Bobby Robson

Ipswich Town 2 Norwich City 2

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Back in September of 2022 I was in Brittany, and as well as taking in football matches at Rennes, Concarneau and Vannes I drove to the coastal town of Lorient to catch the imaginatively named local team, FC Lorient play in one of their Breton ‘derby’ games  against FC Nantes.  Lorient was flattened by allied bombing in World War Two,  but happily was re-built, and is now an unpretentious workaday port a bit like Ipswich in many ways. Nantes meanwhile has a castle and a cathedral and its football team play in yellow and green and are known as the Canaries.  Based on my experience of our own East Anglian derby against Norwich I had expected an afternoon of passion, vitriol, obscene chanting, threatening behaviour, casual thuggery and a police operation to rival that of May 1968 in Paris.   I was a little surprised therefore that when I spoke to a group of fans to ask the way to the Stade du Moustoir some of them wore the orange of Lorient and some wore the yellow of Nantes.  Inside the stadium, I was further surprised to find Lorient and Nantes supporters sat side by side in every stand and the overall atmosphere was not one of hostility, but more a Breton love-in. I thought to myself why isn’t the East Anglian derby like this?

Today, I am leaving my house at a quarter past ten to catch the train to Ipswich for that very East Anglian derby.  I’ve barely had time to digest my breakfast and kick-back with a coffee; strong evidence that a 12.30 kick-off is just wrong, and if only we weren’t all so stupid, we would rebel and refuse to go to football unless all matches kicked off at 3pm on a Saturday or between 7.30 and 8 o’clock on a Tuesday, Wednesday or Friday evening.

After texting my wife Paulene to tell her that I had forgotten to put any Champagne or Cremant in the fridge and could she please do it for me, I meet Gary on the train. We exchange Christmas cards and talk of polar bears, going to watch Colchester United play Salford City, how there should be no football on Boxing Day because there is no public transport, ‘half and half’ football scarves and the BBC TV comedy ‘Two Doors Down’.  The train is full, and exiting it at Ipswich is slow, although whilst most people cross the tracks over the high bridge, Gary and I walk a bit further down the platform and save time and effort by using the original lower bridge which has fewer steps.   Outside the railway station it’s as if a state of emergency has been declared, with legions of police in baseball hats and what look like wipe-clean uniforms, all strategically placed around the station plaza and down Princes Street.

Our walk to the Arb today is a slightly convoluted one because Princes St and Portman Road are partly cordoned off by some of the massed ranks of police officers; I didn’t realise Suffolk and Norfolk had so many of them, but good luck to anyone dialling 999 for police anywhere else in either county today.  I can’t help but think the police use football matches to practice what they will do when ‘the balloon goes up’, the country descends into anarchy and our dystopian future is realised.  Arriving at the Arb, Mick is already in the beer garden, whilst Gary generously buys me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, and a pint of Lager 43 for himself.   In the beer garden we talk of how there are a lot of unpleasant and ignorant people about, of the closure of Portman Road, how I will get to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and how there might not be enough time for a second beer, there isn’t.  Gary tells Mick that at the railway station we had seen Norwich supporters getting off their train and giving each other ‘High sixes’.  We leave by the back gate almost half an hour before kick-off.

At Portman Road, the streets are less busy than usual, with no queues at the turnstiles or even the burger vans, everyone presumably having done as they were told and got here early and brought a packed lunch.  The programmes seem to have sold out too. I leave Gary and Mick to negotiate their respective turnstiles into the ‘posh’ seats of the West Stand and I head down Constantine Road past the corporation tram depot and along Russell Road to my beloved turnstile 62, where I wait behind a man who is waving his ticket about in different directions in front of the automatic turnstile equipment.  A steward is stood by the turnstile gazing up at the grey, cloud-filled sky in apparent wonder.  I tap him on the shoulder to let him know it looks like a ‘customer’ needs his assistance, and he duly helps the man out by demonstrating the effective way to wave his ticket about, which also allows access to the ground.  I follow on after randomly waving my season ticket about too, I still have no idea whether it’s the ‘screen’ on the left or the one on the right that reads my card and lets me in.

I am ridiculously early into the ground today and the teams aren’t even on the pitch yet, but naturally Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses and game and his young son Elwood, who is now not so young (he’s thirteen), are all here already.   Murphy the stadium announcer makes his usual botched job of reading out the Town team, racing through it like he’s commentating on the Epsom Derby and failing utterly to co-ordinate with the players’ names and faces appearing on the big screen in the corner of the ground.  Along with ever-present Phil, I do my best to bawl out the players’ surnames as if I were a Frenchman, but I can never remember the squad numbers of players past eleven, so give up after Conor Chaplin. 

When the players eventually make their procession onto the pitch, flames shoot from black boxes around the edge of the perimeter and I realise I’ve forgotten to bring any marshmallows to toast.  The game begins with Norwich City getting first go with the ball which they attempt to put in the net at the far end of the ground; they wear the usual unpleasant yellow and green creation, but this year the yellow shirt has narrow green hoops around it, which makes the players look a bit dumpier than they probably actually are. Town are of course in blue and white, and the home crowd sings “Blue and White Army” repetitively to make the point. “Fuck off Ipswich” chant the Norwich fans exhausting their supply of wit and ready repartee all in one go.  “Carrow Road is falling down, Wagner is a fucking clown” respond the Town fans and so it goes on.

Seven minutes pass and Town haven’t scored. I’m relaxed but I wish the Town would score a goal, or six.  Pat from Clacton has a headache, she looks worried.  “Where were you when you were shit?” ask the Norwich supporters, not unreasonably.  Pat was here all the time, so was I and ever-present Phil and Fiona and Elwood and the man from Stowmarket, not sure about everyone else though. Gary was definitely somewhere else and admits it. There’s a tackle and the Norwich number seven, who could be an Oompa Loompa, clutches his face.  However, referee Mr Smith, if that is his real name, ignores the crocodile tears and simply tells him to get up, and knowing when he’s beaten, as Norwich players do because it’s a regular occurrence, he does.  Town are showing themselves to be better than Norwich already and like a surge of adrenalin the understanding of this seems to hit the home crowd who burst into a chorus of “We’ve got Super Kieran Mckenna “ . Weirdly, the net effect is that Norwich win the game’s first corner to loud boos from what used to be the North stand and the referee engages in a long lecture to discourage players from mauling one another before the kick is taken.

With the corner kick lost in the past Town continue to dominate possession. Norwich’s number twenty-three sprawls on the ground clutching his face. “Fuck-off you fucking idiot” bawls the bloke behind me, which is conceivably what referee Mr Smith says to him too as he plays on. “On the ball city, blah, blah, blah” is heard for the first time and Wes Burns produces the game’s first decent shot on goal which the Norwich goalkeeper unfortunately saves without too much trouble.  Then Nathan Broadhead beats one defender and then another, and now he has just the goalkeeper to beat; he shoots and I am convinced the ball is about the rattle the goal net, but momentarily the laws of physics take a rest and the ball goes past the far post to leave 27,000 people clutching their heads in despair. Leif Davis shoots, but it’s too weak to beat the goalkeeper. Wes Burns breaks down the right and the ball is played back to Nathan Broadhead who again places the ball the wrong side of the post when science said he would score.  “Morsy being fucking unreal in the middle there” say the bloke behind me, Wes Burns arrives with perfect timing to smack the ball unerringly into the Norwich goal,  but unnatural forces get the better of the ball and it goes over the cross-bar;  Town should be at least three-nil up but aren’t.

