Ipswich Town 0 AFC Wimbledon 0

March 8, 2024March 26, 2024 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

I’ve been waiting a while to see my team Ipswich Town play AFC Wimbledon at Portman Road. Sadly for me I missed the clubs’ first encounter back in September 2019 having been detained by the National Health Service; something to do with heart valves. Town’s 2-1 victory back then no doubt aided my recovery from surgery and now, re-built using bovine spare parts, I am fit enough to attend Portman Road, but circumstances have conspired against me again and the global pandemic means I along with everyone else must once again witness today’s match via the marvel of modern technology that is the ifollow. But with Town in a remarkable run of form that has seen them fail to score a single goal in five matches, mine and everyone else’s exile from Portman Road is probably for the best. Excited at the prospect of today’s game nevertheless, I have made the effort to order a programme, on the cover which is a slightly startled, or possibly forlorn, looking Kane Vincent-Young

Earlier today, as part of an attempt to ensure that the nation’s investment in one of my vital organs should not be in vain, I pumped up the tyres on my bicycle for the first time in three years and cycled a little over six miles. I had quite forgotten how uncomfortable a bicycle saddle can be and I am now only just able to walk, my legs feeling as if I am wading thigh deep through thick mud. Such exercise requires reward and I therefore enjoy a pre-match ‘pint’ of Fuller’s ESB (four for £6 from Waitrose) as I slump lifelessly in front of the telly catching the tail-end of Portsmouth versus Bristol Rovers on the ifollow, which my wife Paulene has been watching, Pompey being her team. Pompey win and Bristol Rovers are relegated. Coincidentally, Pompey and Bristol Rovers are the only two teams against whom Ipswich have scored in the last nine games; furthermore Town have beaten Bristol Rovers three times this season whilst Pompey have beaten Ipswich three times. I regale Paulene with these fascinating facts in the style of a radio commentator; predictably she is unimpressed, but it doesn’t stop me.

With tv pictures of Fratton Park now just a memory, I log on to the ifollow in time to catch the names of today’s virtual mascots who are Finlay, Harrison, and what sounds like RJ and Milan, but I could be wrong. It nevertheless sets me to hoping that Milan has a sister called Florence and that somewhere in northern Italy there is a child called Ipswich. In the manner of the FA Cup draw the next voice I hear is that of BBC Radio Suffolk’s stalwart commentator Brenner Woolley, who as ever has alongside him the redoubtable and legendary Mick Mills. “We really are at the business end of the season” says Brenner , by which I think he means that all the speculation since August about which teams would be promoted and relegated will soon be resolved. Ipswich will neither be promoted nor relegated, but their ‘business’ appears to be that of setting a new record for consecutive matches without scoring a goal; five and counting.

Brenner asks Mick to expound his current theory as to Town’s existence. Mick postulates that Town “…went from playing ‘A’ class football and not being able to do it and going for a more direct style”. Mick continues at length and I start to stare into the distance, but I get the drift. “No sign of the boys in blue” says Brenner as the Town team begin to saunter onto the pitch. I don’t think he’s talking about the police, he’s just not being very observant.

After the teams “take the knee” the game begins, Wimbledon getting first go with the ball and kicking towards the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. “Here’s Vincent-Young coming in-field with pink footwear” announces Brenner, eschewing deeper analysis for the sheer colour of the spectacle. “Not very much has happened so far but the one thing that’s happened is watching Teddy Bishop…” chips in Mick before completing his observation, which is that Teddy Bishop has been pushing forward down the left; so far he’s successfully been caught offside twice, but Mick’s advice is that he should keep trying.

“Paul Cook sipping on his coffee” says Brenner, introducing the by now obligatory mention of Paul Cook drinking coffee, and providing the sort of aimless detail worthy of an existential novel. It’s the fourth minute and Wimbledon’s Will Nightingale heads over the Town cross-bar. Mick Mills muses on how Town goalkeeper David Cornell stayed on his goal line but should have come to catch the cross. Mick is not impressed. Meanwhile Brenner tells us that Wimbledon have scored as many goals in their last four games as Ipswich have in their last nineteen, before reporting “Beautiful day at Portman Road, nil-nil, Town have now gone nine hours without a goal”. It’s a careful combination of facts from Brenner that leaves me not knowing whether to feel happy, disappointed or in awe. Wimbledon win a corner, Town win a corner. A punt forward sees Mark McGuinness head the ball away from David Cornell as he comes out to collect the ball. “McGuinness and Cornell got in a bit of a sixes and sevens situation” is Brenner’s peculiar description of events.

The match proceeds much as all recent games have done. “Bennetts; that was terrible” says Brenner as the oddly-named Keanan Bennetts runs at the Wimbledon defence and then sends a shot hopelessly wide of the far post. At the other end Wimbledon are no better. “Rudoni shoots wide, he should have scored”. Twenty minutes have passed. “Wimbledon on top at the moment; the better side” is Brenner’s assessment and then Wimbledon are awarded a penalty, possibly for shirt-pulling. Happily Joe Piggott’s spot-kick is easily saved by Cornell, albeit with his legs and feet. “ I didn’t like the run-up of the player” explains Mick relaying how he thought Piggott would miss.

“Bennetts; terrible lay-off” says Brenner, continuing the theme of inept play that has “ Paul Cook screaming his heart out down below” ; it’s a description from Brenner that suggests an image of the Town manager suffering infernal torment. There are twelve minutes of the half remaining. “Surprise, surprise it’s nil-nil” says Brenner, introducing an unwelcome note of sarcasm. Gwion Edwards shoots over the Wimbledon cross-bar; it’s Town’s second shot on goal in thirty-four minutes. “A massive difference in positivity in both teams” says Mick attempting to explain what we’re seeing.

Some passing breaks out. “Good play this from Ipswich Town” says Brenner as a corner is won, but then taken short and Mick shares our frustration. With none of the current Town team capable of scoring, Brenner resorts to telling BBC Radio Suffolk listeners that former Town player Will Keane has scored for Wigan Athletic and is currently in a “rich vein of form”. It’s just the sort of thing we all want to hear. Back to Portman Road and “Poor from Dozzell, ball out” are Brenner’s words. “He wanted to do something that wasn’t there” explains Mick raising philosophical questions about the nature of reality. Gwion Edwards wins Town’s third corner of the half with two minutes to go before a minute of added on time is…added on. It’s time enough for Brenner to refer to “Cornell…the Welshman” in much the same way that he usually refers to “Holy…the Czech”. Half-time arrives and Brenner concludes that “Ipswich continue to struggle”. “We are the inferior team” is Mick’s summation before he is rudely cut-off by the ifollow commercial break; it’s a phrase from Mick that would look good on a banner in the North Stand or on a t-shirt.

Half-time relief comes in the form of a mug of tea and two Christmas tree-shaped ginger biscuits; stocks of the un-seasonal confections acquired at a knock-down price remain healthy. All too quickly the game begins again. “Just three and a half more games for us to suffer” says Brenner. Armando Dobra has replaced the oddly-named Keanan Bennetts although “…anybody could have come off at half-time” is the honest assessment of Brenner.

Cornell is soon making a decent save at the feet of Wimbledon’s Ayoub Assal. “A lovely afternoon at Portman Road” says Brenner trying hard to look on the bright side of life before referring to “spring-heeled McGuinness”, which almost sounds like an epithet he’d pre-prepared. Ollie Hawkins appears to head the ball against the Wimbledon crossbar but Town earn a corner so he probably didn’t. “Nice little spell, it’s not lasted long, but it’s promising” says Mick as Town start to look more like a team that hasn’t just turned up because it’s a sunny afternoon and they’ve nothing better to do.

