.

As ever, we are the last to leave for Portman Road, probably because we are the coolest over-sixties in the pub, me in my dark overcoat, Mick looking like a mature student revolutionary and Gary in his tan puffa jacket, like a lost ski instructor. We join the gathering crowds as we cross Civic Drive again and part ways beneath the dead gaze of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue.  The queues for Sir Alf’s stand are long again tonight, possibly because there are now rows of barriers funnelling us towards trestle tables and then the turnstiles, although I eventually make my entrance via the side entrance as Mr Benn might have done had the shopkeeper given him a blue a white scarf and a bobble hat one day.   It’s strange how often I think of Mr Benn.

By the time I emerge onto Sir Alf’s lower tier the teams are on the pitch, I have missed the antics of the excitable young stadium announcer, his suit and his Basil Fawlty style contortions, and everyone is shaping up for the kick-off.  The man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here of course, but sadly Pat from Clacton is not; she’s in Clacton where, following her week playing whist in Great Yarmouth she has contracted Covid.  I learned this through social media where it’s possibly the only thing I have ever believed to be true.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball tonight, kicking it towards me and my fellow ultras and wearing our signature blue and white, whilst our opponents Charlton Athletic sport sensible, plain red shirts and white shorts, a sight which has me reminiscing about my Continental Club Edition Subbuteo set and its anonymous and strangely posed red and blue teams.  Town quickly win a couple of corners and I’m singing ‘Come On You Blues’ before I get a chance to work out who are ‘the Blues’ tonight; it takes me a while because it seems like another team and it’s going to be nearly half-time before I work out that number 29 is Akpom, and realise Philogene our top scorer isn’t even in the starting line-up. 

In the Cobbold stand, the Charlton fans are singing “ I want to go home, Ipswich is a shit-hole, I want to go home” and whilst I will admit I am ignorant of the attractions of beautiful downtown Plumstead, I surmise that they couldn’t have seen the fading sunlight on the plate glass windows of the old Crown Court or that glowing corporation bus.  Meanwhile, I notice that the Charlton number six has the unusual surname of Coventry, which I mention to Fiona but we quickly decide there aren’t any potential quips and anything about being sent to Coventry wouldn’t really work. 

Ipswich are dominating possession but in a somewhat dull manner devoid of decent shots and it’s no surprise when the Charlton supporters make the traditional “Is this a library?” enquiry and Fiona suggests it probably isn’t a library because as Ipswich fans we can’t read or write, only drive tractors.  Such is fan “culture”.  Non-plussed by everything, my eye is caught by the electronic advertisements on the Sir Bobby Robson stand which are thanking “today’s programme sponsor Cambridge Windows” before the words “Doors” and “Conservatories” flash up in neon blue and I wonder if this isn’t subliminal advertising.  “Your support is fucking shit” chant the Charltonites and I like to think they mean Cambridge Windows’support, because if the programme is sponsored why does it cost four quid?

Town win another couple of corners and I chant “Come On You Blues”, but as usual to no avail although the bloke beside me concludes “They’re there for the taking “ meaning Charlton, and I tend to agree that they look pretty useless, I just can’t understand why their goalkeeper hasn’t had to make a save yet.  The half is half over when there is a break in play as Town ‘keeper Alex Palmer is mysteriously stranded about thirty yards from his goal and receiving treatment, whilst the other twenty-one players all congregate by the dugouts for drinks, chit-chat and possibly nibbles and the exchange of phone numbers.  The upshot is that Palmer retires hurt and Christian Walton takes his place.

When play resumes ,Town continue to accumulate corner kicks and with no football to cheer from their own team the Charlton fans resort to chanting “Ed Sheeran is a wanker”, and who wouldn’t? Ipswich accumulate a still larger stack of corner kicks as the first third of the match passes into forgettable history but experiencing a flashback from  the ‘high’ of the last home game against Norwich, Town fans reprise The Cranberries’ “Zombie” singing “Nunez, he’s in your head” even though there are no Norwich fans here to fall victim to our untamed wit.  The Norwich baiting continues with chants of  “He’s only a poor little budgie”  as the Sir Bobby Robson standers dredge up the euphoria of the last game to compensate for the lack of euphoria from this one.  It’s a ploy that almost works however as Akpom strikes a fierce shot against the Charlton cross bar, although then soon afterwards weak defending by Leif Davis results in Christian Walton having to make a fine save from Olaofe who is left free to run at goal.