Norwich somehow win a corner and then another. “You’re shagging your sister” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand at the corner taker.  Norwich’s first shot on goal flies over the bar to jeers. A third of the match is over.  “Football in a library” chant the Norwich fans and the lack of a goal despite almost total dominance has left the crowd perplexed. Town win a corner.  “Come On You Blues” I shout, along with Phil and may be four other people. The ball is crossed, it hits some heads, George Hirst heads it down and Nathan Broadhead smites it into the net from close range.  Town lead one-nil and surely victory will be ours.

The bloke next to me disappears somewhere,  strangely taking the long route to the gangway.  “I expect they’ll go up the other end and score now” says the man from Stowmarket with uncharacteristic pessimism. But he’s right, Town’s lead lasts six minutes before the ball develops a mind of its own and gives itself up to a short stocky bloke in a number twenty-seven shirt and out of the blue he scores.  “Who are ya? ” chant the yellow and green horde in the corner mysteriously, as if troubled by a vision of someone they don’t know.  “You’re not singing anymore” they continue, providing an unnecessary commentary.  The bloke next to me returns as if he had known Norwich would score and hadn’t wanted to be here to witness it.  Conor Chaplin shoots wide and weakly before Murphy announces three minutes of added-on time in which Nathan Broadhead shoots wide again. Town win another corner and Pat says “Ooh, I hate that song” as we hear another rendition of “On the Ball city”, a ditty so awful it makes the Baby Shark song sound like Dvorak’s New World symphony.

With the half-time whistle I walk to the front of the stand to speak to Ray and his grandson Harrison. We bemoan our luck and talk of our wives’ birthdays, although Harrison doesn’t because he’s only nineteen and not married,  before Ray leaves to use the facilities and I return to my seat to eat a Nature Valley Crunchy Peanut Butter bar.  In the seats next to Ray a couple break open the Tupperware and tin foil to enjoy a packed lunch of ham rolls. “Do you know ‘Son of My Father’ the No 1 single for Chicory Tip in 1972” I ask him. “No” says Phil.  I sing it for him anyway. “Son of your sister, Norwich City, Norwich City, Norwich Scum, you’re all no better looking than a baboon’s bum”. Phil looks at me as if to say “We’ll let you now”, although he liked the tune.

The football resumes at twenty-four minutes to one.  “Stand-up if you ‘ate the scum” chant the home crowd. Frankly, I can’t be bothered. As shows of solidarity go, it’s a pretty lame and pointless one. The second half proves not to be quite as good as the first and pretty much immediately proves the point but somehow letting Norwich score again as the ball drops to the chunky number twenty-seven whose bobbling, not particularly well hit shot squirms beneath Vaclav Hladky and spins insultingly into the Town goal net.  I can’t begin to imagine what the twenty-seven must have sold to the devil to buy such luck, twice. “Two-one on your big day out” chant the Norwich fans, stretching their wit to its absolute limit and forgetting that it’s actually their big day out, not ours, we’re at home.  But then, in Norfolk going down the garden to the bumby is a big day out.

Conor Chaplin shoots wide. Town win a corner. Cameron Burgess heads over the cross bar.  “Oh for fuck’s sake” says the bloke behind me, I’m not sure why.  An hour of anxiety has thankfully receded into the past, just a half an hour to go. Town take the ball down the left and then across into the middle in stages before it arrives with Wes Burns who takes a touch and then strikes the ball cleanly, just inside the left hand goal post and it’s two-all on our big day out. I suddenly feel much better.

The game carries on, and Town are still much the better team. George Hirst heads over. The Norwich goalkeeper fumbles the ball a couple of times to gift Town corners, Norwich make a double substitution. Murphy announces today’s attendance as 29,611 with 2,004 of that number being from a single family.  Murphy thanks us for our “continued support”, perhaps because no one is leaving early, yet.  The Norwich number seven waves his arms up and down to encourage the visiting fans to sing, but they mostly ignore him and there are moments of almost reflective quiet. Massimo Luongo shoots very wide of the goal indeed. Conor Chaplin curls the ball over the cross bar from a free-kick.  Another fumble, another Town corner. Wes Burns is booked.

Not much more than ten minutes of normal time left and I still don’t think Town will not win, after all, we always do, and today we are more superior to the opposition than usual.  But Norwich are the new Cheltenham Town, not particularly good but with windows covered in guano, boots made from rabbit’s feet, pitches full of four leaved clover and a horseshoe nailed above the door of the team bus.  Pat from Clacton has been lucky too today, she has drawn 2-2 in the ‘predict the score’ lucky dip on the Clacton supporters’ bus, but she doesn’t want to win it.

With time running down, final mass substitutions are made and Norwich take a long time over their goal kicks. There will be six minutes of added on time.  Nathan Broadhead is announced by Murphy as the man of the match as selected by some sponsor or another, there is a ripple of applause,  but hopefully most people see the stupidity of having a man of the match in a game which more than ever is about the effectiveness of the team. With the final whistle the Norwich supporters are beside themselves with joy at their team having drawn; they must have been so convinced they would lose, and heavily, I know I was.

Pat and Fiona are quickly away and after a bout of applause I don’t linger long either, I want to get to the club shop to see if they’ve got any of those half and half scarves.

Ipswich Town 3 Millwall 1

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The promise of an evening kick-off at Portman Road has been enough to drag me through the drudgery of a Wednesday at work, albeit only the at-home form of work, which doesn’t involve having to go outside in the cold and travel on public transport early in the morning.  Today, I get to use public transport at a far more civilised hour, when the late afternoon becomes early evening and people have their tea.  Outside it is bloody cold. But I have an extremely warm coat, a hat, scarf and fingerless gloves so I’m ready for anything.  A slightly less than circular, pale, golden moon hangs low in the sky and the train arrives a minute late; I board and find I’m in a carriage where all the seats seem to face where I’ve just come from rather than where I’m going.  But it’s dark now so it doesn’t matter, it’s like being in a very, very long tunnel. “Shudda scored, it was all Fiorentina second ‘alf” says a voice from somewhere behind me.  On the other side of the carriage sits a man who looks like a bearded Trevor Eve, but shorter. “Second time this season, Scum two-nil up and lose three-two” says the voice. From the seat in front of me I can hear snorting noises.  I tune out and text my sister to ask her how she enjoyed Thanksgiving (she’s just got back from New York) and what she wants for Christmas.

I exit the train hastily on arrival in an Ipswich wreathed atmospherically in winter fog and police officers in day-glo jackets. I think of Poly Styrene and X-Ray Spex as I head up Princes Street and Portman Road towards ‘The Arb’, pausing only at one of the blue booths to buy a match programme (£3.50).  It’s too cold for ice cream tonight, but the streets look wonderful, everything looms out of the mist and is almost monochrome.  In ‘The Arb’ I am quickly to the bar and order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, whilst a woman next to me talks to her accomplice about Nethergate White Adder, before buying a glass of Rose.  The bar is busy and as I head for the beer garden I meet Mick coming in the opposite direction.  We meet again in the beer garden after Mick has bought his own beer.  We talk of Ipswich Town conceding early goals, of the person whose funeral I went to last week, of bowels and food diaries, of houses of multiple occupation, of the Lord Lieutenant of Suffolk and what is to be done about the poor.