The game is nearly an hour old. “Nine and three-quarter hours since a Town goal” says Brenner, clearly not counting down the minutes until he can say that Town haven’t scored in ten hours. Kane Vincent-Young breaks down the right. “Vincent-Young has got open grass in front of him, just opening his legs” is Brenner’s slightly unpleasant description which probably sounds even more disturbing to BBC Radio Suffolk listeners who don’t have the accompanying tv pictures. Town players are moving and passing the ball well; another corner kick ensues which Gwion Edwards steps up to take and lumps way beyond the penalty area. “Ridiculous” says Mick “An awful corner kick”, and there is not a soul on Earth who would contradict him.

Woolfenden wrestles the ball from Assal; “…too big and strong for the young Moroccan” says Brenner, ticking another off the list of nationalities that he has referenced in his commentaries this season. Cole Skuse replaces Teddy Bishop and Armando Dobra has a shot on goal. “Tzanev finally makes a save after sixty-three minutes of this game” says Brenner. Mick then points out that Vincent-Young had made a good run ahead of Dobra “…if he’d rolled the ball to him” says Mick “I think we might have created a walk-in opportunity”. Oh for a “walk-in opportunity” I think to myself, whilst also reflecting that Brenner’s pronunciation of Tzanev sounds a lot like Sanef, the company that manages the best part of 2,000 kilometres of the French motorway network.

Aaron Drinan replaces Ollie Hawkins. Wimbledon are awarded a free-kick about 25 metres from goal after a foul by Andre Dozzell; Joe Piggott takes the kick, “The Welshman had to make the save and he did” Brenner tells us leaving radio listeners unsure if the shot had been saved by David Cornell, Gwion Edwards or Harry Secombe. The game reaches its seventieth minute; “Ipswich Town have now gone ten hours without scoring a goal” announces Brenner unable to hide the fact that he has been waiting all afternoon to say it.

“We’ve been better in this half” says Mick very reasonably. “Are Ipswich Town going to score another goal this season?” asks Brenner, rhetorically I assume and so does Mick because he doesn’t offer an answer. Kayden Jackson replaces Andre Dozzell and I begin to feel a little sleepy. Tzanev makes a block at the feet of Jackson. Mick suggests Town could score “since we’ve tinkered with a few changes”. Brenner guffaws loudly, seemingly amused by Mick’s tentative suggestion that this Town team “could score a goal against AFC Wimbledon”. How dare Brenner laugh at anything Mick says, particularly just two days before the forty-fifth anniversary of his testimonial match against FC Twente Enschede.

With the game into its final ten minutes of normal time, Town win a free-kick to the left of the Wimbledon penalty area. “It’s ten hours since Ipswich Town last scored a goal, is this their moment?” asks Brenner as Gwion Edwards steps up to take it. Edwards boots the ball high over the penalty area and cross-bar and into the North Stand. “Oh, Christ” Mick can be heard to say off-mike, sounding as glum as Marvin the paranoid android in the ‘Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’. Despite excellent comic timing Mick apologises for his blasphemy whilst Brenner laughs like a schoolboy. This is the sort of enjoyment supporters of clubs at the top of the table will never know.

Five minutes remain of normal time. My eyes close involuntarily and I have to try hard to stay awake; I blame strong beer at lunchtime. Wimbledon win a corner, Cornell takes a drop kick and “…hits it high into the Suffolk sky” according to Brenner. A throw-in is taken and “Dobra offers himself up” continues Brenner in his own slightly weird poetic mode. Three minutes of added on time are played and the game ends. “Another ninety-minutes in the can for Vincent -Young” is as good as it gets from Brenner who doesn’t bother to explain, depending on your choice of slang, either why he is now drawing analogies with film making or why Vincent-Young spent ninety minutes in the toilet.

The ifollow doesn’t allow us to enjoy Mick’s match summary before its broadcast effs-off into adverts and match statistics. For myself, I think the second half has been reasonably enjoyable despite the absence of goals, but after six and a bit matches I have now become accustomed to that and have sought my pleasure where I can. Today I have particularly enjoyed the exotic name of the Wimbledon right-back Nesta Guinness-Walker and every mention by Brenner of Wimbledon’s Ben Heneghan has to my addled mind sounded like van Hanegem, and has had me imagining I was watching Feyenoord or Holland in the mid 1970’s. On that basis, the wait to watch AFC Wimbledon play at Portman Road was worth it.

Three more matches, four and half more hours…plus time added-on.

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol City 2

March 7, 2024July 9, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

One of my favourite books in my embarrassingly large library of books about football is the Observer’s Book of Association Football, a handy pocket-sized publication which is invaluable whenever I want to pretend it is still the early 1970’s. The page on Bristol City begins with the sentence “Nothing they have achieved since can compare with Bristol City’s performances before the First World War”. Unfortunately, for the club from what before 1^st April 1974 was the biggest city in Gloucestershire, despite the Observer’s book of Association Football now being over fifty years old this sentence still holds true, and Bristol City have an even emptier trophy cabinet than Norwich City. Tonight, Ipswich Town play Bristol City at Portman Road, and after five consecutive victories for the Town I have been increasingly looking forward to the match, safe in the knowledge that all Bristol City’s best players must by now be at least one hundred and thirty years old. Oddly enough, had he not died in 1971, possibly at about the time when I was first enjoying the Observer’s book of Association Football, today would have been the eve of my grandfather’s one-hundred and thirty-fourth birthday, although as far as I am aware he was only ever associated with Shotley Swifts.

A week-night football match as ever makes the working day a little more bearable, and despite today otherwise being depressingly dreary and wet, my lunchtime was unexpectedly and inexplicably brightened by the discovery of the Bristol City team bus in the miserable, puddle-bound temporary car park on West End Road. I do like a team bus. I escape work at a bit after half past four and head for the club shop to buy a programme (£3.50), noticing on my way a posse of what look like nightclub bouncers at the back of the Sir Bobby Robson stand who wear coats bearing the name Achilles Security. It’s an odd choice of name for a security firm I think to myself, and one which doesn’t inspire confidence, suggesting as it does that despite being mostly strong, ultimately they also have a fatal weakness.

Worrying about how much Ipswich’s purveyors of security services know about classical mythology I leave beautiful down-town Ipswich in order to spend a bit more than an hour drinking breakfast tea and discussing current affairs with Mick, who is sadly unable to get to the match tonight because he is convalescing after an operation on his right foot, although not on his heel. Mick hopes to be fit enough to re-enter the fray of spectating from the West Stand in early April. From the cheery parlour of Mick’s Edwardian, suburban home I proceed to ‘the Arb’ to practice the all-important pre-match ritual of drinking, albeit on my own, sad and friendless as I now am. Shockingly, there is no Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride on the beer menu tonight, so it is a pint of Lacon’s Fireside (£3.96 with Camra discount) that I clutch in my cold right hand as I head for the beer garden, where I sit alone and read my programme whilst waiting for a dish of “Very French” thick-cut chips (£8.00), which come doused with bacon, brie and onion marmalade as if I and they were in Le Chambon-Feugerolles or Fontevrault-l’Abbaye. Having eaten my chips and sunk the Fireside, I again make for the bar for a pint of Moongazer Harewood porter (£3.96 with Camra discount). Returning to the beer garden I discover that the table where I had been sitting has been taken over by two women and three men who engage in witty conversation about nothing in particular and what they’ve watched on the telly. None of them seem to have watched S4C’s Sgorio, so I lose interest and return to my programme and the haven of my private thoughts.

I leave for Portman Road at about twenty to eight , politely returning my glass to the bar as I depart. It’s a cool and damp evening and at the bottom of Lady Lane a young woman stands on a tree stump like an animated statue, gazing out across the adjacent car park looking for someone who she is speaking to on her mobile phone. Hoping this is a new art installation, I break my stride for a second, but then walk on, realising I am more drawn by the lights of Portman Road than the promise of the Avant-garde. Portman Road is busy with queues for the turnstiles. Two policemen gaze down at their mobile phones, probably watching the girl on the tree stump on tik-tok when they should be watching for football hooligans and people needing to know the time. I join the queue at turnstile 62; next to me in the queue for turnstile 61 is a man I know called Kevin, who asks “Why turnstile 62?”, and then tells me he uses turnstile 61 because it was the year in which he was born.

