Bobby Robson

Ipswich Town 2 Middlesbrough 2

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It’s been a difficult week of a shingles vaccination, which made me feel so ill I was only capable of falling asleep watching the telly,  a televised away defeat at Portsmouth, through much of which I wish I had slept, and a Saturday in which I was tasked with wrestling artificial stone paving slabs  into some sort of path around a recently refurbished garden pond.  Now, to cap it all the Town are having to perform at midday on the Sunday at the behest of some evil, global media empire, and I am having to forego every person’s human right to a lie-in on their actual or nominal sabbath before enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

More cheerfully, it is a bright sunny morning, albeit tempered by a chilly breeze, as I make my way to the railway station where, arriving on the ‘Ipswich bound’ platform I engage in conversation with the man who very often stands here with me on match days.  Today, we continue our conversation on the train and not only does he meet Gary, who as ever boards at the next station stop, but he reveals that his name is Gareth, his grandfather was chairman of Braintree Town Football Club back in the 1970’s and 1980’s when they were in the Eastern Counties League, and one of his earliest football related memories is of his grandmother running the players’ baths at Cressing Road just as the game was about to end, because presumably at that time in Braintree the brand names Mira, Triton and Aqualisa were still unknown.

Being Sunday, the train is busy with faithful pilgrims, all bound for Portman Road, who regrettably seem largely unable to talk quietly, making it difficult for considerate people like Gary, Gareth and me to hold a conversation without raising our voices too.  In Wherstead we lean towards the train window, searching the landscape beyond for polar bears; a grubby looking one close to the tracks glances up trying to spot any Middlesbrough fans who she might recognise from the frozen wastelands of the North or episodes of Noggin the Nog.

Arriving in Ipswich, Gary and I bid adieu to Gareth and make for the Arb as fast as Gary’s dawdling gait will allow. Impatient for beer, despite it not yet being eleven o’clock, I am first through the door, but Gary offers to buy the drinks and I let him.  The pub is pleasingly not as heaving as it usually is before a match, although a man tries to form a queue behind us at the bar and I have to tell him that queuing is not required in pubs, it’s why they have bars and not hatches, and bar staff not tellers.

Pint glasses of Lager and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride in our respective hands Gary and I proceed to the beer garden where Mick is already ensconced with a pint of Blackberry Porter and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.  Our conversation begins like an episode of Rumpole at the Bailey; but it’s Gary at Chelmsford Crown Court, as he proceeds to tell us a story of every day criminal folk beating each other up on the mean streets of Braintree beneath the gaze of CCTV cameras.  Gary’s stint as a juror ended this week but the denouement is that all the accused were found guilty of a range of offences and await sentencing next month. 

Another pint of lager, a pint of porter and a double-whisky later Gary, Mick and I are victoriously the last drinkers in the pub when we head downhill to Portman Road where there are queues for the Cobbold Stand. We go our separate ways somewhere close to the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey uncertain whether the final home match of the season is on a Saturday or a Sunday but relatively confident that it will again be stupidly early in the day.

At the back of the Sir  Alf Ramsey stand the queues to be checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal are blissfully short and although the sacred turnstile 62 is temporarily afflicted by a man trying to gain entry using petrol coupons and a Tesco club card,  I am soon stood next to Pat from Clacton waiting for her to finish photographing the flames leaping into the midday air in  front of the Cobbold Stand so that I can sit down next to Fiona, next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  I think to myself that it’s nice that everyone is present after a few absences for the previous match. Today, I have mysteriously arrived in time to hear the excitable young stadium announcer (EYSA) announce the whole team and I do my best to be like a Frenchman at Le Stadium in Toulouse or the Stade Raymond Kopa in Angers by bawling out the players surnames as EYSA reads them out , but with variable success because he is a beat or two ahead of the scoreboard

Eventually, through an atmosphere of dissipating smoke and fumes the game begins, with today’s guests Middlesbrough, known as The Boro’ to their friends getting first go with the ball, which they are mostly kicking in the direction of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the Smokehouse live music venue in South Street. Very agreeably, both teams sport their proper kits, with the Town of course in their signature blue and white and The Boro’ in all red with a white band across their chests making them look unmistakeably like Middlesbrough.  The only pity is that The Boro’s white band is besmirched with the name of an on-line betting company when it should read ‘Geordie Jeans’.  

