bristol rovers

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been cold lately, which is reassuring because it is January, and low air temperatures at this time of year are part of the recurring pattern of life that means the FA Cup third round is upon us, albeit a week later than it was when I were a lad.  Neolithic farmers had stone circles and henges aligned to the  stars to mark the changing seasons, we have football fixtures.

Feeling at one with Mother Earth, I walk beneath a pale blue, winter afternoon sky to the railway station, where I meet Roly, who will be attending his first  game of the current season after three failed attempts to score a ticket for a league match, which has left him bitter and disconsolate; this is what being in the Premier League does to people.  A young girl stood next to us on the platform with what are possibly an older brother and her mother, remarks that I am wearing odd gloves (a blue and red one and a black and orange one) and so I explain to her that the other halves of the pairs of gloves had holes in them, although I don’t tell her that one of the gloves is a “Marcus Stewart” glove, because I guess that she wouldn’t know who Marcus Stewart is. Her brother supports West Ham, and her mother seems to be ignoring them both, and I sense the children are pleased that someone is talking to them, even if it’s Roly who is now feeling left out.

At the first station stop, Gary boards the train and soon joins us on our journey having made his way down the carriage.  Like the three witches in Macbeth in reverse, we discuss when we all last met and decide that like so much, it was ‘before lockdown’.  But then, if you’re no longer at primary school most things were before lockdown.  We continue to talk aimlessly until like pensioners on a sightseeing trip we all peer out of the window to catch a glimpse of the polar bears that mark the approach to Ipswich.  I think I see one lying on its back as if sunbathing, but it might just be my excitement playing tricks on me.

Once in Ipswich, I struggle at the platform barrier with my electronic ticket as Gary and Roly, who relied on cardboard but had to kill a tree in the process, wait patiently on the other side.  We amble up Princes Street and Portman Road and take turns to buy programmes from one of the ice cream kiosks, and then complain that there is no groovy design on the cover, (damn you Umbro) or anywhere come to that, and the programme is a bit thin for £2.50. “Less of the usual rubbish to read though “I say cheerfully as we walk on up to the Arb, and occasionally I steer Roly in the right direction, as he seems to have forgotten the way; he’s only forty-seven.

On High Street, Roly reaches the front door of the Arb first, but ushers me through before him like a man much practiced in avoiding buying the first round, or any round. But then, he does have a wife and child to support, and he clearly gets his haircut more often than me too, although he doesn’t buy many razor blades.  We are soon clutching pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, Nethergate Venture and Lager 43 (£13 something for the three with Camra discount) and greeting Mick, who is already sat in the shelter in the beer garden with a pint of Suffolk Pride of his own.  We talk of this and that and sometimes we laugh.  Gary buys another round of drinks after a while, but this time he and Roly only have halves and Mick has a whisky.  By twenty-five to three our glasses are once again empty and so with at least one other Town supporter still in the bar, if his shirt is to be believed, we leave for Portman Road.

In Portman Road the queues at the turnstiles are impressive in their length and the variety of speeds at which they move.  We join the queue for turnstile 62, but as ever it seems slower than the others and so we slip across towards turnstile sixty as two young women wave illuminated scanners at us. I tell them I can save them some effort if they let me know what they are looking for; apparently it’s weapons.  We hand over our assault rifles and grenades and move on up the queue.

Once in my seat, I find I have missed the excitable young stadium announcer’s reading out of the team, which is mildly disappointing, but more so is the absence of Pat from Clacton, although Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here, even if many other regulars aren’t.  Fiona tells me that Pat had said she wasn’t going to come to this game, sadly it seems she’s no longer turned on by the FA Cup like we all are.

It’s the Town who get first go with the ball, which they pass around in the general direction of me and my fellow ultras; Town wear blue and white of course, whilst Bristol Rovers sport a change kit of plastic green shirts decorated with areas of black check, like a small geometric rash; their shorts are black like the rash.  The words “External Render” flash across the illuminated strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the Bristol Rovers supporters mournfully sing of when the Gas go marching in, and how they want to be in that number, or pipe, when it happens.  It’s the sixth minute and Ipswich have a free kick from which they win a corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues”.  Fiona gamely joins in, but we are lone voices in a sea of silence.  A second corner follows but things don’t improve chorally. “You’re supposed to be at home” sing the Bristolians to the tune of Cwm Rhondda and then they shout a short chant of “Football In a Library“, which quickly fades away into a stifled mumble as if someone had disapprovingly raised their finger to their lips and pointed to a sign that says “Silence”.

It’s the twelfth minute of the game now and Jack Clarke falls to the turf in the Rovers penalty area, raising his head and looking pleadingly at the referee as he does so.  He should probably be booked for such a poor attempt at scamming a penalty but isn’t.  Meanwhile, the Rovers supporters start singing “Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be, We’re going to Wemb-er-ley, Que sera, sera” revealing an unexpected love of the hits of Doris Day, a healthy optimism and a sense of the ridiculous all at once. Town have a corner, and a game of head tennis follows before the ball is claimed by the Bristol goalkeeper Josh Griffiths, and the Rovers fans begin to goad the pensioners and small children in the adjacent Sir Alf Ramsey stand by singing “Small club in Norwich, You’re just a small club in Norwich”.  The Rovers fans will later realise their mistake as they begin their drives home by looking for the A11.