The queue at turnstile 62 moves quickly, although not as quickly as that at turnstile 61, but before I know it I’ve drained my bladder , waved to a woman I know but whose name I can’t remember and am hearing Pat from Clacton say “Here he is” as I shuffle to my seat next to Fiona, next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game. With the game on Sky TV tonight we are treated to erupting flames and momentarily warmed faces as the teams and their acolytes stream onto the pitch. I half expect to detect the smell of singed hair and melted polyester but fortunately never do. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams and as ever almost gets half way through the team before he gets out of sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard. I shout the surnames out as they appear on the screen nevertheless, pretending to be French. If there was a lycee or Conservatoire for stadium announcers Murphy would be in the remedial class.

At last the game begins, Town having first go with the ball and mostly directing it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow fanatical ultras in our cheap, mass produced blue and white knitwear. Town are of course in blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Bristol City are also wearing their traditional signature kit of red shirts and white shorts, although their shirts are adorned with white stripes, which are too thick to be pinstripes and too thin to be real stripes. With their goalkeeper in all black with multi-coloured day-glo squiggles, there is vague 1990’s vibe to their couture.

The game seems slow to start and I miss nothing when Fiona hands me a birthday card to sign for Adam in the row in front, who turned eighteen earlier in the week. “Many Happy Returns to Portman Road” I write, confusingly. Town win an early free-kick, but it is poor and easily forgotten. Nine minutes elapse and Bristol look like they have the games first corner, provoking a single chant of “Come On You Reds” from the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand , but it’s not a corner and they’ve wasted their breath on a mere throw- in. But Portman Road is cacophonous as Blue Action in the Cobbold Stand and two sections of the Sir bobby Robson Stand all seem to be singing different songs. But all the same, it sounds better than the usual “When the Town go Marching In” dirge.

Seventeen minutes have gone forever, and all Town have done so far is have a hopeless free-kick, which I haven’t forgotten after all. From the stands, the songs sound sort of slurred as if everyone’s been in the pub all afternoon, perhaps they have. Five minutes later, Towns first shot on goal sees Sam Morsy put Keiffer Moore through, but the ball dribbles weakly to the goalkeeper. “Carrow Road is falling down” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, which in terms of wit and cutting humour is on a par with “Jingle Bells, Delia smells, The canary laid an egg”, which I actually prefer.

It’s the twenty-eighth minute and Bristol City win a corner, hastily pursued by another, and the Bristolians chant “Come On You Reds” just once, as if it’s rationed. “We’ve got super Keiran Mckenna, He knows exactly what we need” sing both ends of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, but not at the same time so it sounds like they’re singing rounds, which in fact would be really good if they could pull it off. Drizzle is falling, appearing through the beams of the floodlights like a fine cascade over the roof of the stand. Occasionally I feel a drop on my face and hands. “You’re quiet tonight” says Pat from Clacton, and she’s right. “There’s not much to make a noise about” I tell her to my shame, believing that that’s exactly when crowds should make most noise. On cue, Town win a corner and I’m able to bellow “Come On You Blues” repeatedly from the time Leif Davis begins to walk to the corner flag until his kick falls disappointingly short of the near post and is easily cleared.

There are eight minutes left of the first half. “What a save!” exclaims the bloke beside me, and a second later so does Adam in the row in front of me, meanwhile Vaclav Hladky has just caught a diving header. Just four minutes until half-time now and there is a prostrate Bristol player thumping his hand on the lush Portman Road turf, using what has become international sign language for “Pay me some attention, I’m hurt, but I’m only putting it on really”. I tell Fiona how last night I saw a David Attenborough programme about animals and sound, and how Kangaroo Rats will thump their feet on the ground to ward off snakes. Fiona hopes there aren’t any snakes on the Portman Road pitch.

The game resumes and from the far end of the ground comes an Oasis song which I can’t recall the title of, and then a chorus of “Lala, lala, lala, lalalala, la, Keiffer Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Moore” to the tune of “Baby give it up”, a song in which in the original lyrics the singer seems to be pestering a pretty girl for sex. It was a UK number one for KC and the Sunshine Band in 1983. Just when it seems the half will end, Murphy announces that there will be at least another four minutes, close to the end of which Bristol win another corner after Town carelessly give the ball away and once more there is a solitary chant of “Come on your Reds” from up in the Cobbold Stand .

The break in play is a relief, after one of the less enjoyable halves of the last two seasons. Ray and I analyse the reasons for this and decide upon Bristol’s constant harassment of Town players and a weak referee, who doesn’t know a foul when he sees one. We’re not unduly bothered though as Ipswich pretty much always seem to win in the end, whatever happens. As we chat, two boxers ponce about on the pitch and one of them reveals that he is wearing a Norwich City shirt, which is what can happen if you get punched in the head a lot. Quite a few people are hurling vitriolic abuse at the poor man, seemingly having missed the point that they’re part a pantomime for grown-ups.

Despite having welcomed half-time, I’m now pleased to have the football back, although things don’t improve much, with repetitive chants of “Red Army, Red Army” from the Stalinist Bristolians and I decide that Mr Webb is spoiling the game by allowing their teams gulag-style rough house tactics. Then, with nine minutes of the half gone things get even worse and Bristol score, as their number eleven Anis Menmeti is allowed to run at the goal until he’s close enough to easily shoot past an indecently exposed Vaclav Hladky. Worse almost follows five minutes later as Bristol’s Sam Bell strikes the Town cross bar and some other bloke in a red shirt misses an easy looking header as he follows up. Town’s response is quick and decisive with the biggest mass substitution ever seen at Portman Road as Jack Taylor, Wes Burns, Ali Al-Hamadi and Jeremy Sarmiento usurp Massimo Luongo, Omari Hutchinson, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Keiffer Moore and Marcus Harness. Bristol make a substitution too but nobody notices before Leif Davis shoots and Ali Al-Hamidi flicks the ball over the goal, line possibly with a deft touch, or possibly because he simply couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough. Town are level.

Bristol resort to even more blatant fouling as Wes Burns is steamrollered, although Mr Webb refuses to reach for his yellow card and I am reminded of the previous two season’s games against Cheltenham Town, who like Bristol City are from Gloucestershire, wear red and white and are also known as the Robins; Bristol City it seems are just a slightly upmarket version. “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand summoning the combined powers of Harry Belafonte and Boney M, which earns Town a corner before Murphy announces tonights’ attendance of 28,001 including a fairly meagre 410 Bristolians.

Things have taken a turn for the better with the the arrival of Wes Burns and Ali Al Hamadi, who are running at the Bristol defence. But just as I start thinking all is right with the world again Anis Menmeti hits the Town cross bar and only moments after Harry Clarke replaces Axel Tuanzebe, Leif Davis misjudges a punt forward allowing it to bounce up for Eric Sykes to stretch and hook over to Russ Conway who appears from the subs bench to loop a header into the top corner of the Town goal. Only thirteen minutes of normal time to go and we’re losing again.