Early exchanges are fast and erratic as if the game was being played by startled spiders.  Waiting for the game to ‘settle down’ I ask Pat from Clacton how her knee is and she tells me it still hurts but nothing like it did and of course she can now walk on it and didn’t, as I suggest therefore, need to be lowered into her seat from a helicopter.  “I wouldn’t mind, but I was only getting in my car to go and play whist” moans Pat.

Back on the pitch, the first seven minutes have evaporated like the paraffin fumes, and Town are already starting to dominate to the extent that the smog monsters up in the Cobbold Stand (for that is what people from Teesside are called), are plaintively chanting “Come on Boro, Come on Boro”.  The atmosphere is tense.  “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?”  enquire the Smoggies (short for Smog-monsters) through the medium of song, but happily the half-expected medley of works by Chris Rea doesn’t materialise.  Looking up into the gap between the roofs of the stands billowing white clouds tower above us in an otherwise clear blue sky.   The seventeenth minute heralds Town’s first corner, as the result of a shot from Ivan Azon, but it is all too easily dealt with by the Boro players despite mine, Fionas and ever-present Phil’s chants of “Come on you Blues”.  Four minutes on and again our chants seem as ineffectual as Nunez’s next corner kick.

With a quarter of the game having faded away into our pasts Town almost score as a low McAteer cross is sent wide of the goal by an unexpectedly far forward Darnell Furlong, who I don’t think I had ever seen have a shot before.  Somewhat typically, within a minute Middlesbrough take the lead, predictably perhaps from the Town left where the improbably plainly monikered Alan Browne appears unmarked to cross low for David Strelec to tap the ball in from close range.  “Tingly Teds hot sauce by Ed Sheeran” read the neon lights of the Sir Bobby Robson stand not making matters any better.

 A deathly silent pall of gloom, which the home crowd always keeps close at hand for such occasions hangs over the stands and consumes all hope for a full five minutes.  But then, a bit of space in front of the Boro back four, a pass, a dinky back heel from Ivan Azon, and the re-born Kasey McAteer is drilling the ball into the corner of the Boro net from outside the penalty area and twenty-seven thousand odd people believe again.  “By far the greatest team the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers. “Well may be not the World, perhaps Suffolk” says Fiona, and Norfolk of course.  Town win a third corner and again at least three of us bellow “Come on you Blues”.  As the ball is again cleared, I wonder to Fiona whether our chants put the players off rather than encourage them.  Meanwhile up in the Cobbold Stand the Smoggies are chanting “You don’t know what you’re doing” to referee Mr Jarred Gillett, who has made or not made some or other decision to annoy them, even though he appears to have also awarded their team a free kick; you just can’t please some people.  Boro’ goalkeeper Sol Brynn takes the free-kick and I momentarily think of Uncle Bryn in tv’s Gavin and Stacey.

Half-time is only about seven minutes away and Jaden Philogene has a rare shot on goal which gives Town a fourth corner and a handful of us another opportunity to encourage the team vocally.  Town have been the better team this first half, but the Smoggies are blaming Mr Gillett. “You’re not fit to referee” they sing, like chapel-going Welshman and then more experimentally, and as Brynn takes the inevitable goal-kick following Town’s corner, “Shit referee, Ole, Ole, Ole”.  The goal-kick skews out into touch and I tell Fiona “I don’t know about the referee, but the goalkeeper’s not that good either”.

After Middlesbrough win their only corner of the half, which they don’t seem very keen to take, a minute of added on time is added on and then it’s time to applaud the team off before going to the front of the stand to chat to Dave the steward, Ray and his grandson Harrison and son Michael.  Today Ray tells me how he used to get free tickets for both home and away games when his father drove the team bus in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s.  On my way back to my seat ever-present Phil who never misses a game tells me how yesterday he went to watch Kings Park Rangers at Cornard and how this very blog came in useful, fore warning him that Cornard United’s Backhouse Lane ground is a real ale desert, so he drank elsewhere.

The football resumes at two minutes past one and soon it becomes evident that this is going to be a ‘game of two halves’ and it seems that it is Middlesbrough’s turn to dominate.   Like some meteorological portent of doom, the sky has clouded over, and the breeze seems even cooler than before. Middlesbrough win a corner.  Three minutes later a state of confusion in the Town box has the ball rebounding off a post and Christian Walton saving the ball from crossing the goal line.  Things are looking a bit grim and as a diversion I look for poetry in the Boro team names, but Ayling, Browne, Fry, Gilbert and Morris can’t compare to Boam, Brine, Craggs, Spraggon and Woof from the 1970’s.

