Ipswich Town 6 Sheffield Wednesday 0

March 17, 2024March 23, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Although I began watching football in 1971, it took until September 1984 for me to first see Sheffield Wednesday play Ipswich Town. This was largely because, despite an illustrious past back in the days of Arthur Balfour and then Ramsay McDonald, Sheffield Wednesday were until 1984 bobbing about in the second division and then even visiting the likes of Layer Road, Colchester rather than Portman Road. Indeed, I had first seen Wednesday five years before when they played out a thrilling goalless draw at Layer Road in what was only my third ever visit to the then home of our pauper cousins from over the border in Essex. That first encounter with Ipswich ended in a draw also, but four goals were shared that late summer or early autumn day, I honestly don’t remember which it was. Since then, I have seen Town play Sheffield Wednesday a further twenty-four times and of those games Ipswich have won a paltry six, with Sheffield winning an indecent eleven, including a five-nil embarrassment at Hillsborough in April 1994 and a relegation confirming one-nil defeat in May of 1986. So, with this record in mind I feel I have good reason to bear Sheffield Wednesday a degree of ill-will, and on the morning of our latest encounter I hope for retribution, vengeance and other things Jesus wouldn’t have approved of.

It’s been a beautiful, bright spring morning; I had awoken to sunlight streaming into the bedroom and birds chirruping from the branches of the tree outside my window, in spite of the world of pain beyond. After a hearty breakfast and a morning of garden tidying and playing at being Andy Warhol with photos of Ray Crawford and Ted Phillips, I leave my wife watching people in lycra cycling round Italy, to catch the train to Ipswich. The train arrives on time, but leaves late. I sit opposite an elderly Town fan who I recognise from previous journeys to the match. He tells me how watching football has been “…a way of life” for him, and how he would travel on the train to watch Sudbury Town when he was at Earls Colne Grammar school. He asks me if I remember certain players like he does, they all have names like Len and Reg, Syd and Larry. He’s seen them all he tells me, but the best player he thinks he ever saw was Ipswich’s Billy Baxter. I ask him how old he is; he’s eighty-seven, and every other Saturday his daughter buys him a match ticket and a train ticket and puts him on the train to Ipswich. I hope I’m still doing this when I’m eighty-seven, I think to myself.

Approaching the next stop, I remember I had arranged to meet Gary on the train, but I’ve been so busy talking about football in the 1950’s I have forgotten to text him to tell him which carriage I’m in. Fortuitously, my carriage pulls up against the platform just where a slightly perplexed looking Gary is standing. I leave my seat and walk over to the door as it opens so Gary can see me. Unfortunately, I have lost my seat by the man from the 1950’s, but I’ll look out for him next time. Arriving in Ipswich, Gary and I head for ‘the Arb’ pausing only so that I can buy an ice cream in Portman Road, but as usual I come away with just a programme (£3.50). At the bottom of Lady Lane an odd-looking man on an electric scooter covered in stickers weaves his way past us with a mobile phone pressed up against his ear. Gary and I look at one another and burst out laughing. I tell him I often see strange things in this part of town, but then, Lady Lane was the site of a medieval Catholic shrine.

Once at ‘the Arb’ I buy Gary a pint of Lager 43 and myself a pint of Maldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8 something with Camra discount) before we repair to the beer garden where all the seats at tables are taken and we have to sit on a park bench next to the back gate. We talk of people we worked with in the 1990’s, how Gary’s season ticket is next to someone who is a close relative of a friend of my sister, and discover that Gary has forgotten that we have tickets to see Stewart Lee at Chelmsford Civic Theatre next Friday. Gary buys another pint of Lager 43, and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me and has spotted a free table which we then occupy. Soon we are the only people left in the beer garden and it’s not even twenty to three; belatedly we join the herd.

Having bid Gary farewell within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, it’s not long before I’m queuing at turnstile 62 and then shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat, next but one to the man rom Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood. As usual, my arrival has pretty-much coincided with the appearance of the teams and I joke with the man from Stowmarket that this is because I have in fact just left the dressing room having given the team talk. On the pitch one of today’s mascots is wearing a Town shirt and pink party dress, I hope the kit designers at Umbro are taking notes. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams, and as if in a French football crowd ever-present Phil and I shout out the surnames. As usual, the first few names appear on the scoreboard and Murphy is in time with them, but it doesn’t usually continue like that . The names keep appearing and Murphy keeps on reading and the names keep appearing and Murphy keeps on reading and I’m still waiting for the two to fall out of sync, but we’ve reached the substitutes and they haven’t. Ever-present Phil turns around wide-eyed and incredulous, we can’t believe what we’ve witnessed, Murphy has only gone and done it! He’s read out the team in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard. “Crikey” I think to myself “We must be going to win by seven or eight today”.