Our conversation rattles on, breaking only while Mick returns to the bar for a whisky for himself and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me.  It’s a good job it’s an eight o’clock kick-off tonight or we’d miss the start of the game and Mick momentarily panics when I tell him it’s nearly twenty to eight.  We bid each other adieu until Saturday at the corner of Sir Alf Ramsey Way.  Portman Road is less thick with crowds than usual and at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I do not have to queue at all at turnstile 62 and am soon standing between Fiona and the man from Stowmarket whose name is actually Paul.  A row or two in front of us is ever-present Phil who never misses a game, but tonight there is no Elwood or Pat from Clacton, who I suspect has been kept indoors by the cold and her arthritis. 

Murphy the stadium announcer speeds through the team names as if they’re not important and I give up trying to call out their surnames as if I was French because Murphy is onto the next name before I have uttered a syllable; the names flow freely from Murphy’s mouth like diarrhoea.  As the teams parade onto the pitch flames shoot from little black boxes arranged around the touchlines, and we hold our hands out as if warming them by the fireside. I’ll bring marshmallows next time. An enthusiastic hand-warming minute’s applause for the recently deceased Terry Venables follows before tonight’s opponent’s Millwall are given first go with the ball, which they mostly try and direct towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the goal in front of it.  Town are as ever dressed in blue and white, whilst Millwall are dressed perfectly for a foggy night, in all over orange, looking like Lyons Maid Mivvis, or how Ipswich will look when we play away to Millwall.

“Millwall, Millwall – Millwall, Millwall, Millwall – Millwall, Millwall, Millwall- Millwall, Millwall“ sing their fans imaginatively to the tune of Que Sera Sera. “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” is the quite a bit less tuneful Ipswich response, and the mist and fog rolls in over the roofs of the stands to replace all the condensing moisture burnt off by the flames moments before.  “Addy-Addy, Addy -O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand .  Barely six minutes of the usual opening exchanges passes and Wes Burns takes on the Millwall full-back and gets beyond him to cross the ball for George Hirst to head down and back for Conor Chaplin to half volley into the Millwall goal past Bartosz Bialkowski, and Ipswich lead one nil having not conceded an early goal.  Conor Chaplin thanks Goerge Hirst who thanks Wes Burns and Sam Morsy gives thanks to Allah.

The cold and the fog are forgotten, everyone is happy. “We’ve got super Kieran Mackenna, he knows exactly what we need” sing the north stand,  but it’s only in my imagination that they carry on to chant  “Wolfy on the bench, Ladapo on the bench and other people in the team instead”.   Town are dominant and surge forward on the end of through balls with regularity.  Wes Burns hurdles the perimeter wall to join the people at the front of the West Stand as he evades a challenge from Millwall’s Murray Wallace.  The twelfth minute arrives and following an eye crossing sequence of short passes, Conor Chaplin sets the ball back for Massimo Luongo to belt into the net from near the edge of the penalty area ; it’s the second life enhancing goal of the evening and it’s possible Bialkowski never saw it.

A minute later Bart tips a first time George Hirst shot over the cross bar to give Town a corner and ever-present Phil and I manfully chant “ Come On You Blues” as the rest of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand looks on in puzzled silence.  Behind me a bloke who doesn’t sound like the usual ‘bloke behind me’ explains Town’s recent success to his accomplice as something to do with passing, but with liberal use of the word ‘fucking’. I don’t think it can be the same as Ruud Gullit’s ‘sexy football’.   Town win another corner I don’t pause for breath between lonely shouts of “Come On You Blues”.  I can only think all the noisy people I stood alongside in Churchman’s forty years ago have gone to an early grave.

Town are cruising and even let Millwall have a corner, and Vaclav Hladky also makes a neat save. As the man from Stowmarket will say at half time, it’s as if we’re inviting Millwall to have a go and then we’ll just hit them on the break.  I feel a little sorry for Bartosz Bialkowski, although he has the consolation of a psychedelic purple kit with abstract shapes that make him look like he’s wearing the sort of “dazzle” camouflage applied to ships during World War One, which Picasso claimed was invented by Cubists, the camouflage that is, not World War One.

With a quarter of the game gone for ever, except on Sky tv highlights, Massimo Luongo is the first player to see the yellow card of referee Mr Bramall, apparently because of a supposed foul.  Wes Burns makes things a bit better with a shot that hits a post that  almost lives up to the description “cannons off”.  I notice that I am being dripped on by droplets of moisture condensing on the cold steel girders of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand roof, and the North stand deliver a funereal version of “When the Town go marching in” before upping the tempo for a brief encore.

I’m beginning to think it’s been a while since I saw a goal, but as half-time beckons Wes Burns crosses from the right and Cameron Burgess moves into space in front of the penalty area. Everyone wants him to shoot thinking that he’s been possessed by the spirit of Bobby Charlton, but wisely he lays the ball off to an overlapping Leif Davis whose cross is met full on by Nathan Broadhead, who lives up to his name with a very straight and well  directed header into the far corner of the Millwall goal net. Town lead 3-0 and every goal has been a sight to commit to memory and treasure.  There is not a hint of irony tonight as we all sing “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen”.  Three minutes of added on time are surprisingly not enough to give Town a fourth goal, but the applause and appreciation are not diminished by this as the teams leave for their half-time break and I make the short journey to the front of the stand to chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison, who is much taken with ‘new’ Beatles single, which I can’t remember the name of.  I tell him it’s not as good as their old stuff, so everything they ever did before really, even Yellow Submarine.  I haven’t seen Ray for several weeks and I learn that he has been on two back to back cruises and not on the Orwell Lady either, but down to Madeira and southern Spain.

Back in my seat, I quickly scoff a Nature Valley cereal bar as the fog is thickened by use of the Versailles fountains on the pitch, before the game resumes and Nathan Broadhead is viciously hacked down by some Millwall oik who is then shoved by George Hirst who seems to have come over all protective of his team mate Nathan.  An unseemly melee ensues as if the players hadn’t been drinking tea or isotonic drinks at half time but pints of Stella.   Eventually however, the original perpetrator, the deceptively bitter George Honeyman,  is booked by Mr Bramall and everyone simmers down.

More bookings follow for both teams before the game reaches its 60th minute birthday ,and Millwall make a double substitution with the plain sounding Billy Mitchell replacing the more exotic Casper de Norre and the boring sounding Kevin Nisbet replacing the equally dull sounding Tom Bradshaw. Town have a brief flurry of attacks, Massimo Luongo shoots very narrowly wide and Bialkowski makes a save, but the fog has thickened  and I couldn’t swear to having seen any of it very clearly, and up in the Cobbold stand the Millwall fans are singing “ We can’t see a fucking thing” to which the wittiest of the  Ipswich fans in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand reply “We forgot that you were here”, and all to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

The second half is not as entertaining as the first and with twenty minute to go Keiran Mckenna, who must be freezing in what my friend Pete’s mum would have called “just a shorty-arsed jacket”, commits to a mass substitution as Marcus Harness, Omari Hutchison, Dane Scarlett and Kayden Jackson usurp Nathan Broadhead, Wes Burns, George Hirst and Conor Chaplin.  Moments later Murphy tells us that there are 27,702 of us here tonight of whom 1,270 are from Millwall, and no one likes them.  Murphy thanks us very much for our support, but unusually applies no adjectives to it, which is a good thing.