Town are dominating the game, which is taking place mostly around the Bristol Rovers penalty area and with seventeen minutes lost to the history of the world’s oldest cup competition, it is from just outside that penalty area that Kalvin Phillips strikes an exquisitely placed shot into the left-hand corner of Griffiths’ goal, and Town lead one-nil.  For a while, Phillips’s name and image do not appear on the scoreboard, almost as if they can’t be found because he hadn’t been expected to score, but eventually we get to see him, and his haircut.  “Sing when you’re winning” chant the Rovers fans and they’re not far wrong, except today most of us aren’t even doing that.

Town’s one-nil lead lasts just six minutes and then makes way for a two-nil lead as Jack Clarke is suddenly left with the simple task of passing the ball into an unguarded net after a shot by Ali-Al-Hamadi is blocked.  “Fawlty Towers Dinner Show” announces the illuminated advert strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand before the game descends towards half-time, and as Griffiths receives treatment, everyone else receives fluids, succour or remedial coaching on the touchline as required.

With eight minutes of the first half remaining, Town score again as Jack Taylor is suddenly stood before Griffiths with no one else near, and confidently strokes the ball past him, almost as if taking a penalty.  The excitable young stadium announcer weirdly tells us that the goal is scored by “our Jack Taylor” and we wonder if Bristol Rovers score will he say the goal is scored by  “their” whoever.  We very nearly find out in the forty-third minute as Aro Muric passes straight to a Bristol player, but Muric then saves the resulting shot with his feet.  He hasn’t had much to do in the first half, so perhaps it was just Muric’s way of keeping his eye in.  The half ends with another Town corner courtesy of Wes Burns, and two minutes of additional time, but no more goals are scored and with the half-time whistle it’s time to quickly visit the facilities, because it’s a cold day and those two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride were seemingly only on hire.

Three-nil up with not much effort and the second half is anticipated eagerly, pregnant as it is with the possibility that ex-Town players Grant Ward or James Wilson might score own goals, and the excitable young stadium announcer will say that the goals are scored by “formerly our” Grant Ward or James Wilson.  Half-time passes with me turning round and recognising the man sat behind me; we both used to drink before matches in St Jude’s Tavern; apparently, he doesn’t anymore because his knees mean he no longer rides his bike.

The football resumes at four minutes past four and our Ben Johnson, as opposed to the seventeenth century playwright and poet, replaces our Wes Burns, as opposed to just any Wes Burns.  Mick is eating a vegan pie, which he says is very good.  After five minutes Town earn another corner and then a minute later are awarded a penalty as Grant Ward (not to be confused with Grant Wood, painter of ‘American Gothic’) does his former team a favour by handling the ball.  Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to fool Griffiths by shooting hopelessly wide of his right-hand post with one of the worst penalty kicks ever seen at Portman Road.

The embarrassment of the penalty miss seems to put a damper on the whole match now, which like me never seems to recapture its initial zest for life.   At half-time the names of two-hundred people (mostly children by the look of their fashionable 21st century names) attending their first game appeared on the electronic scoreboard and I’ve now come to notice several people in pristine examples of what can only be described as ‘this season’s blue and white knitwear’.  My reverie is broken by a rare Rovers corner. “Come on Rovers, Come on Rovers” chant the Bristolians, and I enjoy the burr of their west country accents, which can plainly be heard in the word ‘rovers’.  Bristol’s brief brush with attacking football ends with a free-kick to Town, which displeases the travelling supporters.  “Wankerr, Wankerr” they chant at the referee Mr Langford, and then, strangely obsessed with masturbation “He wanks off the ref, He wanks off the ref, Ed Sheeran, he wanks off the ref” to the tune of Sloop John B, something that Brian Wilson probably never foresaw, despite tripping on LSD, when the Beach Boys popularised the Bahamian folk song back in 1966.

The match drifts on towards the inevitable final whistle; I tell Mick that I saw some of the ‘new’ film version of ‘West Side Story’ on tv the other night and liked it, a bloke somewhere behind me believes Al-Hamadi is trying too hard and Mick and I agree that a city the size of Bristol should really have a team in the first division, “Like Lincoln” says Mick, misguidedly. 

There are still more than twenty minutes left as Bristol bring on the clunky sounding Gatlin O’Donkor in place of Chris Martin, who in another world would have been made to play alongside Michael Jackson (Preston & Bury) and Paul Weller (Burnley & Rochdale).  I tell Mick that I think we’ve reached the stage where someone now needs to release a dog onto the pitch.  More substitutions ensue for both teams, but they don’t compare to bringing on a dog, and then the excitable young announcer thanks all 27,678 of us (541 from Bristol) for our ‘incredible’ support.

A seventy-eighth minute corner for Town raises a spark of interest and mysteriously several people all around the stadium illuminate the torches on their mobile phones; Aro Muric is swapped for Cieran Slicker, who Gary is convinced is no longer an Ipswich Town player. Not ‘our’ Cieran Slicker at all then, according to Gary.  A final hurrah sees George Hirst lob the ball over both Griffiths and the Bristol cross bar, and some late enthusiasm amongst the crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand has some gobby pre-pubescent chanting “Blue Army” and a lot of people echoing his chant; it sounds dreadful, and I imagine the participants all with drippy grins on their faces thinking how cute it is.

Just a minute of added on time is to be played, which is unbelievably brief given the number of substitutions made, but I guess the fourth official is as keen for this all to end as I am.  Town have won, and won easily, and it’s not what we’re used to anymore.  As the man from Stowmarket (Paul) said at half-time, it’s bit of a Sunday afternoon game, one put on for the children.  Gary and Mick are quickly off into the night after the final whistle and I soon follow, for what else is there to do but await the fourth round draw.

Ipswich Town 0 AFC Wimbledon 0

/ 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

Startled or forlorn?