Brief respite and enjoyment arrive on fifty-three minutes as the afternoon’s first booking goes to Boro’s Matt Targett who has fouled Jack Taylor.  I speculate that a matt target is easier to hit than a glossy one which might produce awkward reflections and that he perhaps has a sister who is formally known as Miss Targett.  As the game descends into its final half an hour the first substitutions see former Town loanee Jeremy Sarmiento applauded by the home supporters who may never forget his last-minute goal versus Southampton in 2024, before Ivan Azon hurriedly shoots over the Boro cross bar.

As in the first half, Town’s  spurning of an opportunity is soon punished and two minutes later the Town defence is as ever penetrated on its left hand side and again a low cross is pulled back allowing  little Tommy Conway to score from close range with the Town defence well and truly dissected and pinned out like a frog in a school biology lab. Boro lead 2-1 and substitutions for Town are immediate but not necessarily related, with Mehmeti and Clarke usurping Nunez and Philogene.  But Town’s defence doesn’t improve much as Sarmiento’s shot is saved and then another three are blocked in quick succession before Middlesbrough have a corner.

Eighteen minutes of normal time remain when Eggy replaces McAteer, fourteen when Mehmeti shoots straight at Brynn, and Town begin to claw their way back into the contest with a corner seven minutes later and then two more substitutions with George Hirst and Dan Neil saying ‘hello’ and Ivan Azon and Azor Matusiwa saying ‘goodbye’.  Six minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our ‘incredible’ support, which numerically speaking today amounts to 29,684. Incredible.  Two more minutes have elapsed when a low cross from the right looks to be too far ahead of George Hirst for him to threaten the Boro goal but Adilson Malanda doesn’t make the same judgement and with the sort of slightly violent, gung-ho spirit he might have been infected with whilst playing in the USA, he pulls Hirst back and gifts Jack Clarke a shot at goal from the penalty spot.  Clarke scores the penalty and despite another eight minutes of added on time being added on, and two more players for each team being booked, the game is drawn.

The final whistle sees Pat from Clacton departing as quickly as she can and Fiona leaves too for her train.  My train leaves in not much more than ten minutes time too, so I don’t linger either.  But this has been a good match, not very much use as a result to either team really, but not a disaster either and worth the entry money as a spectator.  The Smoggies up in Cobbold stand seem bitter however, and Mr Gillett is the target of their ire as they advise him that he is not fit to referee nor perform other tasks requiring snap decisions and good eyesight presumably, like racing driver and fighter-pilot.  It makes a welcome change though for opposition supporters to be singing this particular song, long may it continue.

Ipswich Town 2 Birmingham City 1

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It feels like it’s been a while since I last trekked into Ipswich to see the Town play. In fact, it was only just over a fortnight ago, but so little has happened in my life since then that it feels like eons ago, I think I need to get out more.  But at least I don’t live in Gaza, Iran, or the United States of America and this morning the sun is shining brightly as I make my way to the railway station, and the only clouds in the sky seem to be there merely for decoration, although there is a stingy breeze.  A message from Greater Anglia tells me that the train is on time, and indeed it’s been a busy morning for messages on my mobile phone, with Mick disturbing my sleep as early as 6:15 to confirm our rendez-vous at the Arb in what was then seven and a half hours-time, and Pat from Clacton telling me that she won’t be at the match today because she twisted her knee last Monday getting in to her car to go to a whist drive.

Having boarded the punctual train, I am soon talking with Gary who continues to remain impressively discreet about his continuing jury service, which is now entering its fourth week.  Our journey is again illuminated by the sight of two polar bears in Wherstead, and we briefly speculate as to whether polar bears notice that the clocks have changed given that they are used to winters and summers of almost perpetual darkness or light.  Alighting from the train in Ipswich, it feels like that stingy breeze is even stingier here, probably because we’re nearer the coast.  Princes Street is well populated with police officers today and I seem to recall this is always the case when today’s visitors Birmingham City come to town.  I hadn’t realised that Brummies were such a recalcitrant lot, but then my experience of Birmingham City supporters is limited to a history teacher from when I was at school in the 1970’s, and like most history teachers he never struck me as being much of a threat to public order.  

Arriving at the Arb, getting through the door is unexpectedly difficult due to people queuing at the bar, but it’s not long before I’m ordering a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and because there is no Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride available, pints of Mighty Oak Brown Hare for Mick and me.  I have no idea of the cost but bravely wave my bank card in the direction of the card reader before we retire to the beer garden and sit at a table at one end of the shelter backing onto High Street.  Today is Mick’s birthday and once we have sat down, I present him with a card that I have made especially for him, which features Conservative party leader Kemi Badenoch in the guise of a burlesque dancer, a theme which I had correctly guessed he would find very exciting.