With time slipping away, empty blue seats are appearing in the Cobbold stand and Millwall supporters would seem to be slipping away too, but then with twelve minutes of normal time remaining a deep cross drops to the far post and Nisbet’s leg reaches in front of Cameron Burgess and he hooks the ball into the net for a Millwall goal.  ”We’re gonna win 4-3” sing the Millwall fans admirably, and then “How shit must you be, we’ve just scored a goal” showing a streak of self-deprecating humour not expected from fans of London clubs, although Fulham supporters also have it.  For a few minutes Millwall’s supporters have renewed hope as their team get forward, but don’t really threaten the Town goal.  It might just be that they are trying to keep warm, but there are some roars of encouragement , a chorus of “We Are Millwall, No one likes us” and one of “One-nil in the second half”, all healthy signs of supporters who know winning isn’t essential and have learned to get their fun where they can.

As the cold begins to get to grips with my woollen socks the sound of the final whistle can’t come soon enough. Jack Taylor replaces Massimo Luongo with a minute of normal time left and, we quickly learn there will be a mercifully brief four minutes of added on time.  Man of the Match,  Murphy tells us is Conor Chaplin, which draws an impressively uninterested response from the crowd and the final whistle is met with a sharp exit into the fog on all sides of the ground.

It’s been yet another enjoyable game at Portman Road, made even more memorable by three excellent goals, fog and freezing temperatures.  Whilst I loved the football, what I think I learned  most from tonight is that fingerless gloves do work, I have a very warm coat, but my socks could be better.

Ipswich Town 4 Rotherham United 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The year of our Lord 2023 has not started well. I have been suffering with diarrhoea all week and on Friday evening the teams I was rooting for in their respective ties in the ‘round of thirty-two’ in the Coupe de France (Montpellier HSC, Nimes Olympique, RC Strasbourg and LB de Chateauroux) all lost.  Today began as dull and grey and has progressed to become both wet and miserable, but my gloom and despondency have lifted as today is also the third round of the FA Cup and mighty Ipswich Town have a home tie against mighty Rotherham United. 

When I saw my first FA Cup third round tie back on 5th January 1974 (Town v Sheffield United) it would have been inconceivable to think of first division Town beating fourth division Rotherham as ever being a giant killing, but forty-nine years on the tables have turned a bit.  With Rotherham now in the second division and Town in the third, if Town win today I shall be claiming this as a ‘giant killing’, albeit one akin to a school child who is rather big for their age thumping one who is small for theirs but in the year above.

Ipswich is grey, Gippeswyk Park is wet underfoot and traffic is queuing to get over the bridge opposite the railway station, but Portman Road is quiet as I step up to the first booth I come to to purchase a copy of today’s programme. “Let me guess, £2.00 today” I say to the young woman in the booth.  She smiles perhaps through pity but I like to think she almost appears impressed as I hand her a single coin and tell her it wasn’t that big a deal, I’ve been to Cup matches before. 

By and by I cross the threshold of ‘The Arb’ and at the bar tell the barman that I ought to have something non-alcoholic; he directs me to the third shelf from the bottom of a tall fridge with a glass door which is packed with cans of ‘craft’ beer.  I pick a can of Big Drop Galactic Milk Stout and returning to the bar the I hear the voice of Mick saying “I’ll get that” which is characteristically good of him.  Mick has a glass of an anonymous amber bitter and packet of Fairfield’s Farms cheese and onion flavour crisps.  We repair to the garden where we meet Gary coming in the opposite direction who texted me early this morning, but I didn’t reply because I hadn’t noticed.  Gary is on his way to buy himself a beer and returns with a pint of unidentified lager; Gary is from Essex.

The three of us talk a little of football, the tv series ‘detectorists’, but also of death, as ever.  Mick’s daughter’s neighbour died this week from cardiac arrest and Gary tells of a man whose birthday coincided with his wife being admitted to hospital and her father dying. Aside from the big things like wars, famine and climate change life can be pretty miserable on a micro-level, which puts football into perfect perspective, so we really should try and enjoy it whatever the result.

Not much after twenty-five to three we head for Portman Road, returning our glasses to the bar on the way and noting that ‘The Arb’ now has a menu for dogs; I make a silly comment about restaurants in Malaysia. Sir Alf Ramsey Way is thick with people queuing to get into Sir Alf’s eponymous stand and the Magnus west stand, but we carry on towards the Corporation bus depot and find no queue at all at the end turnstile, where for the first time in my life I gain entry by my wife having downloaded my ticket on my mobile phone and having it scanned.  Mick and I were both nervous that this would work but it did.  I find myself marvelling at the wonder of modern technology in the manner of uncle Bryn in tv’s ‘Gavin and Stacey’.

Having syphoned off some beer, Mick and I find our way to the ‘posh’ padded seats in Block Y from where will be watching this afternoon’s game.  Gary only bought his ticket last night and so is away in the humbler surroundings of F Block.  Courtesy of his season ticket, Gary normally sits in J Block which Mick tells me is also the name of an Ipswich drugs gang from the mean streets between Bramford Road and London Road.  In the oppressive dim light of the upper tier of the Magnus west stand, we edge ourselves past an unsmiling man and his unsmiling wife, although she could be his floozie, and we find our seats.  A little weirdly to my cold, unfeeling mind, today’s game is, according to page 23 of the programme, the Club’s annual Memorial Matchday in which members of the Blue Army who died in 2022, or ‘passed away’ as the programme calls it, can be remembered.   Before the game can begin the names of the deceased appear on the scoreboard and they receive a minute’s applause. “There are an awful lot of names” says Mick, who for a moment thinks these are all former players.  I’m not sentimental and find this Memorial Match idea a bit odd, but I am reminded nevertheless of former manager John Duncan and the excellent, original David Johnson,  John Jackson and, although I saw none of his thirty-four games for Town, Aled Owen. I recall seeing Jackson’s only game for Town, a 2-1 win over Manchester United and that Aled Owen played a single league game in the Championship winning season of 1961/62.  I think of fellow fan Andi Button with whom I saw many an away game in the 1980’s and 1990’s and even travelled with him by car to see Doncaster Rovers v Colchester United for what was the last game at Belle Vue before Doncaster were relegated from the Football League in 1998.

With applauses clapped and knees taken the game begins, Rotherham having first go with the ball, hoping to kick mostly towards the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and looking like Derby County or Germany in white shirts with black shorts, despite their proper kit of red shirts with white sleeves and white shorts not clashing at all with Town’s blue and white ensemble.  Perhaps the absence of the red kit is a sign that Rotherham haven’t turned up as themselves today and aren’t much interested in the Cup, but in fact their team shows just one change from that which lost in the league at Millwall last weekend.