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.

Pre-match ‘pint’

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 2 Stoke City 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

After the low key, League Cup game against the Rovers of Bristol on Wednesday night, which began mine and everyone’s new season at Portman Road, today is the start of the Football League season at home, and Town face the ancient City of Stoke, one of the founder members of the football league way back in 1888, before Sky television.  August 12th still seems a bit early to start playing football seriously, but Wednesday’s game has helped to immunise me against the shock and at about twenty minutes to one I am on my way out of my front door, setting off for Portman Road and the joys and horrors that may or may not await.

By way of a change from last season, I am leaving my planet saving Citroen e-C4 at home today and taking the train (£8.95 with senior railcard), at last feeling more confident or perhaps just blasé about my chances of not being struck down with the terrible lurgi that is Covid.  If I hold my breath, avoid anyone who looks a bit peaky or coughs, and don’t touch anything I might be alright.  The train is on time and the journey pleasant as I gaze out of the window at the world spinning by beneath a heavy grey August sky.  I look on in wonder at the myriad of colours and shapes and textures within the plain, familiar streets and landscapes outside.

Alighting from the train in Ipswich, I talk to a man I know called Kevin as we cross the bridge from platforms three and four to two.  We part as we cross the bridge over the river and I head first for Portman Road, where after a few moments hesitation as I think of the space they take up and the poor value for money, I decide I will nevertheless buy a programme (£3.50). I queue briefly behind two morbidly obese women one of whom ‘has a fag on’, before obtaining a programme in the modern cashless manner saying “Just the one please” to the youthful person in the blue sales booth who remains silent.

As I am about to turn the corner on to High Street, Mick appears on his bike, which having dismounted he locks to the railings outside the old art school before we enter the Arb together and Mick very kindly asks me what I want to drink.  At first, I opt for a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, but then seeing the array of other beers on offer I change my mind, selecting the altogether more exotic, Moongazer BellyWhite Belgique IPA. Mick chooses the same and we head for the beer garden which is busy, but there is one vacant table, the same one I sat at when I was here on Wednesday evening.   Like the hypochondriac old men that we are, we talk of our physical ailments. Mick has had housemaid’s knee. He was lying in the back of a hearse cleaning the inside of the windows when he got cramp in his calf.  The cramp went, but a couple of hours later his knee began to swell, although it’s okay now.  From Mick’s knee we move on to his liver, our stomach’s, prostates and my eyes and heart.  The beer is tasty and not knowing how long I have left I quickly buy another for myself and a single Jamieson whisky for Mick.  Our conversation leaves the world of hypochondria for holidays, Haverfordwest County’s foray into the qualifying rounds of the European Conference League and Town’s new goalkeeper Cieran Slicker who, we discover through the wonder of the interweb, was born in Oldham, but has played youth football for Scotland; we agree that his surname can easily be imagined being announced with a Scottish accent.

When we come to leave for Portman Road at about twenty-five minutes to three, the beer garden is already almost completely empty and the people remaining do not look like they will be watching the football this afternoon.  We join the gathering crowds on our journey to the match. Although we’ve had to wrench ourselves away from the pub, this is always one of the best bits of the afternoon with the steady accretion of souls and anticipation and the odour of frying onions all increasing the closer we get to the stadium.

Mick and I go our separate ways somewhere near where Sir Alf Ramsey stands cooly with one hand in his suit pocket.  There are queues at the turnstiles, but they aren’t as long as on Wednesday and after waiting behind a man who has to present his mobile phone three times to let his family through the turnstile before him, I eventually walk into the Sir Alf Ramsey stand myself.  After draining away some Belgique IPA, I emerge into the bright sunlight of the stand and after two and a bit months absence re-acquaint myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood.

Today, I am in time for the announcing of the teams, and I shout out the surnames of the Town players like a Frenchman would. The ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy then proceeds to stoke up the crowd by asking, somewhat ridiculously, each stand in turn if they are ready. It’s enough to make anyone roll their eyes. The teams appear and bursts of flame shoot into the air like a Kevin Beattie barbecue; I can feel the heat from where I’m sitting. So much for football caring about global warming and its carbon footprint, but then we all join in with the na-na-nas of Hey Jude and the stadium is full of noise.

The game begins beneath azure blue skies punctuated with  puffy white cloud and Stoke City get first go with the ball, sending it mostly in the direction of what was the plain, old, tatty North Stand the first time I witnessed Stoke play at Portman Road back in the 1970’s. Happily, both teams are wearing their signature kits which is particularly  good in the case of Stoke because their red and white stripey ensemble is a classic, although if I have to be critical, and I do, I think the present incarnation has a few too many stripes. 

“We’re the Blue Armeee” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand to rhyme with something else ending in ‘eee’ and the bloke behind me joins in just as the chant fades away.  The ambience in the ground is one of excitement as Town dominate the early part of the game inspiring more chants of “ Blue and White Army” and Wes Burns hits a shot which the Stoke goalkeeper Travers, who is dressed from head to toe in orange, tips spectacularly over the cross bar for the game’s first corner.  Travers is a surname similar enough to Travis to have me suddenly thinking of Lyndsay Anderson’s brilliant 1968 film ‘If’ , but it soon passes as Town’s early pressure earns two more corners in quick succession and I bellow “Come On You Blues” in the vain hope that my vocal encouragement will result in a goal.

