It’s been an unfortunate fortnight for the ‘Super Blues’ with three consecutive defeats to ‘promotion rivals’ followed by an anaesthetising goalless draw away to ‘relegation threatened’ Wimbledon. The three consecutive defeats were heralded somewhere, I can’t recall where, as being the first time Ipswich had lost three consecutive matches in the third division in sixty-four years, which sounds terrible until your brain engages and you realise that until this season Ipswich haven’t been in the third division at any time in the last sixty-four years and the club would have done well to lose matches consecutively or otherwise in a division in which it was not playing.
Inspired by the downturn in Town’s fortunes and the puerile whinging of alleged fans on social media, who seem unable to come to terms with their team not winning every game by several clear goals, I am looking forward to today’s fixture against the Albion of Burton a town from the top-drawer of provinciality which was famed for its beer brewing until it became associated with the name Coors. It is a suitably grey and wintry day for a meeting between two clubs struggling to find love and form. I am at times swept along by a buffeting wind as I walk to the railway station, which is deserted but for two other would-be passengers cowering from the gathering storm in the waiting room. The train is on time and quite full as if people have stayed on board rather than alight into the grim, blustery weather outside. Appearances can be deceptive however, and at Colchester most passengers disembark to be replaced by a handful of others sporting blue and white knitwear, although some of these unexpectedly get off at Manningtree suggesting that for them the lure of Brantham Athletic may be greater than that of Ipswich Town. Other passengers boarding at Colchester include screaming toddlers and a woman wearing huge quantities of an overpowering perfume; feeling sick from the smell and seeking peace and quiet I move to the other end of the railway carriage. My move is not wholly successful as behind me I now have a group of youths who take turns to make bleating noises after they see some sheep in a field.
Arrival in Ipswich is a blessed relief and the streets seem quiet, almost as if there is no match today; I imagine that perhaps I am the only person still going to the game, a version of Charlton Heston, the Omega Fan. Turning into Portman Road however, my fears prove groundless as all human life is here with people stood impassively by the turnstile blocks and operatives in day-glo jackets sheltering from the wind and nascent drizzle, whilst other early-arrivers patronise the junk-food vendors whose bright trailers almost look inviting on such a grisly afternoon. I walk on towards St Jude’s Tavern pausing only to admire the frontage of the ‘EU Supermarket’, which leads me to dream of a world in which both Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage lie dead in a ditch in a cold embrace.
Mick is already seated at a small table when I enter St Jude’s Tavern and he quickly treats me to a pint of Leigh-On Sea brewery’s Crowstone Dark IPA (£3.60), a tasty beer suitable apparently for vegans. We talk of Munich, Marseille, pensions, aortas, Nieupoort in Belgium, jazz festivals and buying football tickets on-line; Mick also gives me a Christmas present, which he had intermittently forgotten about until today when he fully remembered it. Two Burton Albion supporters sit on the next table and I wish them luck as they leave, although they seem more pessimistic than most Ipswich supporters and their pessimism seems well-founded as they step out into pouring rain. They head off to join the other 175 Burtonians who we will discover occupying the away supporters section in the Cobbold Stand today. The Crowstone Dark IPA has sadly run out, so before we depart I consume a pint of Mr Bee’s Sun Ray (£3.40) whilst Mick downs a Jameson’s whisky (£3.00).
Down Portman Road and onto the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, Mick and I edge past Pat from Clacton and take our seats just as the two teams emerge from the shiny polythene tunnel. The usual PA announcer would seem have been substituted with an over-excitable character whose delivery and unnecessary enthusiasm smack of even lower league football or a school sports day. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game has come prepared for the weather and is hidden beneath a large water-proof hood.