The crowd is loud with a good noise from the Sir Bobby Robson stand where the most vocal support, Blue Action, has re-located itself from stuck up the corner to the central section. Despite the impressive support, the game starts slowly, very slowly, with Richard Keogh and George Edmundson frequently standing still with the ball at their feet before merely passing the ball between one another. As I remark to Mick, it’s not exactly a ‘blood and thunder’ cup tie. I spend my time getting used to the unfamiliar surroundings of Block Y with its tight legroom and padded seats and the man behind me with a loud voice who likes to explain things to his children, although to be fair they are asking questions, as children do.  Slowly, Town venture forward and a couple of forays on the flanks nearly produce moves worth applauding and some people do. Both Conor Chaplin and Kayden Jackson have shots on goal, but both are poor efforts.  Then twice the ball is given away cheaply in the Town half and luckily Rotherham fail to take full advantage, Jamie Lindsay trying and failing to pass when he should have shot and then most luckily of all the ball is sent from close range into the Town net only for the ‘scorer’ to be flagged offside.  The home crowd is in good voice with the lower tiers of both the Sir Alf and Sir Bobby stands looking full.

Freddie Ladapo chases a through ball. “Way offside” calls a bloke behind me in a tone of voice that implies that Ladapo being offside is a given.  “Way offside” he says again scornfully and then once more for luck when the assistant referee finally raises his flag.  This bloke behind me would seem to have turned up simply to let the world, or at least an unfortunate part of Block Y know that he doesn’t rate Freddie Ladapo.  The larger part of the first half is marred by such carping “Here we go, what are you gonna do with it? Do something with it” says another know-it-all as the opportunity for a match winning pass once again fails to materialise.   Much more enjoyably, when Kayden Jackson is fouled but gets no free-kick, a high-pitched, pre-pubescent voice from behind calls “Get your bloody glasses out”.

A half an hour has gone and whilst Ipswich have dominated, they have not been incisive, and shooting has been snatched at and inaccurate.  The children behind are eating savoury snacks that smell like a dog has farted.  In the corner between the Cobbold Stand and the Sir Alf Ramsey stand I can see a patch of blue sky above what must be Holywells Park.  A fine rain has started to fall and it’s nearly half-time. Kayden Jackson breaks down the right wing, as the Rotherham defence back pedal, Jackson sends a low cross towards the back of the penalty area, Conor Chaplin can’t reach it, but Cameron Humphreys is running in and strikes the ball smoothly inside the left hand post beyond the diving Viktor Johansson, and Town lead 1-0, it’s a fine, fine  goal.

Half-time follows on quickly and the crowd seems happy, a goal always works wonders. Mick had departed early to siphon more used beer and I meet him in the bar where we watch the half-time results on the tv and play spot the ‘giant-killing’ which leads to a discussion about which league clubs are in and how it was easier when it was divisions one to four. I admit to Mick that I still refer to divisions one to four bloody-mindedly to show my dislike of ‘modern ways’ in the same way that I call the internet the interweb.  Mick says he does the same when he still calls Ipswich’s ‘waterfront’ the docks.

The game resumes at five past four and it’s still raining, just a bit harder.  We’ve barely got comfortable again before Keogh and Leif Davis get in a muddle and allow Conor Washington to slip between them and get beyond Keogh who stretches out a leg or two giving Washington the opportunity to fall over him and win a penalty, which being unfamiliar with the Corinthian Spirit he naturally takes. Washington recovers sufficiently from his ordeal to score the penalty and the hard work of the first half is laid to waste.  Keogh hasn’t had a great match today, he could be the new Luke Chambers although happily he’s no Mark Fish or Ivar Ingimarsson.

The match resumes again and despite no doubt the worst fears of the crowd, Town continue to be the better team and Rotherham don’t look like scoring again.  The rain continues, swirling and drifting through the beams of the floodlights as natural daylight fades from the streets around the ground. Over an hour has passed and Marcus Harness replaces Sone Aluko, Rotherham bring on the only player from their last league match who didn’t begin the game today, Dan Barlaser, who sounds like a character from a sci-fi novel.

Town play a patient game, which is just as well because there are twenty-six minutes to wait until Freddie Ladapo, with his back to goal is wrestled to the ground by Rotherham’s Wes Harding.  Conor Chaplin scores the resulting penalty and the Sir Bobby Robson stand channel the spirit of Doris Day with an essential but tentative chorus of “Que Sera, Que Sera”.  “It wasn’t even a great penalty” says the know-it-all behind me.  Four minutes later Town make mass substitutions, which as often seems to happen bring quick relief to our pain and Freddie Ladapo gets a free run at goal; he rounds the goalkeeper and shoots low and hard to put Town 3-1 up, much to the chagrin no doubt of the know-it-all.

Today’s attendance is announced by the dangerously up-beat Stephen Foster as being 15,728 with 215 of that number being Rotherhamites. It has to be the biggest crowd for an FA Cup match at Portman Road in at least ten years, probably more.  Rotherham continue to flounder.  “Ha-ha” says the child behind me sounding like Nelson Munce from the Simpsons as a rare Rotherham foray forward squirms away over the line for a goal-kick.  All around, except up in the Cobbold stand there is a sense of joy.  Cup fever has broken out at Portman Road and is spreading fast through a crowd previously thought to have been vaccinated against it. The until now totally reserved man beside me begins to mutter “Ole, Ole, Ole” to himself following the lead of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, only they’re not muttering.

Eight minutes of normal time remain and a Kyle Edwards shot hits a post. Gassan Yahyi replaces Freddie Ladapo and then Kane Vincent-Young takes advantage of a shove by Hakeem Odoffin and Wes Burns adds a fourth goal from the penalty spot as a result.  “Championship you’re ‘avin’ a laugh” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers safe in the knowledge that we can’t possibly lose now, and after three minutes of added on time Town’s ball books its place in the velvet bag for the fourth-round draw.

As we descend the stairs and head out into the drizzly darkness Mick and I reflect on our afternoon of FA Cup giant-killing .  I venture that it was pretty good. “After a very slow start” says Mick, tempering my enthusiasm, but I’m sure he’s only trying to keep my feet on the ground.   Wemberlee!

Ipswich Town 1 Bolton Wanderers 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Here we go again, and it’s still July.  I will admit to not looking forward to the start of the football season because as a person who seeks fulfilment in being idle I enjoy summer Saturdays with nothing much to do, and summer is still in its prime, it won’t begin to flop into autumn for another three weeks at least, that’s when the football season should begin again. But hey, how else are we going to fit in 46 league games, at least three games trying to win a pizza pan and probably no more than two or three games trying to win two cups that are inevitably destined to end up on the sideboard of one or two of the same four clubs from London and the north-west?

 Today, it is ordained that we shall play Bolton Wanderers, last season’s nemesis who along with Rotherham United were the only team to beat us both home and away, which in the week of the last episode of Neighbours I will admit, whilst in confessorial mood, was my Australian ‘soap’ of choice.   The last time Town played Bolton Wanderers on the first day of the season was in 1961, albeit at Burnden Park, and Town of course went on to win the Premier League that season, although it wasn’t called that then.  By way of yet another private confession, last night I dreamt about today’s game and how Town drew two-all after twice going ahead with the opposition equalising twice from spectacular long range shots into the top right hand corner of our goal.  I say opposition because oddly Town were playing West Ham United in my dream although they also seemed to be called Bolton Wanderers.  Even odder is that I then dreamt that I woke up and realised I had been dreaming because all I could remember of the game were the two Bolton/West Ham goals and an empty ground.  Then I really did wake up and felt a bit disorientated.