The half concludes with four minutes of added time, Nunez shooting wide and firing a free-kick over the bar, Town getting a final corner of the half, Charlton’s Docherty being the first player to be booked and Charlton getting two corners of their own, which are enthusiastically greeted by sonorous chants of “Come on you Reds” and also a header wide of the goal.

With the break for half-time, after venting spent Suffolk Pride I join Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand where Ray and I express mild dissatisfaction that Town are not several goals up against what appears to be the worst visiting team to rock up at Portman Road since our time in the third division.  More optimistically, Harrison predicts a final score of 4-0 and I predict 3-0, although with unintended foresight I don’t say who to, or even to whom.

The match resumes at nine minutes to nine and within seven minutes Charlton score as the childishly named Sonny Carey easily runs at and past Dara O’Shea and shoots under Christian Walton.  A man somewhere behind me becomes very sweary and the Charlton fans get so carried away that they start singing about being on their way to something called the Premier League.  Two minutes later it’s almost 2-0 to Charlton from a corner and a minute later it is as Christian Walton dives low to spring the ball up in the air for an unmarked player with the possibly misspelt name of Gillesphey to head it unchallenged into the gaping goal.  Charlton’s supporters are suddenly very loud indeed, and I begin to wonder if Keiran McKenna’s half time talk hadn’t included the ritual slaughter of a black cat. 

Hopes are raised as a Leif Davis shot, or may be a cross, hits the Charlton net, but these hopes are then dashed on the lineman’s raised flag.   Substitutions naturally follow with thirty minutes to go as they nearly always do, but tonight they need to be game changers.  In a way they are as two minutes later Charlton score a third, another header into a gaping net after Davis defends weakly again and Walton dives at the near post and no one marks Miles Leaburn who can’t believe his luck from the middle of the goal.  Some people leave and the Charlton fans ask “Can we play you every week?”. With perfect timing the illuminated adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson stand read “If you see something that doesn’t look right…”

I sing “We’ll have to win 4-3” to the baleful tune of Rogers and Hart’s song form 1934 “Blue Moon” and as if to show willing Town continue to have the majority of possession and win even more corners.  As I tell the bloke next to me however, we look no more dangerous from our corners than we do from Charlton goal kicks. Akpom shoots wide for Town and more substitutions follow, but nothing changes except for the Charlton songs which move on to Tom Hark with the curious words “See the Charlton, then fuck off home” and it’s hard to tell if this is an existential commentary on their lives, ours, or everyone’s, and if so, why?

Ipswich of course win the moral victory as Charlton have another player booked and then another and we also win the corner count and the curious satisfaction of knowing that tonight’s attendance of 28,006 is too large to fit into Charlton’s stadium at The Valley.  But sadly, the actual victory, what we showed up to see go the way of Ipswich, is Charlton’s, and I haven’t even had the consolation of knowing what Pat from Clacton had for her tea.  “Is there a fire drill?” enquire the Charlton fans as the Town fans head en masse for the exits, and it’s good to know that even if their team has won the match quite comfortably, they remain pitifully unoriginal in their attempts at humour.   The four minutes of added on time will prove hopelessly insufficient for Town, but at least I will easily be able to catch the 9:53 train, which in these days of concern about our mental well being will help me ‘move on’, so it’s not all bad.

Of course it hasn’t helped me ‘move on’ , not for long anyway , and after one gloomy day there will follow another.  But that’s autumn as one’s early season hopes and expectations wither and fall like leaves from the trees.  I’m sure we’ll win on Saturday mind. Up the Town!