Our conversation veers from Gary’s jury service to Mick’s recent visit to the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, to today’s team, before Gary buys another pint of Lager 43 for himself, another of Brown Hare for me and a double whisky for Mick.  Gary then spills most of his lager down his leg and over his jacket as he finds himself guilty of waving his hands around too much when he talks.  It is gone twenty to three when we head for Portman Road and like the bons viveurs that we are, we are of course the last to leave the pub.

Pleasingly, at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand there are no queues to be checked for weapons and scrap metal and the attractive young woman in the hijab soon waves me through once I’ve shown her that my mobile phone is not a ballistic missile or a nunchuk.  There is a short queue at the feted turnstile 62, but I’m happy to wait my turn to pass through it and after dispensing some spent Brown Hare I arrive at my seat behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, and next to Fiona, just as the excitable young stadium announcer reads out the names of the last four players in the Town team today, the ones with the highest squad numbers.  Like a Frenchman at the Stade Marie-Marvingt in Le Mans or Stade Velodrome in Marseille I bawl out the players surnames as the excitable young announcer announces them.

Eventually, after an abridged rendition of Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown and a few bars of the Beatles’ Hey Jude the game begins, and it is Town who get first go with the ball, which they are directing towards me and my fellow ultras. Fiona and I share the thought that we wish we could just be told now that we’re going to win, or not.  It would spare us the pain.  Town wear their signature blue and white kit whilst Birmingham are in an unfamiliar all red ensemble and look like a knock-off Swindon Town or Workington.  Mysteriously, Birmingham’s shirts feature a white ‘five bar gate’ on the front as if they are keeping a tally of something like games without a win or consecutive years of crushing disappointment; “Keep right on to the end of the road” sing the Brummies in the Cobbold stand miserably, suggesting it might be the latter.

Within a minute, Kasey McAteer is set up at the edge of the penalty area by Nunez and shoots hard, but over the Birmingham cross bar. It looked like a good opportunity to score but Town are continuing to have the ball most of the time, although after five minutes Birmingham are the first of the two teams to raise and then dash their supporters hopes with a fruitless corner kick.  The name RJ Dean follows that of Edison in the illuminations that cross the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and in spite of myself I think of Pearl and Dean, and one hit wonder soft rockers Edison Lighthouse (Love Grows (where my Rosemary goes)), although I’ve never had a Rosemary.

Despite Town having the better of the game so far, the Birmingham goalkeeper James Beadle isn’t exactly being forced to pull off a string of fine saves and I sense that the people around me aren’t giving the game their full attention. “Watch out Beadle’s about” laughs a man a couple of seats away from me in what could be a pitiful attempt at humour or more likely a cry for help. I ask Fiona what she’s having for her tea and given that she’s sitting where Pat from Clacton usually sits, I shouldn’t be surprised when she says “A baked potato”.  But Fiona is quick to point out that unlike Pat from Clacton she won’t be having any fancy toppings from Marks & Spencer such as prawns, she’ll be having baked beans.

“Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers realising that this is the weekend of a Christian festival, but evidently unsure which one.  George Hirst wins a corner for Town and along with ever-present Phil I chant “Come On You Blues”.  The half is half over and Birmingham win another pointless corner too.  Nearly a third of the match has been lost to the ages and I think to myself that I can only remember one shot on goal. Hope springs eternal however and Town earn two more corner kicks in quick succession but as Fiona and I joke, they might as well have turned them down and said to Birmingham, “No, really, it’s ok, you have a goal kick, it’ll save time and all that pushing and shoving”.

Open play seems Town’s best bet for a goal and within sixty seconds a short pass from George Hirst has Kasey McAteer bearing down on Beadle only for his decent looking shot to be saved.  Somewhat typically, Birmingham immediately take the ball to the other end of the pitch and a limp, aimless cross later, the ball is swept into the Town goal net by an unhappy looking Spaniard called Carlos Vicente.  “How shit must you be? we’re winning away” chant the Brummies, thoughtfully demeaning both teams at once in the spirit of equal opportunities.