With ten minutes of normal time left however, and following a foul on Al-Hamadi, which must have been a really bad one because Mr Webb books the perpetrator, Leif Davis crosses the free-kick to the near post and Conor Chaplin heads a second equaliser. The roar from the crowd is the sort to lift roofs and worry any passing Tyrannosaurus. Pat from Clacton begins to look forward again to her pre-bedtime snack of Marks & Spencer cheesey Combos and then Town have a penalty as Wes Burns is fouled by someone called Pring. After much debate, standing about on the penalty spot, and a booking for the Bristol goalkeeper, Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to take a very poor penalty, which the miscreant goalkeeper undeservedly saves. There’s no time to be disappointed or down-hearted however, and, because we are watching Ipswich Town, it isn’t really a surprise when three minutes later the ball goes forward, is nodded on and Leif Davis runs onto it, dodges a burly Bristolian and shoots past the Bristol goalkeeper; there’s another Bristolian on the goal line to get the final touch, although he needn’t have bothered, it was going in anyway. At last, what we had all expected, Ipswich are winning and I’ve not known celebrations like it at Portman Road since the play-off semi-final against Bolton Wanderers twenty-four years ago.

Added on time sees Town win two more corners, narrowly lose a game of bagatelle in the Bristol penalty area, have Jack Taylor hit a post with a shot, and have shots from Sarmiento, Chaplin, Burns and Al-Hamadi all blocked or saved as Town pack a game’s worth of attacking intent into just eight minutes.

The final whistle brings relief and glory and a realisation that this has been one of the most extraordinary games I’ve ever seen. Bristol City might have run Town close for eighty-four minutes tonight, but happily there’s still no reason for anyone to re-write their page in the Observers book of Association Football just yet.

Ipswich Town 1 Maidstone United 2

January 28, 2024January 30, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

As working weeks go it’s been a good one, I had Friday off and only worked until a smidgeon after half past two on Thursday, and all week long I’ve been looking forward to Saturday and the FA Cup fourth round, a ‘straightforward’ home tie versus non-league Maidstone United. On Thursday night I dreamt of Kieran Mckenna. As is often the case with dreams, I don’t really remember much about it, but I know I was left with the sort of sensation of calm and well-being you might expect if you’d just had a chance encounter with Jesus or Mohammed, or George Harrison. I had never dreamt about a Town manager before, and the only ‘celebrities’ I can ever recall entering my dreams previously are Sid James and former Liverpool City Council leader Derek Hatton.

One of two flies in the ointment today however is that the match begins at half past twelve because it is being televised by the BBC and then transmitted on by BEIN Sports, ESPN, SPOTV ON and Supersport MaXimo 1 amongst others; not that I begrudge those Town fans in Eritrea, Guadeloupe, South Korea and Weymouth the sight of our wonderful team in search of FA Cup glory. But at least there’s no hanging around waiting to set off the match as there’s not much time to do anything more than fall out of bed, have a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, prime the breadmaking machine and fill up the garden bird feeders before I’m smoothly and quietly driving away in my planet saving Citroen eC4 to collect Gary. There don’t tend to be many flies about in Northern Europe in January but the second one in the ointment today is that there are no trains to Ipswich from the direction of Colchester, only replacement buses and whilst it is possible to travel on these free of charge because no one ever checks your ticket on a rail replacement bus, that would be as dishonest as charging for a rail fare and then providing a bus ride, and then where would we all be?

We park up and stroll across Gippeswyk Park under what approximates to clear, azure skies in Suffolk in winter. The roads were busy, but the streets are not and in Constantine Road there is still the odd parked car. We pass by the entrance to the fanzone and I ask Gary if he’d like me to take his photo with Bluey, Ipswich Town’s Suffolk Punch mascot. He wouldn’t, but was going to ask me the same thing, and I am tempted because it would make a fine addition to my collection, which sees either me or my wife Paulene in the company of Ri-Ri the Nantes canary, Bouba the Monaco elephant and Merlux the Lorient hake, amongst others. Instead, Gary buys me a programme (£3.00) by way of payment in lieu, for my electricity and chauffeur fees. Turning away from the programme booth, Gary attempts to hand the programme to the man in the queue behind him, thinking it is me, but quickly regains his bearings and we amble on towards the ‘the Arb’, after I have tucked the programme away in my coat pocket.

Bursting in the through the door with a raging thirst after our walk, we find ‘The Arb’ is surprisingly quiet, and we also find Mick sat at a table in the middle of the room before he lithely slips off his stool and heads to the bar to buy me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and Gary a pint of Lager 43. Beers in hands we head out into the cool of the beer garden where there are no other drinkers until a couple arrive about fifteen minutes later and sit a polite distance away. I think Mick would have preferred to stay indoors, but I’m having none of it, sitting outside for pre-match beers feels to me like the most natural thing in the world. We talk of the operation Mick is to have on his foot, of police identity parades, the locations of the Mauldon’s and Nethergate breweries, the Golden Hind pub quiz team, today’s team selection, the work ethic and how lazy and unpleasant some people are, and the 1978 FA Cup final. Gary kindly buys me another pint of Mauldons’ Suffolk Pride, a Jamieson’s whisky for Mick and another pint of Lager 43 for himself. I hand Gary and Mick their tickets which I have printed off because I thought it would be easier than the three of us having to pass my mobile phone between us and open each ticket up from the e-mail confirming their purchase.

It’s gone ten past twelve when we leave for Portman Road, but it’s a slightly disappointing walk to the ground because there isn’t the usual gathering excitement of an increasing and purposeful crowd like it must have been marching to the barricades of the Paris commune. There are however queues at the turnstiles in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, although as usual the further we walk, the smaller the queues become, as if most people, like myopic lemmings just join the first queue they come to. Mick, Gary and I also voted ‘Remain’.

A visit to the toilet facilities to drain off excess Suffolk Pride is required before we take our seats, and from my position in front of the urinal I hear Murphy the stadium announcer reading out the teams and no doubt failing hopelessly to synchronise with the players’ names appearing on the electronic scoreboards. It’s a pity to miss out on trying to behave like a French football fan by bawling out the players’ surnames, but Murphy would doubtless have ruined it with his lack of co-ordination, so it’s probably best for my mental health and future comfort that I am down here in the toilet.

Up in the stand, our seats are fairly central and at the front of the middle tier of what to people of our generation is still the Pioneer stand; they are in row B, but there is no row A, so our view is only obstructed by passing late comers, people with weak bladders and the interminably hungry who flit back and forth before us annoyingly on their way to and from the facilities under the stand. With all the hand shaking malarkey out of the way the game begins; Ipswich getting first go with the ball and sending it in the direction of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. Ipswich are in their standard blue shirts and white shorts whilst Maidstone sport yellow shirts and black shorts, although apparently their shirts are actually ‘amber’, but they don’t have fossilised insects encased within them, Maidstone’s oldest player Gavin Hoyte being only 33 years old.

“We’re the something Army” ( I can’t make out the third word) sing the Maidstone supporters, who occupy the whole of the top tier of the Cobbold stand and cheer every throw-in that their team win and every tiny perceived mistake by an Ipswich player. They’re clearly not expecting any bigger victories than these and are getting their kicks where they can. Eventually, the home support in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand chips in with some random “Ole’s”. Portman Road is noisy this afternoon but it’s mostly Kentish noise.

Ipswich are dominating possession and with no more than two minutes played a Nathan Broadhead shot is blocked. It’s the fifth minute and Jeremy Sarmiento shoots on goal and hits a post. “ Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the North Stand raising the spectre of Boney M of Christmas past. A minute later Omari Hutchison runs in on goal from the right; he shoots and the ball is deflected onto a goal post before George Edmundson sends the rebound wide. It’s an exciting start to the match and in a parallel universe somewhere, perhaps one where Boris Johnson was never Prime Minister and beer is still 25p a pint, Town are probably a couple of goals up already.

“Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” sing the fans of the plucky underdogs, revealing that they are just as unpleasant and lacking in imagination and vocabulary as supporters of the ‘big’ clubs, even if what they sing has the ring of truth. “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” they continue generously, taunting the pensioners who populate the Sir Bobby Robson stand but who tell people they sit in Churchman’s. Fifteen minutes have passed and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow before looking around me to check for signs of life amongst my fellow silent Town fans. Sam Morsy shoots, the Maidstone goal keeper saves, Town have another corner and the process repeats.