The immediate hope of a goal fades for the moment and Pat tells Fiona that when the Clacton supporters coach arrived at the ground today and went to park in the usual spot by the bus depot, the driver had been told “You can’t park here”.  When he asked why not, the driver was told “Because someone might plant a bomb under it”.  I didn’t realise Clacton people had such a bad reputation.  Behind me the bloke says to the bloke beside him “We’re making it uncomfortable for them” which I think is in reference to what’s happening on the pitch, rather than the Clacton supporters bus.

Town continue to pour forward, threatening the Stoke goal with crosses and incisive passes but no proper shots. “Now switch it, switch it” calls the bloke beside me to Sam Morsy, but Sam ignores him. “Stand up if you ‘ate the scum” chant the Sir Bobby Robson to the tune of Village People’s ‘Go West’ and then, in a personal message to the Stoke manager and sung to the tune of the Beachboys’ ‘Sloop John B’ “You’ll always be scum, you’ll always be scum, Alex Neil, you’ll always be scum”.   Believing in forgiveness, redemption and that people can change, it’s not a view that I agree with.

After eighteen minutes Conor Chaplin delivers the first half-decent shot on goal and the Town fans sing “ Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran way”before Wes Burns is cynically blocked  by some or other bloke in a pyjama top in the shadow of the west stand.   Sam Morsy takes the free kick, curving a cross into the penalty area where Luke Wooflenden heads the ball into the net in the style of Terry Butcher, and Town lead 1-0.  “Oh when the Town, Go marching in” chant the home crowd, a bit mournfully considering the score.  Town are imperious, and a superb move between Conor Chaplin and Nathan Broadhead results in another corner. “Champagne Football” says the bloke behind me, oblivious to the fact that Stade de Reims will later take the lead against Olympique Marseille but ultimately lose 1-2.

The game is not a third of the way through but Stoke find it necessary to replace the economically named Wesley with the almost as economically named Chiquinho. I wonder to myself if Wesley has an appointment or an early bus and whether league rules stipulate that you can only replace a player with just one name with another player with just one name.  Seven minutes on and Stoke have their first shot,  which loops wide of the goal and then, after an unexpectedly long passage of possession, another shot has to be saved by Town ‘keeper Vaclav Hladky.  The blokes behind me head for the bar as half-time approaches and the sky clouds over, Wes Burns sends over a low cross and George Hirst strikes the ball first time against the outside of the near post. Two minutes of additional time are played and on the touchline Kieran Mckenna looks agitated in a way he never did when we in the third division; I like to think that as manager of a ‘big club’  in the third division he didn’t think it was right to bemoan his team’s luck, whereas now, in a league full of Premier league wannabees it’s fine to get a bit huffy and precious every now and then.

With the half-time whistle I go down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray and his grandson Harrison.  I give Harrison a copy of ‘Life after Infinity’ the latest album by the excellent Robyn Hitchcock, an artist who makes Ed Sheeran look and sound like Neil Reid.  On the back of the programme I notice that the match ball sponsor today is Bob Harris and the home shirt sponsor is Henry Gibson; I am reminded the Old Grey Whistle Test and Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In.

The match resumes at five minutes past four with Stoke winning a very early corner and the ‘Stokees’ in the corner of the Cobbold Stand optimistically singing “When the Reds go marching in” .  For a short while Stoke are the better side and only six minutes into the half the referee, Mr Smith even books Vaclav Hladky for perceived time-wasting as he waits to take a free-kick.  Cameron Burgess heads away a second corner kick, and George Hirst has a shot easily saved.

In the first half, several fouls by Stoke players were spotted by Mr Smith, but despite some of them being serious foul play he only booked one Stoke player.  It’s a theme that is continuing in the second half with Wes Burns and Massimo Luongo being hacked down without punishment.  But Town have weathered the early Stoke pressure  and the Sir Bobby Robson stand chant “ Ipswich, Ipswich, Ipswich”, interspersing the “Ipswiches” with  rhythmic clapping.  Pat from Clacton informs me that she is having chicken and prawn salad tonight with new potatoes, she won’t have a baked potato for her tea again until the autumn or the winter.

The final twenty minutes are approaching and with them come substitutions as Marcus Harness replaces the classy Nathan Broadhead and surprisingly perhaps to those expecting Freddie Ladapo, Kayden Jackson replaces George Hirst.  Massimo Luongo shoots over the Stoke cross bar. Town win a corner. Stoke win a corner.  Pat announces that the masturbating monkey ‘charm,’ which came from Cambodia, and which she keeps in her bag, has got something “…caught on his willy”.   Stoke’s fascinatingly surnamed Ryan Mmae is then substituted by someone or other, but his surname has made me think too much of the Steve Martin film ‘The Man With Two Brains’ and the names of Miss Uumellmahaye and Dr Hfuhruhurr.

Just a goal ahead and less than fifteen minutes to go, and we’re all willing a second goal to help us relax.  It’s not quite the same, but Murphy announcing todays’ attendance takes our minds off the close score for a moment, although he does spoil it rather by calling the attendance of 29,006 “staggering”. The last three league games at Portman Road have all had attendances of around 29,000 so 29,000 is now average. If the crowd had been 35,000, that would have been staggering because the ground doesn’t have that many seats.  To cap things, Murphy then says “Give yourself a round of applause”.  Why?

Back on the pitch, referee Smith shows his yellow card to Janoi Donacien, again for perceived time wasting, as he prepares to take a free-kick for a foul by a Stoke player.  Mr Smith seems to have no problem with one player kicking another, as long as it happens quickly and doesn’t delay the game. But then Conor Chaplin is in space in the middle, he sends Wesley Burns away down the right and his firm pass into the centre of the penalty area connects with the boot of the incoming Kayden Jackson who side foots the ball into the net with grace and style and Town lead 2-0, and it’s no more than they deserve. Several of the 1749 Stokees in the Cobbold Stand evacuate prematurely.