The Birmingham supporters are now in good voice with their team’s goal seemingly having lifted the pall of gloom that their Black Country accent usually conveys.  “I can’t read and I can’t write but that don’t really matter, I’m a supporter of Ipswich Town and I can drive a tractor” they chant as they strangely feign a west country burr worthy of the Wurzels.    It’s not a chant I’ve heard from away supporters in sometime and it suggests that they might get lost on the way home as they look for the signs to the A45 rather than the A14. 

Barring the unknown amount of time to be stolen from our futures and added on, there are seven minutes of the first half remaining as Azore Matusiwa is substituted for Anis Mehemeti and I remark to Fiona that they both have the same initials, like Nigel Farage and National Front.  “Is this a library” ask the Brummies up in the Cobbold Stand and the obviously well-read and studious man two seats along from me who likes Jeremy Beadle shouts back “You’ve never seen a fucking a library”.  

With the forty-first minute comes the confirmation needed that this isn’t a library at all as Ben Johnson cleverly bounces a cross from Furlong into the Birmingham goal, from where it is quickly cleared but not before it has crossed the goal line. Town are level.  Four minutes later, and the last library cards are melted down and “Quiet Please” signs burnt as an incisive passing move cuts through the heart of the Birmingham defence putting the constantly running Kasey McAteer through to slip the ball beneath Beadle, and Town are winning.  Six minutes of added on time are added on in which Town win another corner from which George Hirst heads over the Birmingham cross bar; but in the circumstances everyone seems happy for now with the one goal lead.

After a slow start the half has ended very well indeed, and Town are deserving of their interval lead as I head down to the front of the stand to talk to Ray, his grandson Harrison and son Michael, stopping only to speak with Dave the  steward before later decanting the dregs of the  Brown Hare and getting back to my seat by nine minutes past four, when the football resumes. 

It is soon apparent that the second half is not living up to the excitement of the first as Ipswich are incapable of retaining the ball.  They try to play out from the back as usual, and manage it to the point where Clarke or McAteer are outnumbered and squashed against the touchline and concede throw-ins.  Meanwhile, if the ball strays in-field the Birmingham players are falling over like they’ve heard that the ghost of Mack Sennett is in the stand looking for candidates to star in a re-make of the Keystone Cops movies; referee Mr Adam Herczeg is predictably unpredictable but is generally a sucker for anyone falling over.

Birmingham are the first to make substitutions but with just under a half an hour left to play the Town support is beginning to plead with their team. “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” they implore before moving onto a current favourite, “When the Town go marching in”, which is delivered at a pace that suggests Town will be limping in and we’ll be “in that number” because well, we ‘re here now and we can’t be arsed to move elsewhere.  I try to make myself feel better by looking up at the almost clear, blue, afternoon sky and thinking that the stars are still there, I just can’t see them at the moment.

On seventy minutes Birmingham’s Ibrahim Osman gets to the by-line and his cross strikes the chest of Dara O’Shea and drops into the Ipswich goal. From where I’m sat it looks like a perfectly good own goal but happily and perhaps fortunately it’s not.  According to the referee’s assistant the ball had gone over the line before it was crossed.  The close shave is enough to stir Keiran McKenna into action and he embarks on a mass substitution the like of which has usually occurred about a quarter of an hour before now.  Off go Clarke and Nunez, on comes Jaden Philogene and from the excitable young stadium announcer’s announcement it sounds like George Hirst is replaced by both Jack Taylor and Chuba Akpom.  Jack Taylor is almost immediately booked for throwing the ball into the crowd, suggesting that his role will be to “manage the game” by just mucking about as much as possible.

From the low point of the near own goal, Town are now improving, looking more resilient.  Luckily, although Birmingham are big and strong, with the possible exception of Osman they seem to lack skill and guile.  A chant of ”Ole, Ole Ole” , albeit a brief one, suggests some Town fans are confident Town will hang on and I am surprised by how quickly the time passes as we lurch into the final ten minutes.  Eighty-four minutes are gone and the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our “incredible support” before announcing that we number 29,381 and I cringe as people applaud their own existence.  A minute later I gasp as Osman shoots low and Christian Walton dives to tip the ball onto the right-hand post before it is booted clear. But that’s as bad as it gets and four minutes and another four minutes of added-on time slip away into the past without further undue pain, and Ipswich win.

With the final whistle, Fiona is quickly away, but with twenty minutes until my train is due to depart, I linger to applaud the Town and sing another verse or two of Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown.  It has been a mostly uncomfortable second half for Town supporters, but Town have won, we have reasons to be cheerful.

Ipswich Town 1 Hull City 0

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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.