Town continue to dominate completely, and Maidstone aren’t getting a kick as their coach driver apologises to manager George Elokobi for not having been able to manoeuvre his vehicle down the players tunnel. The Maidstone fans repeat their kind offer to sing a song for us and then chant what sounds to me like “We’re the black pepper army”. Omari Hutchison shoots and wins another corner before George Edmundson heads past a post.”

In the Cobbold Stand, the Kentish equivalents of Lennon and McCartney, and Rogers and Hammerstein have been thinking furiously, but can only come up with “Doo, Doo, Doo, Football in a library”. Mick asks me what they’re singing and having told him I add that I have e-mailed the club to suggest they paper the walls of the inside of the away end with that wall paper that looks like the spines of books; I don’t know if they have taken any notice because all they said in their reply is that they would pass it on to the relevant department – the wallpapering department presumably, who knew?

Jeremy Sarmiento shoots over the cross bar prompting rare chants of “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” from the home support and as the game reaches the point where only two thirds of it remains unknown the Maidstone number ten collapses to the ground, receives treatment and everyone else has an impromptu drinks party by the touchline. The two-thirds milestone is also the prompt for the Maidstone fans to sing “Championship you’re ‘aving a laugh”, a disarmingly honest admission that if a team hasn’t scored against them after thirty minutes they can’t be much good. It’s at times like this when one most regrets the overblown, puffed-up marketing ruse of using the term ‘Championship’ as opposed to plain old ‘Second Division’ . Singing “Second Division you’re ‘aving a laugh”, doesn’t quite sound so damning.

On the touch line, Kieran Mckenna signals obscurely with his hands as if communicating to the players that the odds on a draw are shortening if they want to place a bet now. Being as close as I’ve ever been to Keiran Mckenna feels a little odd having dreamt about him the other night; it’s a bit like when you’re a teenager and the shock of finding yourself sat on the bus next to a girl you really fancy. Jeremy Sarmiento has another shot and Town win yet another corner; minutes pass and another corner follows a deflected Jack Taylor shot. From the corner Maidstone break, it’s the first time it’s happened, it’s almost the first time Maidstone have been close to having possession in the Ipswich half as the man with his team’s most exotic sounding first name and prosaic surname, Lamar Reynolds bears down on goal and then clips the ball over Christian Walton and into the Town goal net. The Maidstone supporters are understandably very excited, but not it seems as much as the collection of people in the peculiar car seats allocated to Maidstone which pass for a substitute’s bench nowadays. They race onto the pitch to form a human mound with the team and most impressively substitute Chi Ezennolim gets booked by referee, the completely hairless Mr Anthony Taylor, even though he will not end up getting to play any other part in the game. Somewhat bizarrely, Maidstone lead one-nil, but Ipswich will surely soon equalise and then win comfortably.

Two minutes of added on time are announced by Murphy as the Maidstone fans channel the clean-living optimism of Doris Day and sing “ Que sera, sera, Whatever will be, will be, We ’re going to Wem-berley, Que Sera, Sera.” With the half-time whistle it’s time to discharge more excess Suffolk Pride and as Mick queues for a vegan pie I return to our seats to enjoy the names on the list of one-hundred people, mostly children I imagine, who are attending Portman Road for the first time today. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but I can’t help laughing at the names Ember, Maverick and Rogue, and pine for the days of Moon Unit and Dweezil; it’s probably my age.

At twenty-six minutes to two, the match re-starts and Mick returns, pie-less, I guess they ran out of vegans. As the Maidstone fans resume their chants of “Black pepper army” Gary explains that they are actually singing “Black and Gold Army”, which makes me think I should perhaps get a hearing aid like his. Ten minutes of Ipswich domination pass and then Jeremy Sarmento cuts in from the left, shoots, and scores. I leap up and wave my arms about like a man with only a sketchy understanding of semaphore and receive a text message from a friend in Weymouth that reads “That’s more like it”. Town have equalised and will surely soon score a second, third and probably a fourth goal as the Earth returns to its normal orbit around the sun and the clocks stop going backwards.

A mass substitution follows shortly after the goal as Sone Aluko, Dominic Ball and Cameron Humphreys bow out in favour of the superior Conor Chaplin, Harry Clarke and Leif Davis. “You’re not singing any more” gloat those Town fans who know the tune of Cwm Rhondda and can be bothered to sing at all. Not to be outdone, Maidstone make substitutions of their own, but only two of them, and then chalk up another yellow card in the form of the ageing Gavin Hoyte.

As chants of “Championship, you’re ‘aving a laugh” resurface, Town fans retaliate with “Sunday League you’re ‘aving a laugh” and the wit and ready repartee of the football crowd reaches its peak for the afternoon. Town still dominate of course, but just as it seems travellers might be able set up camp in the Town penalty area, or sheep might safely graze, Maidstone break away for the second time in the match and lightning strikes again as Sam Corne, who sounds like a character from rustic folklore, smacks the ball into the Ipswich goal net with aplomb, and Maidstone are leading for an improbable second time. “Who are ya?” ask the Maidstone fans, temporarily losing their memories in the excitement of it all and capable of only following this up by stating the obvious with “ You’re not singing anymore”.

There are still twenty minutes left so there is no need for Ipswich fans to worry, but just as insurance Town replace Omari Hutchison with Wes Burns, and Jeremy Sarmiento with Gerard Buabo although a little alarmingly Wes Burns has had his hair cut. Nevertheless, Town pretty much instantly win a corner as the afternoon’s attendance is announced as 27,763 of whom a stonking 4,472 are from Maidstone, despite Maidstone’s largest home attendance this season being only 4.024. Not to be outdone, Maidstone again try to show that they can make double substitutions too and introduce Perri Iandolo for Sam Bone and for Lamar Reynolds a man who sounds like a block of Council-owned flats, Riley Court.

Town continue to keep possession of the ball except when Maidstone boot it away. George Edmundson appears to be fouled in the penalty area but is booked for just pretending by the overly suspicious and imaginative Mr Taylor. Conor Chaplin has a shot saved and corner follows corner follows corner. Harry Clarke has a shot saved, a Conor Chaplin header is saved, a Wes Burns header is saved and before we know it, time is being extended by eight minutes. In the netherworld of compensatory time a Jack Taylor shot is blocked, corner follows corner again and Nathan Broadhead shoots wide; a Jack Taylor header is saved, a Nathan Broad header is saved and then that’s it. Ipswich haven’t won at all and we’re out of the FA Cup despite a ‘straightforward’ comfortable home tie to a non-league team.

I’m a little shocked, I thought I’d seen it all in fifty years of coming to Portman Road but there’s no denying I hadn’t seen this before and in truth I didn’t really want to. I hope I dont see it again. As we leave the ground Gary says he expects we’ll wake up in a minute and it will all have been a bad dream. I’m still waiting.

Ipswich Town 0 Queens Park Rangers 0

December 30, 2023December 30, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Matches between Ipswich Town and Queens Park Rangers don’t register very high, if at all, on my imaginary list of the memorable events in my life. I don’t recall anything about the first time I witnessed the fixture back in April 1974 (a one-all draw), nor do I remember the most recent fixture at Portman Road in October 2018, when QPR won 2-0. The only thing I recall of any of the near thirty games I’ve seen between the two teams at Portman Road is some mild crowd trouble back in the 1980’s, when some youths with their jumpers fashionably tucked into their stonewashed jeans spilled onto the pitch to goad and then run away from each other before anyone could say anything derogatory about their ‘girly’ haircuts.

Tonight is a rare Friday evening fixture at Portman Road, and happily, after the debacle of Boxing Day, public transport exists again and I can catch the busy, stiflingly hot train to Ipswich. A bloke sits next to me who talks to his friend across the gangway; he has a deep voice and an estuary accent, but he doesn’t say much, mostly “yeah”, which he elongates rather weirdly, a bit like a less well-educated Jeremy Paxman. Their conversation is about football. I would switch off and look out of the window, but it’s dark outside.