The game begins, Sheffield Wednesday getting first go with the ball and pointing it mostly in the general direction of the Co-op on Norwich Road, Castle Hill and Whitton Sports Centre. Sheffield wear a smart but not eye-catching kit of white shirts and black shorts, like Germany or Port Vale. As ever, Town are in their signature blue and white. “Hi-Ho, Sheffield Wednesday” sing the visiting fans to the tune of Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’, although Wikipedia tells us that the song was first released by a band called The Attack a few days before Beck’s version in March 1967. Weirdly, the Wednesday fans only sing those four words, as if they couldn’t think up any other lyrics, but liked the tune anyway. The net effect is like a musical version of driving into a cul de sac, but there’s no harm in it and they soon move on to April of 1967 with a fuller rendition of Frankie Valli’s ‘You’re just to good to be true’ . Their efforts deservedly earn Wednesday a corner after just four minutes, which is a full six minutes before Ipswich ‘s first corner and my first chance to bellow “Come On You Blues”, but to no avail . “Not comfortable at the back” says the bloke behind me of Sheffield Wednesday. “Don’t like pressure do they?” adds his sidekick.

Fourteen minutes pass. “Football in a library, do-do-do”. So far, so ordinary, then Wes Burns crosses the ball from the right. The ball is played to Omari Hutchinson, he turns and in a perfect impersonation of Conor Chaplin accurately places a not unnecessarily hard shot inside a post and into the net. Town lead one-nil. “Aye Aye Ippy Ippy Town, Singing Aye Aye Ippy Ippy Town” I sing, hoping to encourage a new craze of referring to Ipswich as “Ippy” because it sounds appropriately hip and happening.

Eighteen minutes gone and Town win another corner and I bawl again, and then a minute later, mysteriously six people in black anoraks arrive and sit down just over the gangway from us. “Men in black” says the bloke behind me. “Is there a funeral?” I ask Fiona. Nobody knows, but with the half, half over Axel Tuanzebe earns another Town corner. “Come On You Blues” chant our tiny band of Ultras. But it’s soon Vaclav Hladky who is being applauded as he has to make a diving save and Sheffield have a corner of their own before Town win another and as Sheffield threaten to breakaway, Omari Hutchinson is booked by the uncharacteristically tall referee Mr Leigh Doughty for nothing more than a playful shove.

There are ten minutes until half-time and disaster strikes as despite having won yet another corner for Town, Wes Burns is down on the pitch clutching his leg and has to go off; the only good thing being that he only had a short walk to the players’ tunnel, although I don’t suppose players generally think to themselves “I don’t mind getting injured as long as I don’t have to walk far back to the players’ tunnel”.

When the corner is eventually taken, Keiffer Moore heads the ball against the cross bar, it drops down, isn’t cleared and Cameron Burgess wellies it into the net from inside the six-yard box. Town lead 2-0 and Cameron’s goal possesses the blunt, messy ugliness that has us reminiscing about the days of Mick McCarthy. Kayden Jackson replaces Wes Burns and Portman Road is very nearly reverberating to the sound of chants of “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army”. For pretty much the first time in the game the Sheffield fans have fallen silent. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, The finest football team the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand digging into their stash of Irish folk songs.

Another Town corner comes and goes before Wednesday’s number thirty-six, Ian Poveda runs worryingly at the Town defence. “Don’t stand off ‘im Wolfie” calls the bloke behind me not expecting his advice to be taken. “As soon as he lets him get in the box he’s fucked” says his sidekick. But happily disaster is averted, nothing unfortunate happens to Wolfie and with three minutes of injury time announced Kayden Jackson sprints down the right, crosses low towards the goal and Nathan Broadhead subtly clips the ball into the goal from close range to give Town a 3-0 lead. It’s the best goal so far and makes half-time a time to kick back, relax and hope for another three goals in the second half, which is what I tell Dave the steward and Ray.