There are ten minutes left plus ‘time added on’, but it feels like the game is won and so it is.  Sam Morsy is announced by Murphy to be the man of the match, as selected by Jade Smiles, although I can’t decide if this is a person or just a sort of green-coloured, perhaps envious facial expression.  Just four minutes of additional time are announced, despite several substitutions and all the apparent timewasting by Vaclav Hladky and Janoi Donacien, and Sam Morsy is booked for a foul, which is a novelty.  The four minutes pass by without incident, but the home crowd is buoyant, thrilled by an exciting, fast, competitive match that Town have mostly dominated and deserve to win.    When the final whistle blows, the feeling is not of relief but of pride and joy and expectation for the remaining forty-four games.  On the basis of one home league game we have no idea if Stoke City or Ipswich are good second division teams or bad ones but we’ve not lost yet and for the moment everything feels good, and we’re all looking forward to being a part of more ‘staggering’ attendances at Portman Road.

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

When the draw for what used to be called the League Cup was made, I was quite pleased to find that Ipswich had drawn Bristol Rovers; this was because Bristol Rovers were the only one of Town’s third division opponents I didn’t see last season.  I’m not sure why that mattered, it’s not as if I keep notes on each team, although in an odd way, through this blog, I suppose I do. Oh dear.

Despite my earlier happiness at the draw, it has taken me until the night before the game to get round to buying a ticket because despite the grotty weather, in my head it’s still summer, and summer is for dreaming and for World Cups, oh, and occasionally for European Conference League qualifying games.   Football is mostly something for autumn, winter and spring.  As usual for League Cup matches, because all the seats cost a tenner I choose not to sit in my season ticket seat, but to explore one of the twenty-nine and half thousand odd other viewpoints.   Usually, I head for the best view and the padded seats of Block Y, and there are still single seats available, but craving company I texted my friend Gary to see if he is going; he is, and gives me his seat number which he tells me is close to where he usually sits in what used to be called the West Stand.  I buy the seat next to Gary which turns out to be uncomfortably  close to the corner of the ground; but it’s okay as I had warned Gary that I would blame him if the seat wasn’t very good, and now I can.  To think, I could have been in Block Y.   I also texted my friend Mick to see if he is going to the game, but he tells me that he has “no interest in the League (Carabao) Cup”, which I thought was a bit haughty of him.

Having parked up my planet-saving Citroen e-C4 in a street between Norwich Road and Anglesea Road, it’s a short walk to the Arb on High Street where I obtain a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra 10% discount). The bar is not very busy, and I tell the barman that I had expected it to be busier, but he tells me most people are in the beer garden.  He’s correct, most people are, but there are still free tables and I can only see one bloke in an Ipswich Town shirt.  I settle down to drink my unexpectedly cloudy pint, and read Issue 26 of the Turnstile Blue fanzine, a small pile of which were in the corridor between the bar and the gents.  I read an article which, in the context of the ‘fuss’ surrounding the death of the old queen, attempts to debunk the apparently mythical status afforded to former Town chairmen John and Patrick Cobbold.  The basis of the argument seems to be that they were incredibly wealthy and posh, and ‘Mr John’ drank and swore a lot.  I don’t read much more because the penetrating voice of a man possibly in his late twenties, who is with the bloke in an Ipswich shirt, and the mild but loud Ipswich accent of a woman probably in her forties are preventing me from concentrating.  After half an hour of slow supping and covering my ears, I leave for Portman Road.

Arriving in Sir Alf Ramsey Way shortly after seven-thirty, I buy a programme (£2.00) in the modern cashless manner and am then surprised to see long queues at the turnstiles.  Tonight, in the spirit of saving the planet by not using unnecessary pieces of paper, my ticket is on my mobile phone and my inner Luddite wonders if technology is the reason for the slow progress into the stadium.  Moments before reaching the turnstile, my finger slips on my phone screen  and I accidentally delete the e-mail that includes my ticket, but fortunately I know I can still find it if  I look through all my e-mails and that’s what I do.  Happily, the QR code on my e-mail also works and I pass through the turnstile just in time to drain off some Suffolk Pride and make it to my seat before the names of the Ipswich team have all been announced.  I try to call out the surnames of Town players in the manner of a French football crowd, but the ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy says Dom Ball instead of Dominic Ball and ruins things completely.

The match kicks off at fourteen minutes to eight according to the digital clock on the scoreboard. Town get first go with ball, kicking it mostly towards Sir Alf Ramsey’s stand, and are wearing the traditional blue and white kit, which this season has broad white stripes down the sleeves that from some angles make the whole sleeve look white.  Kits have to be imbued with meaning nowadays and we are told that the design is inspired by the kit worn by the promotion winning team of 2000.  When the sleeves look all white, I am reminded of our Premier League winning side of 1962.  Bristol Rovers for their part wear black shorts and white socks to cover their loins, buttocks and calves and grey shirts over their torsos.  I do not know if the Rovers shirts are imbued with meaning or not, but I like to think they are inspired by a foggy day in the Bristol Channel or specks of ghostly coal dust blown across from the South Wales pits or Cardiff docks.  Gary and I speculate as to whether we have already seen this season’s dullest kit worn by an away team at Portman Road and recall how Manchester United once wore a grey and black kit at Southampton and changed at half-time when already three or four goals down, supposedly because the players couldn’t see each other against the background of the crowd.  It seems probable from the half-time score that they couldn’t see the Southampton players either.