Arriving in Ipswich, it’s a Raymond Chandler evening and the pavements are all wet. It must have rained recently and large drops of water cling to car bonnets and windows, held there by pre-match surface tension. On Portman Road the ground is not yet open but the club shop is, I venture in to buy a programme for the Norwich match (£3.50) , which I didn’t do at the time, and one for tonight’s game too (also £3.50); I am told I have £1.75 on my club card, so I ask that it is deducted from the total. As I thank the sales assistant, pick up the programmes and turn to leave he entreats me to enjoy the match, which is nice. As I head off towards ‘the Arb’ I feel my heels rubbing painfully against the backs of my shoes, which is very odd as the shoes aren’t new and it’s never happened before.

Arriving at the Arb, I find Mick already here and waiting to be served at the bar. He buys a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for himself and very kindly, a pint of Nethergate Blackadder for me. I had originally asked for a pint of Suffolk Pride too, but changed my mind as I do enjoy dark beer in the winter. The bar is warm and quite noisy, and we retire to the cool and calm of the beer garden where fortunately there is a single free table in the shelter where we sit and talk of houses of multiple occupation, rogue landlords, television comedy, my impending trip to see Town play Wimbledon in the FA Cup, the dip in the number of funerals over the Christmas period and what we did on Christmas Day. I buy a further pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a Jameson Whisky for Mick and we talk some more, this time about tonight’s match and Town’s weakened team. By the time we depart for Portman Road the bar has emptied out, leaving only those people not going to the match.

Mick and I bid one another farewell at the junction of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, until the next match, the awkward five-thirty kick off on January 13^th; I might have to have dinner at about 9 pm that day. There are queues at the turnstiles in Portman Road, but no queue at all at my beloved turnstile 62, where I wave my season ticket about in the usual confused manner and walk right in. After syphoning off excess Suffolk Pride, I find myself at the portal to another world, at the foot of the steps up into the stand. Of course, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood are all here already; if I didn’t see them leave at the end of each match I might think they were here all the time. Apart from the blisters on my heels, things have been going well but then I hear stadium announcer Murphy is back after not being here for the Boxing Day game; like Wizzard I wish it could be Christmas everyday. Murphy makes his usual botched job of reading out the team, failing hopelessly to synchronise with the images of the players on the electronic scoreboard as he races to his climax like an inept lover; and I give up being French for another day.

The game begins and QPR get first go with the ball which they are mainly trying to send in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. Town are as ever in blue shirts ad white shorts whilst the QPR team are all dressed as Dennis the Menace. I look for Gnasher in the dugout but can’t spot him. The QPR fans are quick to tell us that somewhere, presumably the bit of London where they are from, is wonderful. According to their song it is “…full of tits, fanny and Rangers”, although I haven’t been able to verify this on visitlondon.com website.

After just three minutes QPR win a corner. “Come on you R’s” chant their supporters quite a bit more enthusiastically than most Town fans ever sing “Come on you Blues”. Fortunately, it makes no difference however, and three minutes later a peachy through ball releases Freddie Ladapo into the QPR penalty box. But in the time it takes for Freddie to think “ooh, this is good, just the goalkeeper to beat, now where shall I aim the ball” a defender blocks his view and he has to lay it back for Marcus Harness to shoot straight at goalkeeper Asmir Begovic, who I seem to remember once played a few decent games on loan for Town back in 2009 and is the only member of the QPR team who hasn’t come in fancy dress as Dennis the Menace.

Eight minutes have passed and the QPR fans are singing “You’re support is fucking shit” in the time honoured fashion and then Freddie Ladapo is through again thanks to a precision through ball from Marcus Harness. This time Freddie shoots but the ball strikes Begovic and balloons into the air descending to earth just the netted side of the cross bar. From the corner Dominic Ball shoots at Begovic. With less than ten minutes gone, Town have possibly already had their two best chances of the game although no one yet knows that yet, which is just as well because knowing what people are like, a lot of them would probably clear off home.

QPR win another corner; their fans ask “Is this a library?” and “Where were you when you were shit?” All these questions, it’s like watching a game in front of a stand full of toddlers. QPR win another corner and are selfishly keeping the ball to themselves much of the time, although without ever managing a shot at goal. Omari Hutchinson runs down the wing when he can and pockets of Town support sing an overly wordy song that ends in Ole, Ole, Ole but doesn’t provide the inspiration the team seems to lack. We need a Marseillaise, but all we have is God save the King.

On twenty-two minutes there is applause and I wonder why. Fiona tells me it is for a Town supporter who has died; he was just twenty-two years old. “Oh” I say, and Fiona tells me that there will be another applause in the sixty-sixth minutes for another Town fan who has died, who was sixty-five. As sad as death is, I find these applauses mawkish and a bit weird, I also worry that when my mother dies we are going to need extra time, because she’s already ninety-eight. Fortunately, she’s not a football fan, so I don’t think she’ll be too bothered.

Three minutes later and the QPR fans are taunting the Town fans with chants of “No noise from the Tractor Boys.” The Town fans’ response is a stony silence. Then Hutchinson breaks down the left again, Williams makes a run in to the box, but Hutchinson is tackled. “I hope Williams didn’t swear then” says Fiona. “I think he did” says the man in the row in front, whose name is Kevin.

QPR win yet another corner and from my vantage point over 100 metres away it looks very much like Town almost concede an own goal, although QPR might have hit a post, but either way I’m not too bothered because the QPR score remains ‘nil’, although so does the Town score, and an Omari Hutchinson shot being tipped over the cross-bar by Begovic for a corner does not alter matters. Only ten minutes of the first half remain and I bawl “Come On You Blues” for all I’m worth. “Three of us singing, there’s only three of us singing” sings Pat from Clacton sotto voce. The corner is cleared and Conor Chaplin is the first player to be booked by referee Mr David Webb, who I think I remember playing for QPR in the 1970’s. The booking is probably for a well-conceived foul, although as Fiona points out Chaplin seems to be the only player on the pitch who is shorter than Mr Webb, so it might just be bullying.

The teams exchange more corner kicks to more chants of “Come On You R’s” and I once again bawl “Come On You Blues” raising the fever pitch in the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand to something like sitting in a bucket of cold custard. The corners come to nothing as ever, and then as Hutchinson is flagged offside, a QPR player applauds the linesman, I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic or if this is genuine expression of appreciation of a job well done, in which case he’s being patronising.

A minute of additional time is added in which the QPR fans sing cheerily of football in a library and people start to leave their seats for the underworld beneath the stand. “Dire that, innit” says a bloke as he passes by. “Not good” says his companion, possibly commenting on his friend’s grammar as much as the match. With half-time, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and I agree that we haven’t played as we would have hoped, and I then nip to the front of the stand to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison about what I was given for Christmas. When I return to my seat I eat a Nature Valley Oat and Chocolate Crunchy bar, but the start of the second half is delayed for some time by what Murphy tells us is a ‘medical emergency’ in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand lower tier, and in due course the crowd applauds the team of paramedics and the sight of a departing stretcher party, which is thankfully, but somewhat chillingly screened from our gaze.

When the match resumes at about ten past nine it is with added gusto, both on and off the pitch, as if the events of half-time have sharpened our appreciation of, and our lust for life, as well they might. “Blue and White Army “chant the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand a good four or five times in succession, and then, after not too long a delay, they do it again. A couple of minutes later they do it yet again. “Sit down if you shag your mum” respond the QPR fans, boldly recycling humour popular in year seven throughout the comprehensive schools of West London.