No sooner have I eaten a Nature Valley Oats and Honey Crunchy bar than the second half is upon us and Sheffield have substituted their star player, Barry Bannan, which is a shame because players called Barry are a rarity. Omari Hutchinson quickly shoots over the cross-bar before there is a minute’s applause for another recently deceased Town fan, someone myself, Fiona, Pat from Clacton and ever-present Phil all remember from our days twenty-odd years ago of travelling to away matches with the Clacton branch of the supporters’ club. By beautiful coincidence and synchronisation worthy of stadium announcer Murphy, on the stroke of the minute ending, Town score a fourth goal, Omari ‘Mbappe’ Hutchinson despatching a decisive shot after an equally decisive run and pass from Nathan Broadhead. The goal provokes a dash for the exits from an indecently large number of Sheffield Wednesday supporters who have either just remembered they have urgent appointments elsewhere or who feel unable to support their team when the going gets this tough.

Happily, I have never seen Town surrender a four goal lead and so I am now confident of victory. Massimo Luongo is as confident as me it seems and shoot from almost the half way line to earn yet another corner. “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League We Go! “ Sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand triumphantly and a substituted Sheffield Wednesday player walks grimly, head down, along the touchline to the tunnel, in a long black hooded coat, looking a bit like he’s lost his scythe.

The pre-match blue skies have now gone to be replaced by a glorious grey expanse , like one massive dull cloud that surrounds the stadium making it feel like a shining, green, floodlit island within a becalmed sea of gloom. I can’t imagine how the Sheffield supporters are feeling. Keiffer Moore shoots over and Town win another corner as the first hour of the game recedes into recent history and Pat tells us that she’s off to Great Yarmouth next week to play whist. All of a sudden, Sheffield unexpectedly break away and Ike Ugbo is bearing down on goal, but as he shoots Cameron Burgess whisks the ball away for a corner “He came from nowhere” says the bloke beside me, exaggerating very little.

“ We love you Wednesday, we do” sing the Wednesdayites admirably, before reprising “You’re just too good to be true” and then going on the offensive with the oddly familiar chant of “ Your support is fucking shit”, which despite occasional outbursts of passion is a mostly a fair point, well made. If Ipswich has a distinct ‘fan culture’ it is one of stoic reticence. “Four-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Wednesdayites providing the evidence to back up their earlier assertions.

But oddly, the game has gone a bit flat. “Come On Town” calls the bloke behind me echoing my inner dialogue and right on cue Kieran Mckenna, like someone brandishing a carton of Shake n’Vac, makes the substitutions needed to put the freshness back. Jeremy Sarmiento and Ali Al-Hamadi replace Nathan Broadhead and Keiffer Moore, and Murphy tells us that collectively we are 29,325 with 1,945 from Sheffield. “Thank you for your continued support” he adds, like a man fully capable of reading out the team names as they appear on the scoreboard.

Sixteen minutes of the future still to look forward to and Al-Hamadi runs and shoots, but embarrassingly wide. To make Ali feel better about himself, Kayden Jackson then fluffs a volley with equal aplomb. “Football in a library, do-do-do” chant the Wednesdayites again, reliving one of their early triumphs of the first half before revisiting the well-worn path of our support being faecal and the familiar and satisfying rhyming couplet of “No noise from the Tractor Boys”. The Wednesday fans are sounding increasingly angry at the Town fans for being so quiet, as if it is almost an affront to them, which it probably is. I can imagine them sitting in the Cobbold Stand saying “These Ipswich fans, 4-0 up, they don’t know they’re born. Back in my day we’d be thirty-four nil down at half time, with ten players sent off, and we’d have all had our heads cut off by over zealous stewards and we’d still be singing.”

But now the final ten minutes are here, the time when in popular fan culture Ipswich are lucky because they score goals and win the game. Today of course we’re all ready 4-0 up so it’s just for old times sake that Omari Hutchinson runs, Jeremy Sarmento shoots and Ali Al-Hamadi taps in the rebound after the Wednesday goal keeper only parries Sarmiento’s shot. It’s 5-0 to Ipswich and more Wednesday fans remember urgent appointments. “We want six” I chant. “Stand up if you’re five-nil up” chant lots of Town fans and we have to stand up or else we can’t see anything. Why can’t we just do something like “Go Weeee” if we’re five-nil up, why is it always the standing up?