Town dominate possession and after just twelve minutes take the lead. A passing move down the right ends with Jack Taylor passing a ball from Kayden Jackson into the Bristol goal net.  That was easy.  I haven’t really tuned myself into the game yet however, and rather than leaping up and punching the air in a display of forgotten youthful exuberance like I would normally, I just slowly raise my bottom off my seat and applaud politely in a semi-stooped position.  Gary’s reaction is similarly sluggish. For these supporters it still feels like pre-season, the overture, or to employ a war-themed comparison popular with football pundits, like 1939, the phoney war.  Elsewhere in the stadium people are more attuned to the programme as they beat drums and chant “Blue and White Army.”

Town continue to dominate possession and occasionally come close to scoring a goal, but not close enough.  I haven’t seen Gary since July 1st, so we talk as much as we concentrate on the game.   Gary asks me what is the worst football ground I’ve ever been to. I tell him I think it was Oxford United’s Manor Ground.  He asks what the best ground was. I tell him possibly The Velodrome in Marseille, although the Allianz Riviera in Nice is pretty good when full.  Having been unexpectedly put on the spot I forget to mention the Stade Felix Boleart in Lens and the Stade Geoffrey Guichard in St Etienne.

Bristol Rovers only occasionally approach the Town goal and their first shot just creeps and bobs and bounces its way across the turf into the arms of the Town goalkeeper, the interestingly monikered Cieran Slicker. It takes a good twenty minutes or more for Rovers to have another shot and this time Grant Ward’s much more powerful shot is parried away by Slicker for what amounts to a pretty good save. It’s a moment which results in my hearing the faint call of “Come On Rovers” carried over the pitch on the warm evening air from the one hundred and twenty-three Bristolians in  the far corner of the stadium.  Otherwise, the first half of the game leaves no lasting impression on me and after a minute of time added on it’s time for Gary to nip to use the facilities whilst I stand up and try to manipulate my neck, which has grown achy and stiff from having my head turned towards the Sir Alf Ramsey stand for most of the previous forty-six minutes.

 Once Gary has returned, the ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy appears on the pitch wearing what looks like the same suit that replaced announcer Stephen Foster used to wear.  Murphy tells us he is going to talk to a Town legend and with the artificially excited intonation and words-all-rolled-into-one pronunciation of a former local radio DJ, he announces “Johnny Warks here” and Gary and I look at each other wondering who the hell Johnny Warksear is.  Johnny Wark appears on the big screen and all that’s missing are the subtitles when he speaks.

The game resumes at ten minutes to nine and my hopes of spending the second half just looking straight ahead take a dive as Bristol start quite well.  “Wo-o-o-oh, That’s the way we like it” or something like that sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of what seems to be an original composition or a song I don’t know.  Rovers are gifted a corner as Lee Evans passes the ball back to a place where Cieran Slicker isn’t standing.  But then Ipswich win a couple of corners of their own to redress the balance, before on-loan Omari Hutchinson is the first player to be booked after not so much a bad tackle as an inept one.  “Ole, Ole, Ole” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the drums up in the corner of the stand by the club shop beat; inside the shop stuff must be bouncing off the shelves.  In the seat in front of me a bloke with not much hair has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head.    There’s a holiday feel to the crowd tonight with adults and children wearing T-shirts and shorts, looking as if they’ve been at the beach all day.  I half expect to see someome eating candy floss or wearing a ‘kiss me quick’ hat. On the pitch, the second half is reflecting the cheery mood with carefree attacking football and as result Cieran Slicker makes a spectacular save with his feet.

Substitutions arrive on sixty-six minutes with Cameron Humphryes and Sone Aluko taking a bow. Shots rain in on the Bristol goal and a corner is won.  “Oooh Sone Aluko” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of the White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army.  Marcus Harness half-volleys the ball from close range, but too weakly to bother the Rovers’ goalkeeper.  As more substitutes warm up on the touchline in front of us I say the name of George Hirst to Gary.  “I know what you’re going to say” says Gary “He has a haircut that looks like his mum cut it using a pudding bowl”.  Gary knows me too well and is almost exactly right, but I’d say she used a side plate or small frying pan giving his hair the appearance of a little hat or beret.  I struggle so much to accept George’s haircut that if it had been up to me I wouldn’t have signed him, so it’s probably as well that it wasn’t.

In the seventy-third minute George and Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke get to make the transition from bench to pitch, but the only immediate result is that Javani Brown shoots wide of the Town goal for Bristol. Within a minute of that however, a sweet passing move down the left sees the ball relayed across the penalty area for Sone Aluko, who seems to be existing in his own isolated moment of time and space, which allows him to then pass the ball into the far corner of the Bristol goal, and Town lead 2-0. Gary tells me how his mother recently received a new copy of the local telephone directory and that there were three people in it with his surname; they were Gary, his mother and his uncle who died several years ago, but it wouldn’t surprise me if BT was a hotbed of spiritualists.

All that remains is for Murphy to announce the crowd as being 15,047 with 123 of that number being from Bristol, and for people to applaud themselves, each other, and more acceptably the travelling Bristolians.  Bristol is a long way from Ipswich on a Wednesday night, although logically no further than at any other time of day or week.  Five minutes of time are added on to ensure we get our money’s worth and when that expires we rise as one to applaud and then seep out into the night.  It’s been a decent little game, a bit low key like a pre-season match, but it’s good to see a match where none of the players appear to think winning matters more than life itself.  Bristol Rovers played their part and should have scored at least once, but on the plus side they will now have time on their hands in the middle of the week to think about what their away kit should look like next season.   As for Ipswich,  we are on our way to Wembley, my stepson and his family live in the RG24 postcode area so if I get the urge I might march on to Basingstoke, or Reading.