The first half was lack lustre, but now the match is fast and furious, which makes it more exciting but no easier to watch. If I could lip read and knew what ‘purists’ looked like, I am sure I would see them saying to themselves “this isn’t the game for me”. Luke Woolfenden is booked for a doomed attempt at winning the ball and Freddie Ladapo heads wide of the QPR goal. The QPR supporters tell us that QPR are “by far the greatest team the world has ever seen”, but I’m not inclined to believe them any more than I would Boris Johnson. “Come on Blue Eyes” says Pat to the dreamily blue-eyed Marcus Harness, and he almost obliges with a shot which looked to me like it was saved, but for which QPR get a goal-kick.

“Come On Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chants the crowd sounding increasingly desperate and as if sensing this a triple substitution follows with Harry Clarke, Kayden Jackson and Jack Taylor replacing Williams, Ladapo and Ball. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand possibly having heard the question on last night’s University Challenge about the Harry Belafonte and Boney M recordings of Mary’s Boy Child. Town win a corner and twenty-five minutes of the match remain plus any time added on for bad behaviour and injuries.

Tonight’s attendance is 29,100, with 1,698 supporting QPR we are told. Thank you for your “magnificent support tonight and all year” announces Murphy, toadying to the public. “Ere for the Rangers, You’re only ‘ere for the Rangers” chant the QPR supporters as if singing about Vincent Van Gogh. Twenty minutes remain and things are so desperate Pat from Clacton gets out the masturbating monkey charm along with several others that she carries in her purse, including a random owl and the Hindu deity Ganesh. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.

Thirteen minutes remain, and QPR’s appropriately named Ilias Chair sits down near the far touchline; he is ignored, and the game carries on before he is eventually substituted. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” chant the home crowd. “Fuck off Ipswich” reply the away crowd, employing what possibly passes for an exchange of pleasantries in places like Willesden. “Lovely feet” says the bloke behind me as Vaclav Hladky checks his stride to fool an opponent and then clears the ball. Begovic is booked for time wasting and QPR win two more corners in a rare second half attack. “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna…” chant the home support, relieved that the ball has been cleared, before a final switch sees Blue Eyes and Hutchinson replaced by Sone Aluko and Gerard Buabo, who nobody seems to have ever heard of.

The announcement of eight minutes of added on time comes as a bit of a welcome surprise; Fiona thinks it’s because of QPR’s time-wasting ‘tactics’. The added time passes all to quickly however and despite angry, desperate calls and shouts Town cannot score, although more happily they don’t concede either. After such a marvellous twelve months at Portman Road it is a disappointing match with which to end the year, the only home league game in which we haven’t scored since October 2022, but it is also the only match in which all five of our five best attacking players have not been available to play; it has been the sort of team selection we would more usually expect if playing a first round League Cup tie against Sutton United or Crawley Town.

Disappointed, but not downhearted, or even that bothered I leave the stadium and hobble to the railway station. It feels like old times, comfortably yet uncomfortably familiar. This is what football used to be like before we started all this winning malarkey, this is what real football is about, as lovely as the success is. I’m sure we will return to winning ways when the missing players return, but for now I’m going to enjoy listening to and smiling at the wailing and gnashing of teeth of supporters who haven’t benefitted from having had a season ticket every year since 1983.

Ipswich Town 1 Leicester City 1

December 27, 2023December 28, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today is Boxing Day, the day when in Britain we traditionally celebrate our lack of decent public transport and our love of global warming and air pollution by not running buses and trains and then arranging some of the biggest football fixtures of the season to which we flock in our tens of thousands by petrol and diesel-engined cars. It’s a great day and shows just how much everyone really cares about our children’s future, because after all, if we leave aside the birth of the Messiah bit, Christmas time is all about the children, and the football.

I had thought about not attending today’s match. As a one-man protest however, it wouldn’t really have been measurable on the scale that includes the Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc in Vietnam in 1963, so I sensibly reasoned that nobody would notice a bloke staying in doors for the evening, except my wife Paulene, who would be forced to watch the match on the telly with me and would therefore probably just go to bed early; if Town aren’t playing either Portsmouth or Paris St Germain she’s not really interested. I have decided therefore that by driving my planet saving Citroen e-C4 and giving Gary a lift, I can both reduce noxious emissions and reduce congestion thereby earning me brownie points, which I can bank for Judgment Day.

After breezing silently through town, we park up in a quiet, dimly lit residential side street. As we leave the Citroen a family getting out of their car and sporting club colours eye us suspiciously, as if we might be a couple of the drug dealers, who they probably imagine populate this part of town. I guess there’s no reason why some of the more socially responsible drug dealers won’t also be driving electric cars. Not wanting to disappoint we give the family a special Christmas deal on a couple of Solpadeine and a half a bottle of Night Nurse before we head for the Arb to spend our ill-gotten gains.

It’s chilly and damp out tonight, and stepping into the glowing warmth of the Arb, my glasses immediately steam-up. I buy Gary a pint of Lager 43 and in the absence of my ‘usual,’ Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, order a pint of Mighty Oak Captain Bob for myself (£8.11 for the two including Camra discount). We retire to the cool and calm of the beer garden, where a good number of other drinkers are already enjoying the evening air. We sit and talk of the King’s Christmas broadcast, retirement, the ailments and disabilities of work colleagues we have known and how one who qualified for a parking space was considered disabled on account of his poor eyesight. We reminisce about the days when we worked in a fug of tobacco smoke and how many of the sick and infirm are to be found ‘puffing-up’ outside the entrance to Colchester General Hospital. Gary fetches me a pint of Lacon’s Saint Nick (the Captain Bob was far too citrusy for a winter’s night) and a glass of mulled wine for himself. At about twenty-five past seven we depart for Portman Road.

We march mob-handed down High Street with fellow fans who’ve just left the pub. Gary and I part at the junction of Portman Road with Sir Alf Ramsey Way, and I check that he knows the way back to the Citroen and our stash of gear; he does. I walk on down past the Cobbold Stand pausing only to purchase a programme (£3.50) from one of the out-of-stock ice cream sellers that double up as programme vendors. There are still queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand as people consumed with the conviviality of the season take their time getting here. I join the queue at the legendary turnstile 62 and emerge onto the former terrace in time for the announcing of the names of the home team. Wonderfully, Murphy the usual announcer is nowhere to be heard tonight and he is replaced by another announcer, who sounds less like a superannuated BBC local radio presenter and more like someone who does voiceovers for adverts. Marvellously, the new man synchronises the announcement of the players’ names with their appearance on the electronic scoreboard making it possible to bawl them out as if I was in the crowd at Lille, Lens or Lorient. The joy on people’s faces at discovering this new ‘French’ way to support their team is wonderful to see. The new guy is a consummate professional and it is to be hoped that Murphy has been sacked or has fallen down a hole somewhere and will never be heard again at Portman Road.

When the match begins it is Town who get first go with the ball, which they’re aiming at the goal just in front of me, Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his teenage son Elwood, but not the man from Stowmarket (Paul) who prefers Boxing Night at home, and who can blame him. Town are of course in their signature blue shirts and white shorts whilst Leicester are in a rather unusual combination of yellow shirts and white shorts, which resurrects temporarily forgotten memories of Torquay United on Friday nights at Layer Road, Colchester in the 1980’s.

Town start the match to a loud aural background of “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna…” spilling from the stands, or bits of them, and for seven or eight minutes it inspires the team to put League leaders Leicester on the defensive. An early Wes Burns run and cross invokes chants of “Blue Army, Blue Army” which almost seem to echo around the ground. Town win two corners. Wes Burns heads well wide of the goal, as if he’d lost his bearings. “You’ve let yourself down, you’ve let your school down” says the bloke behind me as if to Wes, but probably recounting words from his own life story. Pat from Clacton mouths to me “Who are these, behind?” as she swivels her eyes and raises her eyebrows.