Burton kick-off towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand wearing primrose yellow with black sleeves. From the very start Ipswich look keen and within a couple of minutes Kayden Jackson breaks forward on the left and sends the ball across the front of the goal. Will Keane arrives with perfect timing to not hit the ball directly at the goal and consequently have his fractionally delayed shot blocked by a Burton defender when a goal had looked the more probable outcome. A collective groan of disappointment rises up from the stand tinged with a hint of resignation. Inevitably, Ipswich’s profligacy is swiftly punished and two minutes later Burton’s Jamie Murphy sweeps the ball casually beyond Town ‘keeper Thomas Holy having met minimal resistance from the Ipswich defence, which seems to have forgotten to post anyone on the right hand side. Ipswich are a bit unlucky but at the same time not very good, which doesn’t make for a winning combination. “Never mind” I tell Pat from Clacton “at least we’ve got plenty of time left to score some goals of our own”.
Behind me two blokes discuss Will Keane. “E’s quality wiv ve ball at ‘is feet” is the conclusion; one with which I think I more or less concur despite recent evidence to the contrary. The game proceeds with Ipswich squandering chances with abandon as little Alan Judge thrillingly and spectacularly kicks the ball against the cross bar, and Kayden Jackson and Will Keane just miss or have shots saved. Burton get forward every now and then also and the Ipswich defence doesn’t always look composed, “E ought to ‘ave stuck his foot froo ve ball” is the opinion of the expert behind me on one occasion as Burton win a corner. Meanwhile I admire the surfer dude look of Burton’s number four Ryan Edwards and their number two John Brayford; they both sport the sort of beards and unkempt hair that would stand them in good stead at an audition for Jesus Christ Superstar. Where is Ipswich’s midfield Messiah?
Despite the failure to score there is thankfully no sense of resentment amongst the crowd, Town are playing well enough and I detect a collective faith and belief that Town will score. At a bit before three-thirty with fine rain falling and occasionally blowing in beneath the roof of the stand that faith is rewarded as little Alan Judge’s shot from close range is deflected up high in to the goal. For some unexplained reason little Judgey then proceeds to take off one his pink boots and throw it across the pitch, whilst his team mates attempt to mob him. In some parts of the world shoe throwing is an insult, but it doesn’t appear that little Judgey has thrown his pink boot at any one in particular, although it did travel in the general direction of Paul Lambert and ‘the bench’. The smoothly shaven-headed referee Mr Breakspear speaks to little Judgey, but unlike the openly provocative act of taking your shirt off, which could result in expressing an unwelcome opinion on your vest, boot removal is apparently not a bookable offence, if indeed it is an offence at all in the western football world. Little Judgey could have written something on his sock mind, although perhaps not much as I doubt his feet are very big.
Half-time is now on the murky horizon and Thomas Holy boots the ball the length of the pitch; Kayden Jackson reacts quickest to latch on to it and then send it past Burton’s all-green attired ‘keeper Kieran O’Hara, who ,with a bit of make-up and some tights might have a side line advertising tins of sweetcorn. Not a goal of great beauty or technical difficulty and barely one that could be described as being from ‘open play’, but certainly one of outstanding simplicity and one which leaves us all happy when the time comes to visit the facilities beneath the stand after the Kojak look-alike blows for half-time.
After urinating and chatting to Ray, but not at the same time, I am ready for the second half and so it seems are Ipswich as with no more than six minutes played Kayden Jackson has scored again, this time with his head. Mystifyingly this third goal is the cue for a tribute to Harry Belafonte and Boney M from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, although the lyrics of Mary’s Boy Child are altered a little to celebrate ‘The Norwich’ running away and eternal fighting rather than the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. Not much more than ten minutes later and incredibly Ipswich score for a fourth time with little Alan Judge’s shot dribbling into the goal. Ipswich goals are like buses, none for ages then four come at once.
There is still half an hour to go and with the game as good as won Pat from Clacton tells me about how much she enjoyed the ‘Sounds of the 70’s Live’ show at the Princes Theatre in Clacton featuring Johnny Walker and how she is looking forward to The Roy Orbison Story next week; Pat’s seen it before, but the bloke from Birmingham who sings is very good. The game today has been so good Pat hasn’t once thought about the jacket potato she is having for tea. The crowd of 19,922 is announced and Pat and I check who’s won the guess the crowd competition on the Clacton supporters bus; it’s a bloke Pat used to work with at Paxman’s Diesels in Colchester; we’re both disappointed that Woody the dog hasn’t won again.