Six minutes left and we haven’t scored enough goals in the final ten minutes yet, so the remainder of the midfield is replaced. “You’re fucking shit, you’re fucking shit, you’re fucking shit” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand uncharitably to the visitors, but no doubt finally confident that with less than five minutes to go Town shouldn’t lose now, before optimistically asking “ Can we play you every week?”. The final minute arrives and we still need another goal to fully avenge that 5-0 defeat in 1994. Omari Hutchinson runs, he shoots or may be crosses the ball and Al-Hamadi taps in again, and Town will win six nil for the third time in twelve months. “We want seven” I chant greedily, but three minutes of added on time evaporates and I have to make do with six.

With the final whistle, Pat and Fiona are quickly away into the early evening. I linger to applaud the team and Kieran McKenna and reflect on a day of perfect timings. I shall be cracking open the Cremant tonight.

Ipswich Town 2 West Bromwich Albion 2

February 11, 2024February 12, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Waking up on a Saturday morning is never quite as good as I think it should be. All through the week I’m usually awake shortly before my alarm clock goes off and I lie there in my warm bed, longing for the weekend, drifting in and out of cosy consciousness, wanting to go back to sleep but knowing that in a few minutes the alarm will sound, and I will have to get up and get ready for work. But on Saturdays, despite the fact that I can go back to sleep, I seldom do, and the lovely lazy feeling of luxuriating in a warm bed somehow doesn’t materialise. It’s as if existence just wants me to be dissatisfied.

Today is Saturday, and having risen from my bed, showered, prepared and eaten a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and honey with both tea and coffee to help it down, and then kissed my wife goodbye, I am off to face the world of trains, public houses and football. I hurriedly leave the house to escape the sound of The Stone Temple Pilots who my wife has invited to play very loudly because she knows I won’t be there to complain; not that I would, I’d just stick my fingers in my ears and pull faces or go and play outside. Outside, it’s a beautiful, clear, bright Saturday morning beneath blue skies dappled with altocumulus. At the railways station I look over the wall at the back of the platform to see three Christmas tree baubles and I count five ladybirds on surrounding plants. I didn’t know ladybirds celebrated Christmas, and in February too. Once on the train I am vexed by one bloke in a group of four ‘lads’, who cannot speak without shouting as they talk of Ibiza, women and Fantasy Football. I peer out of the train window at the wet fields; after a couple of days of rain everything is sodden and today courtesy of Sky TV it’s another sodden 12:30 kick-off; it will be gone three-thirty by the time I get home, virtually a whole day gone, and at my age I don’t know how many I’ve got left.

Arriving in Ipswich, I head for ‘the Arb’ via Portman Road, where I stop at a kiosk to buy an ice cream but ask for a programme instead (£3.50). The girl who effects my debit card transaction is the youngest looking person I have ever seen working in retail, she looks about twelve. I thank her sincerely and she thanks me in return but doesn’t wish me ‘bon match’ as a French programme seller would, if they had them. At ‘the Arb’ I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra discount) and retire to the garden to await Mick. I sit in the shelter that backs onto High Street , but plagued by more people who can’t talk quietly I move to sit in the open where piercing voices won’t echo off the roof and walls. It’s not long before Mick appears from the back gate and once he has acquired his own pint of Suffolk Pride we talk of honey, Europe’s most obese nations (Greece and Croatia) , kebabs and takeaway food, e-numbers, water filters, bowel movements, blood tests and prostates, driving to France, Spain , Italy and Belgium, and Mick becoming a grandfather again next week and having an operation on his foot. At some stage I also buy another pint of Suffolk Pride and a Jamieson’s, ‘Stout’ Whisky for Mick (£8.56 with Camra discount).

It must be nearly 12:15 by the time we leave for Portman Road, and I consider it a badge of honour that we are the last to leave. We go our separate ways near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey as Mick makes for the West Stand and I head to what will to some always be Churchman’s; I pause on the way to help a short woman of Asian origin who is trying to take down the portable gazebo from which East Anglian Daily Times ‘goody bags’ were being sold. There are no queues at the turnstiles, but disappointingly I am directed away from turnstile 62 by a steward because it doesn’t seem to be working properly; I use turnstile 61 instead, which is almost as good, but not quite. After syphoning off some excess Suffolk Pride, I emerge onto the stand where Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) are already in position as the team walk on and flames erupt around the edge of the pitch, warming our faces and any other bare patches of flesh we may have on show. Meanwhile, Murphy the stadium announcer makes his usual appalling hash of reading out the names of the Town team, failing hopelessly as ever to synchronise with the names appearing on the score board. By the latter half of the team, I just give up and simply shout the names out as they appear, regardless of what Murphy is reading out.