Having happily reined in my subconscious mind I have negotiated the crawling traffic of the A12 and walked across Gippeswyk Park.  At the junction of Ancaster Road and Ranelagh Road I must decide whether to turn left towards the Bobby Robson Bridge or right towards the station hotel where I will no doubt be serenaded by boozing Lancastrians in the pub garden singing the praises of barm cakes, back to back housing and cotton mills.  Seeking the quiet life as ever, I opt for the former. In Alf Ramsey Way I purchase a match day programme in the modern cashless manner which seems to take several minutes, before heading off over Civic Drive, past the enchanted Spiral car park which used to just be known as ‘the underground car park’ and up St George’s Street to the Arbour House (formerly The Arboretum) to meet Mick and discuss life over a pint of  a beer (£3.90) from the Burnt Mill brewery which the pump clip said was Japanese, I ask the  barman where it was from, “Stowmarket” he replies.  Mick’s and my conversation rambles between spotty liver disease, the quality of television pictures, Ipswich Town’s latest signings and funerals before I buy a pint of Lacon’s Encore and a packet of Fairfield’s cheese and onion crisps (£1.00) and we discuss VHS videos of Ipswich Town’s greatest moments in history and retirement.

We leave earlier than usual for Portman Road because I have a bag of six Ipswich Town VHS videos to give to a bloke called Ash from Swaffham; I have arranged to meet Ash at twenty to three by the Sir Alf Ramsey statue, but he doesn’t turn up. I ask several people stood about if they are called Ash, but none are and two people think I have asked them if they’ve got any hash.  Disappointed but not surprised, because the world is an increasingly unreliable place, I head for turnstile number 60 to begin yet another season full of hope and likely disappointment; but you never know (that’s the hope again).

Out in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are already here looking fresh and revived in their summer clothes, it reminds me of what the first day back at school used to feel like.  On the pitch, be-suited stadium announcer and former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster reads out the teams looking as if he is the best man at a wedding.  Banners festoon the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand telling us “The future is bright, the future is blue and white”; it rhymes, it must be true.  To our right is the new scoreboard, beaming messages to us like something out of Orwell’s 1984. The stadium is alive with the sound of nigh on 27,000 people and as the game begins those in the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand break inexplicably into a chorus of Mary’s Boy Child, with lyrics altered to tell of eternal fighting and Norwich running away, because it’s Boxing Day.  Off to my right in the Cobbold Stand, in an equally surreal vein, it sounds as if the Bolton supporters are singing “Oh wanky wanky, Wanky wanky wanky wanky Northerners.”  But my hearing isn’t what it was and Boltonians do have thick accents.

The opening minutes of the match are messy with lots of physical effort, but little discernible entertainment.  All the Bolton team appear to be about 2metres tall and there’s not a Frank Worthington amongst them. “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” chant the Bolton fans.  As nice as that might be, no one takes them up on their kind offer and in a fit of pique they impolitely tell the Ipswich fans “Your support is fucking shit”, before peevishly announcing like thwarted adolescents that the large crowd is because “You’ve only come to see The Wanderers”.   Only six minutes have passed and it’s like last season never ended; clearly supporters have wasted the whole close-season and not come up with a single original new chant between the lot of them.

A frisson of excitement shoots through the home support as a punt forward forces the Bolton ‘keeper James Trafford to play sweeper for a moment. Up in the Cobbold Stand the brief roar of excitement from the home support is an excuse to unleash what passes for wit with a chant to say they had forgotten we were here. How droll.  It’s the eleventh minute and Town win a corner as a Bolton defender heads the ball out of his goalkeeper’s hands.  Lee Evans’ exotic curling corner-kick curls too much and goes disappointingly straight into touch like a metaphor for last season. It is a quarter past three and Bolton win a corner leading to Wes Burns breaking away down the right  and putting in a low cross which is blocked. Burns is looking neater and slimmer than last season suggesting to me that his call-up to the Welsh squad and access to the bright lights of Cardiff might have turned his head.

“They love a ball up the middle don’t they?” says the bloke behind me to the bloke beside him as Bolton launch an attack like a Russian missile strike.  Fortunately for Town, Bolton’s attacks are producing few goal-attempts, but they are dominating play and look generally quicker and stronger than Town for whom debutants Marcus Harness and Leif Davis are doing little other than entertain me with the thoughts that Marcus Harness sort of rhymes and that Leif is a great first name.

The first half is more than half over and all of a sudden Bolton have a penalty from which Aaron Morley scores.  Leif Davis is adjudged to have tripped some Bolton player or other, who predictably makes full use of the opportunity to fall headlong to the turf whilst simultaneously looking up pleadingly at referee Mr Samuel Barrett, who is not to be confused with Samuel Beckett.  Disappointment reigns. But unusually the goal against proves a turning point in Town’s favour and for the rest of the match Ipswich are the better team.  Corners are traded as the half hour approaches and in the Town penalty area some male posturing ensues.  “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you?” chant the inhabitants of the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the Bolton supporters sing the same thing.  Nobody seems to know who anybody is.  It could be the result of dementia but it’s probably because third division footballers are generally not household names, with the exception of course of Town’s number 17, Ed Sheeran.   Bolton’s number three Declan John becomes the first player to be booked in a possibly not unrelated incident.

The 37th minute has arrived and another of the day’s debutants, Freddie Ladapo, has a shot deflected away for a corner which Conor Chaplin passes into the penalty area for Lee Evans to side foot into the goal net in a moment of combined thought and invention that was two steps ahead of the entire Bolton team and probably a good 27,000 other people too.  The sadness and shame of having gone behind in the first game of the season is instantly forgotten.  “ You’re not singing any more” chant the home fans to the Boltonians delving delightedly into bottomless wells of Schadenfreude.   More is to come almost, as a beautiful interchange of passes down the right between Janoi Doncaien,  Conor Chaplin, Wes Burns and Sam Morsy ends with Freddie Ladapo having a shot blocked almost as soon as it leaves his boot.

Two minutes of the half remain and having already given away a penalty on his debut, Leif Davis then makes a bid for immortality as he also becomes the first Town player of the 2022-23 season to be booked; it’s a good effort from him but no one will ever rival the appalling Town debut of Mark Fish, who funnily enough also played for Bolton Wanderers.   Three minutes of time added on are played and then it’s half-time.  I consume a Panda brand liquorice stick and talk to Ray, who tells me that his son Michael and his grandson Harrison are missing today’s game because they are respectively in Greece and Scotland.  We share our doubts over the validity of the penalty and the efficacy so far  of the left hand side of the Town team. 

The game resumes at eight minutes past four with the mystifying partial rendition by the Bolton fans of Manfred Mann’s 1964 Number One hit record ‘Do-wah-diddy diddy’ (although it was originally recorded the year before by American band The Exciters).  On the field of play, things are more mundane with the usual procession of corners and stuff that you get in football matches.  It’s a little bit after a quarter past four and Trafford spectacularly tips a Lee Evans header over the cross bar; five minutes later and the first of a host of substitutions materialise with the luckless Lief and ineffective Harness being replaced by Greg Leigh (not to be confused by Prog-Rockers with Greg Lake) and Tyreece John-Jules (impossible to confuse with anyone).   An hour has gone, Freddie Ladapo shoots tamely at Trafford before Leigh gets back to acrobatically head away a Bolton cross.