As the game rolls on empty crisp packets blow across the pitch like tiny sparkling tumbleweeds beneath the beams of the floodlights, which shine out of the leaden sky above the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. Football matches on winter afternoons are beautiful occasions especially when you’re winning 4-1. On loan Josh Earl dashes up and down the left flank beneath his face mask, which ever-present Phil says make him look like the Phantom of the Opera and Luke Woolfenden’s newly bleached-blond hair gives a hint of ‘Scandi’ to the back three. Substitutions come and go and Pat from Clacton hopes that Cole Skuse scores so that she can win the competition for last goalscorer; the chances are against it seeing as Skuse has previously scored just twice in 267 appearances for Town, but Pat has been on a winning streak this week, having already ‘scooped’ £4 playing whist, which has gone towards her cruise fund, so we have high hopes.
As with all the best things in life, the game is soon over and with no more goals scored Pat from Clacton’s cruise fund is temporarily becalmed, but it’s been a blast and the weather has not been as bad as expected, being just grey enough to add a dramatic backdrop but nothing more. Interestingly it’s the first time Town have won a third division game 4-1 since the last time they did it.
half-light a few tiny specks of very light sleet drift and fall and sparkle in a car headlight beam. There is activity in the football ground as stewards arrive and are detailed off for their evening duties; Zero the sniffer dog arrives at the Constantine Road gate to the ground with his handler; Zero is sans-lead, which I guess for a working dog like him is like being in civvies. I like to think of him having his own dressing room where he changes into collar and lead and perhaps prepares for the evening with a few exercises to clear his sinuses. In Portman Road the hot food stands set up a while ago and early diners stand nearby in ones and twos, basking in the beautiful, enticing fluorescent light, which falls out into the street and as ever make me think of the paintings of Edward Hopper.
I use the toilet facilities and advance through the undercroft of the stand where there are now very few people at all; there aren’t many more in the stand and swathes of empty blue seats greet the teams, cheering and singing just like regular Ipswich fans. The teams are ready to kick-off as I select a seat just along from Phil. Ipswich are playing towards me, Phil and the empty seats of ‘Churchmans’, now known as the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. Cardiff kick-off and are wearing the most garish, unpleasant kit I have ever seen in my entire football watching life. Cardiff’s shirts are day-glo green and their shorts are blue; it’s a kit inspired by the heads and hands of Edward Lear’s Jumblies and “Happen what may it’s extremely wrong”.
costs £10, and so does the Bettie Brewer doll; for some reason we both find that funny. I decide it’s the way she tells them; the Burton accent seems warm and bright; the bus driver should try it may be. I buy a programme and head for the away terrace.
all breeze blocks and sheet metal. If it was in Italy or France a Pirelli Stadium might wittily look like a tyre and it would be architect designed. But this is England, so it’s a compromise between a B&Q and a John Lewis at Home. But that said, three sides of this ground are terracing, and terracing with a decent rake with no stanchions holding up the roof, so although the stands are small (ground capacity under 7,000) the view is pretty good, even if the tickets are £20 a go.
, the more disturbing looking half of the Burton Albion Billy and Bettie Brewer mascot partnership. The view down the pitch is a beautiful sight; lush, green, wet turf shining beneath the floodlights on sticks which in turn shine through the fine, heavy, rain. 
and whilst I have nothing against Lloyd Dyer I enjoy the photograph of him on page 43 in which he looks as if he might burst into tears. Half-time seems longer than usual for some reason, but eventually play resumes and at about five to nine Ipswich score a goal. Former Town player Luke ‘Reg’ Varney sending a ‘bullet’ deflection into his own net from a corner kick, although Town captain Luke Chambers seems to try and claim the goal by running off excitedly in front of the Town fans and leaping about madly. Gradually, a procession of stewards in outsized day-glo coats amble across the front of the stand to head off the somewhat unlikely possibility of a pitch invasion from the Ipswich supporters.
trippingovertheball 