Today’s opponents are West Browich Albion and it is they who get first go with the ball as they attempt to put it in the goal net at the Castle Hill and Akenham end of the ground. Whilst Town are in their signature blue and white, West Brom are kitted out in an all-peppermint green number, which seems ill-advised, although conceivably it has been devised to simply perplex the opposition who will be too busy mouthing “WTF” to one another to properly defend set-pieces.

The Albion supporters are in good voice and immediately break into a song about Albion which sounds suspiciously like one that Town fans sing about ITFC. Not sixty seconds have elapsed and West Brom’s number 31 has the game’s first shot at goal, albeit way off target. West Brom then win the game’s first corner and it takes repetition of the mantra “Blue and White Army” at least three times to get the ball back off them. “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” enquire the West Brom fans in generous mood and as fictional supporters might have if there had ever been a Hollywood musical about football. I notice that West Brom’s number four is called Cedric Kipre and hope his surname is pronounced ‘Kipper’, but I don’t suppose it is given that he’s from Cote d’Ivoire.

Suddenly, it looks like Town might be on the attack, but Wes Burns is offside, and we get to see how unfortunate he looks with his new haircut. He needs to grow it back as soon as possible and I hope the barber asked if he wanted anything on it to help it grow, and that he accepted. There used to be a barber and avid town fan on Felixstowe Road (John) who would always ask that, it was one of the reasons I used to go there. “We want the action down this end” complains Pat from Clacton as I see that the West Brom goal-keeper is called Palmer, which depending on how good he is might almost be a case of nominative determinism.

It’s only the fifteenth minute, but I seem to have been here longer. Seagulls are hovering above the Cobbold stand perhaps looking for burgers and other mechanically reclaimed meat products hurriedly discarded in Portman Road before kick-off. West Brom win another corner “Come On You Baggies” chant their fans. The corner takes an age to be taken and results in a shot over the Town bar. Two minutes later Luke Woolfenden looks to be brushed off the ball a bit too easily and West Brom’s number thirty-one Tom Fellows runs on to score rather too easily. The only good thing is that I am momentarily reminded of Graham Fellows and his alter ego “Jilted John” , who along with his album “True Love Stories” was another of many highlights of 1978.

The West Brom team have an extended celebratory drinks party on the touch line before returning to resume the match, whilst the referee Mr David Coote, who sadly isn’t bald (unless he’s wearing a toupe) , looks on pathetically. Two minutes later and Town have a corner of our own and I bellow “Come On You Blues” as loudly as possible to make up for the thousands who remain silent, lost in quiet contemplation. The corner is far too easily cleared and frankly wasn’t worth my effort. The Baggies fans continue to sing and the Town fans don’t, although someone is banging a drum, albeit mournfully.

I don’t realise it at the time, but the twenty-fourth minute is the peak of the first half for Town as Nathan Broadhead glides into the penalty area and pulls back a low cross which Conor Chaplin proceeds to boot high above the cross bar with ‘the goal at his mercy’. I shake my fist at the sky. The West Brom fans couldn’t laugh more if they’d been watching Charlie Chaplin. “Bus stop in Norwich, You’re just a bus stop in Norwich” they sing. “Better than being a public convenience in Smethwick” I think to myself in a Midlands accent. A half an hour has receded into history and Sam Morsy is booked for bumping into Fellows twice in a few seconds, “David Coote’s a Moron” I sing to myself in the style of Jilted John. Four minutes later Sam Morsy has a shot on goal, but it’s too weak for Palmer to even have to palm away. “There’s more of them on the pitch than us” complains Pat unhappily. I tell her it’s an illusion created by their peppermint shirts.

There are less than ten minutes to go until half time and it seems like West Brom are going to try and spend the whole nine minutes taking a throw-in. We wait and wait, and Mr Coote starts waving his arms about as if relaying what the odds are on a thirty-sixth minute throw in, before circling his hands about one another like a John Travolta hand jive in Saturday Night Fever. Town win another corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues” again, not discouraged by the fate of the last corner kick. Two minutes later, Wes Burns shoots and a deflection produces another corner, and I’ m bellowing once more, but to no effect. “We all hate Walsall” chant the Baggies fans, I think. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” sing the home fans and the Baggies claim that they had forgotten the home fans were here, although I bet they can remember who won the FA Cup in 1968.