Ipswich Town 1 Oldham Athletic 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

One of the many wonderful things about supporting a football team that is in the third division is that the FA Cup begins at the beginning of November.  None of this inexorable waiting about for Advent, Christmas and then New Year to come and go. No siree, the joy of knockout football comes early to the meek who do more than just inherit the Earth, they get to chase the glory that is knockout competition football.  Of course, we have already missed out on six rounds of extra-preliminary, preliminary, and qualifying rounds, but we can’t have everything and being meek we wouldn’t want it.

Today, the transparent plastic tub that serves as the 21st century’s replacement for the Football Association’s velvet bag has paired Ipswich Town with fourth division Oldham Athletic.  This is a pairing to rival some of the worst failures ever, like a race between a Ford Edsel and a Sinclair C5, or a competition between the Enron bank and ITV digital.   Ipswich Town and Oldham Athletic, I have been told, are the least successful clubs in English professional football in the past twenty years, being the only two who have either not been promoted or not made it to any sort of match at the new Wembley Stadium.  The good thing is that this has saved us supporters a considerable amount of money on grossly over-priced tickets, match day programmes and catering, for which we should be grateful.

It’s a blustery, cloudy day and fallen leaves scuttle along the footpath as I make my way through Gippeswyk Park; the autumnal scene reminds me of some of the opening sequences of the film The Exorcist. Portman Road is very quiet, stewards in huge fluorescent orange coats, and sniffer dogs easily out number supporters outside the away fans’ entrance.  The display on the windows at the back of the Cobbold Stand tell of former FA Cup glories and the day in March 1975 when a record crowd of 38,010 filled Portman Road to see the sixth-round tie versus Leeds United. I look at my watch, it’s a quarter to two; I had already been inside the ground nearly twenty minutes by now on that day forty-six and a half years ago. I buy a programme for a knockdown price (£2.00), and  confirm to myself that I prefer this 32 page programme to the usual 68 page one, even though it costs more per page; I live in hope of an eight or twelve page edition for less than a pound.

At the Arboretum pub (currently known as the Arbour House), I choose a pint of Nethergate Augustinian Amber Ale (£3.80).  The bar is unusually full, so my pint and I decant to the safety of the beer garden, which is reassuringly more like a backyard with tables and chairs. I text Mick to tell him “Je suis dans le jardin”.  It’s not long before he joins me with a pint of beer and a cup of dry roasted peanuts.  We talk of Ipswich Town, of property development and pension funds, catching the TGV to Marseille, the buildings of Le Corbusier, the colour theory of Wassily Kandinsky and the Bauhaus, and electric cars.  A little after twenty-five to three we leave for Portman Road, bidding the barmaid goodbye as Mick places our empty glasses and the cup that no longer contains peanuts on the bar.

Our tickets today (£10 for me, £5 for Mick plus £1.50 each unavoidable donation to some parasitic organisation called Seatgeek) are for Block Y of what is now known as the Magnus Group Stand, but used to be the plain old West Stand, named simply after the compass point rather than a commercial concern called West that had paid for the privilege.  Flight upon flight of stairs take us to the dimly lit upper tier of the stand where we edge past a line of sour-faced males of indeterminate age, but over fifty, to our seats.  My guess is there won’t be much banging of drums, lighting of flares or even vocal encouragement from these people, who look more like Jesuit priests than football supporters.

Although Remembrance Sunday isn’t until next week, and there will be a minute’s silence before the game versus Oxford United next Saturday, bizarrely we have another pre-match minute’s silence today.  Stadium announcer Stephen Foster tells us it is because we are in the ‘Remembrance period’ but it feels like football just likes minutes silences.  As ever the silence is strangely followed by applause, and then the game begins.  For the first forty-five minutes Town will be mostly trying to send the ball in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand (previously known as Churchman’s end) where in the lower tier I can make out ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton.  Later, Mick will ask me if “the lady from Essex” still comes to the games, and I will point her out to him, locating her using gangways and rows of seats like co-ordinates in a game of Battleships.   Mick spots her and Pat from Clacton is sunk. Oldham Athletic are wearing a fetching ensemble of orange shirts and black shorts with orange socks; it’s a kit that stirs memories of Town’s fifth round tie away at Bristol Rovers in the snow of February 1978; or it would if, as is the modern fashion, Oldham’s shirts didn’t look like they’d had something spilled down the front of them.

Town start the game well with Oldham’s interestingly named Dylan Fage conceding a corner within the first minute before the oddly named Macauley Bonne heads a cross directly at goalkeeper Jayson Leutwiler.  Within eight minutes Town lead as the oddly named Macauley Bonne’s cross sees Wes Burns do an impression of the shopkeeper in Mr Benn as suddenly, as if by magic he appears to score from very close range.  This is just the start we need; we will now surely go on to win by three or four goals to nil because Oldham Athletic are third from bottom of the fourth division and Town won 4-1 at Wycombe Wanderers on Tuesday, what more convincing evidence predicting our inevitable victory could there be?  Indeed, Town continue to look the better team as the oddly named Macauley Bonne and Wes Burns both have shots blocked, but then the shots become fewer to be replaced by scores of passes back and forwards across the pitch.