As the final third of the game progresses the sky begins to cloud over a little, there are flying ants taking to the air and landing on the shirt of the bloke in front of me;  seagulls circle over the Portman Road car park; it’s stiflingly warm.  It’s a dog day afternoon; I think of Al Pacino.

Ending a sequence of three ever worsening fouls, Bolton’s Conor Bradley chops down Tyreece John-Jules particularly dirtily and is booked. “You dirty Northern bastard” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers reciting possibly football’s greatest chant. “Small Town in Norwich, You’re just a small Town in Norwich” is the Boltonian’s weak response, which does little to dispel the rumours that Bradley hasn’t washed, is Northern and was conceived outside wedlock.

Both teams continue to make substitutions like they’re going out of fashion, making four each with Sone Aluko and Kayden Jackson replacing  Conor Chaplin and Freddie Ladapo for Town.  Ipswich dominate, pinning back Bolton and making them play sardines in their own penalty area.  It’s a niggly game as both teams display their frustration at being unable to beat the other.  The crowd is announced as 26,688, and it seems wakes week has come early with 1,392 pale and pasty-faced folk from the mills and the mines making up the numbers in the Cobbold Stand.  Pat from Clacton wins the guess the crowd competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus with a prediction of 26,679; she seems a little shocked but I can tell she’s excited by her win, it’s been a long time coming.

Back on the pitch, Luke Woolfenden is the second Town player to be booked.  A Wes Burns header brings another corner, Sone Aluko shoots past the post and so does Tyreece John-Jules, who also has a shot saved, and then in the best opportunity of the whole game Wes Burns runs deep into the penalty area before placing one of those crosses usually labelled ‘inviting’ in front of Sam Morsy.  Morsy sends Trafford the wrong way with his shot, but the ball strikes the fortunate keeper’s legs and is cleared.

After six minutes of time added-on, the game ends.  It’s a shame not to start the season with a win, yet again, but it was a tough match against a strong team and Town did recover from going a goal behind, and on balance these are all good things.  One swallow does not make a summer seems an appropriate homily for the occasion, because every occasion needs a homily; although in this case it’s not so much a lovely, swooping, screaming swallow as a scrounging, step-sibling murdering cuckoo.

Ipswich Town 1 Sheffield Wednesday 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Ipswich Town first played Sheffield Wednesday back in August of 1958 in a second division game at Portman Road; trolleybuses were still running in Ipswich and Sheffield still had trams the first time round.  Town of course won (2-0), as we often did before the turn of the century.   By the time I started watching Town the twentieth century had the best part of thirty years still to run, but Sheffield Wednesday were down in the third division and Town were just getting established in what has now unfortunately become the Premier League, and hence the two clubs never met, not even in the Cup.  The first time I saw Wednesday was therefore not against Ipswich at all but at Layer Road, Colchester, in September of 1979, neither team managed to score.  When I eventually did see Town play Wednesday it was at Hillsborough in September of 1984, halfway through the miner’s strike. After the 2-2 draw I was amongst Town fans who were whisked back to Sheffield Midland station at high speed in a double-decker bus escorted by police motorcycles. As we sped through the streets of Sheffield that Saturday evening, we felt unsure if we would end up at the train station or hurtling through a jeering picket line to do a strike-breaking shift at a local colliery. 

Today is a somewhat grey September Saturday morning and it feels nothing at all like thirty-seven years ago, the class struggle seems to have been lost and now both Town and Wednesday languish in the third division playing second fiddle to their loathsome local rivals. I don’t know if it has anything to do with a loss of revolutionary zeal, but my enthusiasm for today’s fixture is oddly muted, particularly given Town’s first win of the season last weekend, and as if to confirm my feelings of ennui this morning I chose to put on a pair of socks that depict Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’. Nevertheless, there is never any doubt that I won’t drive to Ipswich, park up my trusty Citroen C3 on Chantry, wander down through Gippeswyk Park and search out a pre-match beer. Later as I walk up Princes Street, what I assume is a police drone hovers above and I am struck by the new views of Portman Road that have been opened up following demolition of the former Mann Egerton garage from where in 1978 my father bought the brown Triumph Dolomite in which I wooed my first girlfriend.  Having witnessed a man shouting and swearing at his friend or partner trying unsuccessfully to back a mini into a parking space, I end up at the Arbor House (properly known as the Arboretum) where I sit alone in the garden and drink a pint of Woodforde’s Kett’s Rebellion (£3.80). 

At about twenty-five minutes to three I head for Portman Road and join the crocodile of supporters descending St George’s Street from the Greyhound.  Making my way along Sir Alf Ramsey Way and Constantine Road I show my Covid credentials and then enter the Sir Alf Ramsey stand through turnstile number sixty, offering a cheery ‘Hello’ and ‘Thank you’ to the turnstile operator as I enter the ground.  The programme seller in the driveway to the main reception has sold out so I make my way to the little shop at the far end of the stand where I buy a programme (£3.50). “Enjoy the match” says the young man behind the counter as he hands over the glossy booklet and my change from a five-pound note.  “Or bon match as they say in France”, I reply pointing to the “Allez les bleus” slogan on the front of my T-shirt as I turn away and walk into one of the metal barriers that have been set out in front of the shop, presumably to marshal the invisible throng of people over eager to buy programmes and other assorted toot.

On the lower tier of the stand Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, Ray, his son and his grandson Harrison are already in their seats. Pat from Clacton arrives soon after I sit down and as the teams run out, the little band called Blue Action who now occupy Section 6 of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and wave blue and white flags, and brandish a colourful banner that reads “Uppa Towen”.  Compared to the tifos seen in the stands of Marseille or Lens, Blue Action’s effort is rather pathetic, but in the context of soporific Suffolk it’s a bloody marvel and I like it very much.  At a minute past three the game begins with Scott Fraser making first contact with the ball as Town aim to put it in the big white goal just in front of me to my right.  Within 30 seconds Sheffield Wednesday win a corner with their supporters still singing along to ‘Hey Jude’, a song which is played over the PA system with the intention of rousing the home fans, not the away ones; but it’s good to be optimistic.  Three minutes later and Town should be ahead as a simple through ball from Cameron Burgess puts the oddly named Macauley Bonne through on goal, only for Bonne to take too much time and eventually place the ball weakly against the chest of Sheffield Wednesday goalkeeper Bailey Peacock-Farrell, a man who looks like a giant orange-flavour Lyons Maid Mivvi, sounds like a firm of accountants and can stop most shots by merely stringing his name out across the goalmouth.

Behind me two blokes debate which of Town’s two defensive midfielders is Idris El-Mizouni and which is Tommy Carroll. The louder, more assertive bloke concludes that Idris is number 25, which he is not, because that’s Tommy Carroll.  I briefly toy with the idea of turning around to point out his error, but happily his more cautious accomplice discovers the truth a short while later to save me the trouble.   Meanwhile, up in the Cobbold Stand the Sheffielders sing “Shall we sing a, Shall we sing a, Shall we sing a song for you” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.  Nobody responds, presumably because most people are thinking to themselves “Well, they’re already singing a song, what are they on about?”.  For my part, I’m impressed by their politeness and given a choice would ask for something by Heaven 17, Pulp or the Arctic Monkeys.