It’s the 43^rd minute already and Palmer palms a fine Harry Clarke shot over the cross bar and for the final time this half I get to bellow to no effect. Two minutes of added-on time are added-on and as the first half approaches its finishing line Darnell Furlong dillies and dallies with a throw-in and encouraged by the home crowd, Mr Coote shows him the yellow card. Time remains however for a final through ball into the penalty area which Conor Chaplin can’t quite reach, “because his legs are too short” suggests Fiona, and we agrees that some sort of clown shoe could make the necessary difference.

With the half-time whistle Mr Coote is booed from the pitch, but it seems likely he’s used to it. I head down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison, stopping briefly to speak with Dave the steward with whom I used to work back in the 1980’s and early 1990’s, in the days of Frank Yallop, Graham Harbey and Ulrich Wilson. Ray shocks me by saying that a profile picture I posted on social media made him think of how he imagines a young Boris Johnson might have looked. I may not speak to Ray at the next home game.

No sooner has the match re-started than Ipswich equalise, George Edmundson nodding the ball on for the excellent Nathan Broadhead to skilfully and acrobatically prod inside the far post on the half-volley. Nathan Broadhead is such a beautiful player to watch, with great balance and poise; he just needs longer hair. Town will surely now go on to win provided Mr Coote allows it, although very soon he is suggesting he might not as he books Harry Clarke for a supposed tackle from behind, but then he does award a free-kick after a foul on Keiffer Moore, which invites ironic and prolonged jeers from the home crowd.

Town are now the better side and dominate possession. Another corner is won by Town, and Sam Morsy shoots over the cross bar before West Brom decide something better change, and they make two substitutions. In an isolated West Brom attack, a free-kick is handled into the Town goal by an Austrian whose name looks like he could be Scotsman, Andi Weimann (Andy Wee-Man), and he is rightly booked, although why keeping the ball out of the net by handling it is a sending off offence, but putting it into the net by handling it isn’t is a mystery; it’s all cheating of the worst kind that could directly affect the result.

A half an hour of normal time remains and at the Sir Bobby Robson Stand end of the ground “When the Town going marching in“ is sung as if someone has died, although a minute or two later a more cheery version is heard. Meanwhile, West Bromwich have a man down as the Town fans sing “Sky TV is fucking shit”, a point of view with which I concur incidentally, although much more politely. The club golf buggy appears and as the game is put on hold it trundles around the pitch to collect the unfortunate Darryl Dikes and transport him back to the player’s tunnel. He sits on the back in a pose that resembles Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker”. The buggy moves slowly. “Put your foot down” I shout, eager for the match to resume; the driver takes no notice. The bloke behind me suggests this has been the highlight of the whole match.

In due course the match resumes as before with Town actively seeking a goal and West Brom hoping for one. Marcus Harness and Omari Hutchison replaces Conor Chaplin and Wes Burns. Murphy announces today’s attendance as 29,016 including 1,670 Baggies fans. The scoreboard operator, seemingly unable to resist the joy of mental arithmetic, shows the attendance as 30,686. “They’re there for the taking “ says the bloke beside me. Moments later West Brom’s number 19, John Swift shoots from outside the Town penalty area and scores, the ball somehow evading the outstretched hands of Vaclav Hladky, who looked all set to save it. “Wasn’t expecting that” says the bloke behind me, and indeed there had been no indication whatsoever that the next goal would not be in the West Brom net. It feels a lot like fate has been conspiring against us lately.

As Town get back to staying in the West Brom half, the visiting fans come over all religious and start singing Psalm 23, and indeed divine intervention would seem to be the only plausible explanation for their team once again being ahead. Town win consecutive corners but a lot of time is taken up with West Brom goalkeeper Palmer catching Town crosses. Seven minutes of normal time remain and Massimo Luongo and Nathan Broadhead make way for Ali Al Hamadi and Jeremy Sarmiento. Seven minutes later and there will be at least another eight minutes to play. Two minutes in and Town win another corner before a game of bagatelle ensues with crosses and shot being blocked before the ball drops to Omari Hutchison. At first it seems he hasn’t controlled it, but then as it drops for a second time he strikes it through a crowded penalty area, past Palmer’s palm and on into the goal and Town have equalised again, and deservedly so.

The relief is palpable, isn’t it always? But Town should have won this game and continue to want to do so. A shot, a save, another corner; almost another minute over the eight, but there is no third goal, and the game ends as a draw. At least we haven’t lost. As I leave for the railway station, I think how, much like waking up on Saturday mornings, football often isn’t as good as it should be, but then again I think I might be wrong.