Bersant Celina tries a little flick pass with the outside of his right foot, which doesn’t succeed. “You’ve got to earn the right to do that sort of thing” announces the joyless sounding man beside me to the World, presumably unaware that he is talking rubbish; you just need to get it right.  Oldham break forward and are a pass away from a shot on goal on a couple of occasions. “We’re leaving the door open” continues the joyless man, seemingly happy to be miserable.

Despite the 1-0 lead, the Portman Road crowd, which will later be announced as consisting of 437 Oldham supporters within a paltry total of 8,845, is quiet.  Where are the other 29,165 who were here in 1975?  A good number are probably no longer alive, I guess.  “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit”  chant the Oldham supporters in the Cobbold stand with predictable coarseness.  I feel like telling them that’s because some of us are dead.  Despite high hopes the FA Cup seems to have lost a little of its sparkle and it’s only twenty -five past three.  I realise that over the Cobbold Stand and across the roof tops beyond I can see the top of the Buttermarket shopping centre.  It’s the twenty seventh minute and Oldham’s number nine, the optimistic sounding Hallam Hope heads the ball just wide of the Town goal. 

Seven more unremarkable minutes pass and the sometimes not very controlled Sam Morsy is booked by referee Mr Hair, who it is to be hoped will one day referee in the Bundesliga.  Stupidly, having dropped to the ground under a challenge, Morsy grabs hold of the ball as if to award himself a free-kick.  Rightfully, Herr Hair books him for hand ball and the pointlessness of the incident mirrors the drifting aimlessness of the Town performance and its quiet backdrop; this isn’t what Cup football is meant to be like. 

After a couple of further failed goal attempts from Oldham, with four minutes left until half-time they score. Latics’ number ten, Davis Keillor-Dunn, who sounds like he could have been friends with Lytton Strachey and Virginia Woolf, sends a fine shot into the corner of the Town goal from about 20 metres after Toto Nsiala initially fails to deal with a ball that had been booted forward.  “How shit must you be we’re drawing 1-1” sing the Oldham supporters to the tune of Sloop John B, coincidentally showing the majestic timelessness of the Beach Boys’ 1966 album, Pet Sounds.

With half-time fast approaching Kane Vincent-Young tugs an Oldham shirt to concede a free-kick. “Stupid boy” says a man who sounds even more joyless than the man next to me but nothing like Captain Mainwaring in Dad’s Army.  I suggest to Mick that players should have their hands bound with tape to prevent them from pulling each other’s shirts; ever reasonable and practical Mick suggests they simply wear mittens.  Following a corner to Oldham, the half ends and with the exception of one man, the occupants of Row J rise and then descend the stairs to use the toilets and the catering,  or to just stand about.

As Mick and I wait for the queue to the toilet to shorten we talk of exorcism, the disappointment of the first half, the architectural splendour of the Corporation tram shed and power station in Constantine Road, and how my wife Paulene has a degree in theology.  I decide I can wait until after the game for a pee and whilst Mick joins the queue and disappears into the toilet, I am impressed by the long hair of a man standing a few metres away from me,  but die a little inside when I read in the programme that when he grows up one of today’s mascots wants to be a policeman.  More happily, the other two mascots want to be a footballer and a superhero.

Back in our seats the second half begins with the unusual replacement of both Ipswich full-backs as Janoi Donacien and Steve Penney replace Kane Vincent-Young and Cameron Burgess.  It’s a change that brings almost immediate results as a mittenless Janoi Donacien tugs an orange shirt and Herr Hair awards a penalty to Oldham.  The otherwise impressive Dylan Bahamboula steps up for Oldham to see his penalty kick saved by Christian Walton and a sudden roar fills Portman Road which belies the small number of people present.  For a few minutes the home crowd is energised and it physically feels as if we care as much we think do.  Wes Burns dashes down the wing, urged on by the crowd, but the sudden excitement is evidently too much and he propels his cross way beyond the far post and away for a goal kick.   “How much more waking up do we need?” asks the joyless soul next to me.

To an extent Town’s performance in the second half is better than that of the first.  The full-backs now on the pitch are an improvement on those they replaced and Oldham produce fewer decent chances to score.   When Connor Chaplin replaces the ineffective Kyle Edwards the link between Morsy and the front players is strengthened and another dimension is added to our attacking play, but somehow it’s still not enough.  As I tell Mick, all our players look like they got home at four o’clock this morning.

As Town’s failure to score grows roots and blossoms, the Oldham supporters gain in confidence. “Come on Oldham, Come on Oldham” they chant, giving a clue to the home fans as to what they might be doing, but we don’t twig.  The upshot with ten minutes to go is a reprise of that old favourite “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” and who can argue, it’s no longer 1975.  Despite Oldham encouraging Town with a misplaced pass out of defence, we are unable to capitalise and the Oldham supporters are the only ones singing as they ask “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” Predictably no one dares break our vow of silence to answer their question.

As the game enters its final minutes Sone Aluko replaces our best player, Wes Burns, and Rekeem Harper replaces Lee Evans.  Encouragingly Oldham replace their best player, Dylan Bahamboula with Harry Vaughan, but nothing works and five minutes of added on time only raises hopes, but does not fulfil them.

The final whistle is blown by Herr Hair and the crowd get up from their seats showing the same level of emotion that they might if they were all on a bus and it had just reached their stop, turning away from the pitch and averting their gaze like you would if trying to avoid eye contact with a drunk.  It has been a very disappointing afternoon of FA Cup football,  and has failed on every level to live up to what the competition is supposed to be about. 

On the bright side, at least we are still in the draw for the Second Round and until we lose, the promise of glory still remains.  It’s not every year we do as well as this.