Fifteen minutes have elapsed since the game started and so far not very much of note has happened. Then, Wes Burns slams the ball into the net after either the oddly named Macauley Bonne or Scott Fraser flicks the ball on to him, but Burns is, unbeknown to me and those around me, offside; we therefore stand up as one and cheer wildly only to sit down again a moment later feeling cheated and very slightly embarrassed.  To their eternal credit the Wednesdayites do not chant “You thought you had scored, you were wrong, you were wrong”, which is nice of them.

The game is close and compelling although not of particularly good quality; Sheffield are quicker to the ball and dominate possession, but fortunately their tiny ten, the wonderfully named Barry Bannan tends to overhit most of his crosses and long passes.  For Town meanwhile, the oddly named Macauley Bonne looks somewhat lonely up front on his own and I surmise that he wears the number eighteen shirt because he’s doing the work of two number nines.

“It’s gonna come innit?” announces the bloke behind me optimistically as Town waste an opportunity with Idris El-Mizouni passing to Wes Burns when he could have had a shot and Wes Burns overhitting the ensuing cross.  Then, slightly unexpectedly, we witness a Sheffield Wednesday goal instead; Dennis Adeniran becoming the first man called Dennis, with two ‘n’s like the fire engines and dust carts, to score at Portman Road in living memory, although Denis (only one ‘n’) Maffey did score for Town back in September 1947 in a 4-0 win over Southend.

The Sheffield supporters away to my right are predictably pleased and sing an incomprehensible song to the tune of the ‘Yankee Doodle’ nursery rhyme; their euphoria and short vowels rendering their words indecipherable, but for the final one which is ‘Wednesday’.   I have to admit to feeling somewhat depressed that Town have gone behind again at home and can barely remember when I last saw them comfortably win a game by three or four goals to nil, like we used to do.   There must be young supporters who are barely aware that such things ever happened or are even possible.  Pat from Clacton echoes my disappointment. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” she says.

As if the frustration of being a goal down wasn’t enough, the referee Mr Andy Davies, whose head is conspicuously hairless, then proceeds to deny the oddly named Macauley Bonne a free-kick when his feet miraculously disappear from beneath him as he attempts to side step a Wednesday defender on the edge of the penalty box.   “You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand employing a childish simplicity reminiscent of the school playground.  Further decisions from the increasingly inept Mr Davies go against Town and as he speaks to and perhaps compares haircuts with a clearly perplexed Paul Cook, the crowd ask “Who’s the wanker in the black?” suggesting both that they haven’t read the back pages of their programmes carefully enough and that they care not about the possibility of either of the linesmen thinking “Ooh, I hope they don’t mean me?”.

The half-time break arrives and Town still trail, I console myself with a Nature Valley peanut and chocolate protein bar and a chat with Ray, who bemoans the performance of Mr Andy Davies and more controversially of Bersant Celina, who doesn’t look as fit or sharp as he might.  Not far from where Ray and I are standing former Town and Sheffield Wednesday player Shefki Kuqi appears, looking trim and very smart in a grey suit good enough for a job interview or court appearance, and takes the well-deserved applause of the whole ground.

At four minutes past four the football resumes and Town enjoy more possession, although a lot of it involves passing the ball across the field waiting for the right opening to appear.  It’s not long before Mr Davies is showing off his poor refereeing skills once again as Wednesday’s Liam Palmer is tripped on the edge of the Town penalty box.  Appearing uncertain whether the foul happened inside or outside the box, Mr Davies doesn’t give a foul at all, making it the Wednesdayites’ turn to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s doing, provoking ironic jeers from the Town supporters to which the Wednesday fans respond with a chant of “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here”. It’s easily done.

In the sixty-seventh minute Wednesday’s tiny ten, Barry Bannen, leaves the pitch as slowly as his little legs will carry him to be replaced by Callum Paterson.  Barry’s departure leaves Wednesday’s Sam Hutchinson as the only player on the pitch with particularly naff looking bleached blonde hair.  The oddly named Macauley Bonne shoots straight at Bailey Peacock-Farrell for a second time this afternoon, and then for a while substitutions seem to become the purpose of the game, as Wednesday swap seven for seventeen and Town swap Celina and Burns for Harper and Chaplin, before the oddly named Macauley Bonne has another opportunity, which this time is deflected away for a corner, and then Cameron Burgess heads wide of the goal.  For the first time this afternoon the Sheffield Wednesday support has fallen silent, although not as silent as most of the Ipswich crowd is the rest of the time .

Twelve minutes remain and as Sheffield make a rare foray forward, Idris El-Mizouni manages to fell two of them at once with a Keystone Cops style assault, which unfairly results in his being shown the yellow card by the hopeless Mr Davies, who plainly doesn’t appreciate good slapstick comedy when he sees it.  Not long afterwards Idris is replaced by Joe Piggott, but he leaves the field to appreciative and well-deserved applause having played a skilful, controlled game to be expected of a player who grew up in France.  He will be the new Zizou yet.

With the game entering its final throes, one of the seats in the row in front of me and to my left becomes occupied by what I can only describe as a gobby oik, who complains that Town are knocking the ball around like they’re winning.  He seems to know the bloke behind me and after flicking ‘v’ signs at the Sheffield supporters he turns to him seeking his approval; I’m not sure he gets it.  He doesn’t like that no one sings in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and I share his despair, but otherwise he seems a right berk and I hope he abides by his promise that he’ll watch the next game from the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.

Not much more than five minutes of normal time remain and Cheyenne Dunkley, who is even more oddly and improbably named than the oddly named Macauley Bonne, replaces Said Berahino for Wednesday.  Two minutes of normal time remain and Ipswich press for an equaliser. “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chant an almost respectable number of the home crowd, but slightly shyly.  Ninety minutes are up and from my seat it looks like Bailey Peacock- Farrell is about to make a drop kick, but suddenly the oddly named Macauley Bonne has the ball and the Wednesday defence is in disarray, Bonne passes back across the face of goal to  Scott Fraser and Fraser sends it onto Conor Chaplin at the far post and he smashes the ball into the gaping Wednesday net! We’ve equalised! Well, I wasn’t expecting that.

Most of time added on for assorted stoppages remains and Town have the opportunity to score the winner as Rekeem Harper surges unpredictably into the penalty box,  but shoots weakly at the orange Mivvi .  The remaining time ebbs away and the game ends with no further goals, although Scott Fraser makes a final flourish in Mr Davies notebook with a cynical trip.  As the players leave the pitch a good number of people stay back to applaud their efforts.  I am pleased that we haven’t lost, because I thought we were going to, but overall, I am still a little disappointed that we haven’t played better.  As I drive home listening to Radio Suffolk, mainly for the laughs, it’s a view that I learn the legendary Mick Mills also holds, although many listeners seem to disagree.  It is very unusual for me to be disappointed with a Town performance when other Town supporters aren’t.

The first home victory of the season still remains annoyingly elusive, but heck, we’re playing bottom of the table Doncaster Rovers next, so how difficult can it be, so I’ll stay positive and try not to wear the Edvard Munch socks again.