On the pitch, the Leicester goalkeeper looks festive in a bright pink top and purple shorts. After ten minutes Leicester win a corner and one of them heads over the bar at the near post. “Small town in Norwich, You’re just a small town in Norwich” chant the Leicester fans as they risk hernias, straining themselves to be witty and amusing whilst at the same time doing a terrible dis-service to the Latin-American rhythms of Guantamera, drowning them in essence of east Midlands. George Hirst heads across the face of the Leicester goal and after more excellent work from Wes Burns Town have another corner. “ Fifteen minutes gone and no goals conceded” notes the bloke behind me. “He’s a shit David Luiz and Luiz is shit” says the bloke behind me of Leicester number three, Wout Faes, a gloriously continental looking player with a fantastic mop of hair, the kind of bloke you’d see in the Eurovision Song contest or a heat of It’s a Knockout. Belgian Faes is actually more like France’s Matteo Guendouzi, or Leo Sayer. Ipswich needs more Belgians.

As the bloke behind me infers, so far so good, but Leicester are now in the game and then George Hirst pulls up hurt. Hirst is treated whilst everyone else has an impromptu drinks party on the touchline and get remedial coaching; the blokes to my left exit for the facilities, excusing themselves with the poor excuse that it’s Christmas. Meanwhile, Pat from Clacton complains to the bloke behind her about his constant swearing, she’s “…fed up with it”. He tries to defend the indefensible, as small boys and Tory politicians do, but I think Pat’s won the day. Back out on the grass, and George Hirst is on the touchline waiting to come on again. Referee Mr Sam Barrott, who I hope, when people ask him how to spell his name, tells them “ Like Carrot, with a ‘B’, oh and two ‘T’s”, eventually waves Hirst on, but after just a couple of paces he grips the back of his thigh and sits down on the grass again. He is replaced by Kayden Jackson.

Leicester’s Stephy Mavididi has a couple of unopposed sorties down the Town right and on the third occasion his shot into the far side of the goal gives Leicester the lead; it’s not any consolation that what Leicester paid Montpellier to sign him isn’t much short of what Town paid for their whole team. Wes Burns and Harry Clarke are in discussion as Town kick-off again. The Leicester supporters sing a song about Mavididi, which sounds as if it is to the tune of Lonnie Donegan’s “My old man’s a dustman”. Skiffle is still new in Leicester apparently.

“We shall not be moved” sing the Leicester fans recalling another old song not much heard nowadays, but then the ground falls quiet but for some localised chanting in the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Leicester are much the better team now and won’t let Town have the ball. When they do Town earn a corner and Kayden Jackson hurriedly hooks a snap shot past a post. Up on the back of the Cobbold Stand, the flags hang limp and motionless like very large soggy handkerchiefs. Vaclav Hladky makes a decent save from Patson Daka but Town end the half winning a corner from which Kayden Jackson kicks the ball unintentionally into the pink and purple-clad goalkeeper’s face, for which the goalkeeper gets a free-kick; very strange. Contrary to the laws of physics, time is extended by four minutes, in which moments Marcus Harness produces a fabulous dribble between two players and a low Leif Davis cross wins a corner. “Come On You Blues” I chant, sensing a final chance to equalise before half-time and then“ Ipswich, Ipswich, Ipswich, Ipswich”. I am a one man cauldron of noise inside a vacuum, a human volcano in a lifeless desert of blank faces. Half-time is a relief even though Town haven’t equalised.

With the break I visit Ray, his son Michael, and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand. We all agree Leicester are easily the best team to have visited Portman Road this season, but it’s not hard to guess that given they are the one team above us in the League. I watch the pitch being watered by what look like ornamental fountains and recall that under a rule instigated by Louis XIV, ‘third division’ Versailles FC in France don’t play floodlit matches at home because the light would disturb the setting of the palace and its gardens.

As the game re-starts I munch my way through a Nature Valley Oats and Honey Crunchy bar and before I’ve finished it Kayden Jackson has earned Town yet another corner, from which Cameron Burgess heads wide. “Come On You Blues” chant the crowd to my surprise. Town have Leicester pinned back and are having to employ ‘last ditch defending’ to block shots and stop us from tearing their defence apart like so much Christmas wrapping paper. “De-de-de, Football in a library” chant the Leicester fans out of the blue, perhaps suddenly realising they haven’t sung that one yet and there’s not much more than 30 minutes left.

In the first half referee Mr Carrot with a B and two T’s had taken a relaxed attitude to people falling over, probably adopting the view that giving free-kicks is a mugs game when all footballers are cheating bastards who, if they’re not trying to kick the opposition are making out they’ve been kicked. The ref’s attitude has suddenly changed however and Ndidi and Pereira are both booked for fouls before Marcus Harness also has his name taken.

Despite dominating this half, Town haven’t had many shots at goal , then Conor Chaplin spots the goalkeeper Hermansen off his line and shoots from over 40 metres, forcing Hermansen to pat the ball away for yet another Town corner. “Blue and white army, blue and white army” chants the crowd a good five times, which is almost impressive, but being a bit of a peacenik myself it’s a chant I find un-necessarily militaristic. Time is slipping away; there are twenty minutes left and Pat fromClacton says she might have to get the masturbating monkey charm out of her hand bag. That’s a bit of a threat I tell Fiona. A Conor Chaplin shot brings a corner and then Conor shoots over the cross bar, when from 110 metres away he looked likely to score.

“Come On Leicester” plead the Leicestrians ; it seems we’ve got then worried. Fifteen minutes remain and again the ground falls silent as Town fans concentrate hard, willing Town to score and Leicester fans curl up in a ball anxiously sucking their thumbs and rocking back and forth in their seats. Today’s attendance is announced by the announcer who isn’t Murphy as 29,410, surely the biggest crowd to ever witness a match versus Leicester at Portman Road. “Thank you so much for your support” says the anti-Murphy “and thank you to our away end”, of whom he tells us there are 2,004.

It’s getting late and we’ve hardly made any substitutions yet, but then Wes Burns, Kayden Jackson and Jack Taylor are off and Omari Hutchinson, Massimo Luongo and Nathan Broadhead are on. Amusingly to me and Fiona at least, Leicester also take off Dewsbury-Hall, the EFL player who most sounds like he was once owned by the National Trust. I also notice Leicester’s number eight, Harry Winks, and I am disappointed that his squad number isn’t 40.

The substitutions work and see Town dominate even more. Leicester have a few break aways but nothing me, Pat and Fiona can’t handle. Freddie Ladapo replaces Kayden Jackson with just two minutes of ‘normal time’ remaining. “Come On Leicester, Come on Leicester” the Leicester fans continue to plead as they wring their hands. Omari Hutchinson wins an eleventh Town corner. “Your player of the match ………Sam Morsy” announces the announcer, although as I say to Fiona, he’s not our player of the match, he’s some sponsor’s man of the match. But then Town win a throw, the ball is passed to Morsy; we need a goal; now, he shoots, the ball might be going wide, it hits a defender’s heel, it might still be going wide, then it hits another defender’s back and now it is spinning wide of Hermansen and we’ve scored, and Portman Road erupts; it’s the biggest roar I’ve heard at Portman Road in, I don’t know how long. It might be the loudest roar ever, it might not, but it’s up there with the Bolton play-off match goals, and people are up and dancing and hugging one another like we’ve just woken up to find that the last fourteen years of Tory mis-rule has only been a bad dream after all.

There are five minutes of added on time and Mr Carrot with a B and two T’s adds another, just to crank up the tension for everyone, but sadly we don’t score again, but nor do Leicester and everyone can go home happy, or at least not sad. The best of it is that it feels like we’ve won, such is the relief that we haven’t lost.

Back at the Citroen, Gary and I agree that tonight we have seen a very good game indeed. I muse to myself that a goal such as Morsy’s tonight must only ever be scored very late in a game to realise it’s full delirium inducing effect. The fact that it was, almost has you believing in some sort of divine intervention, it has to be Christmas.