championship

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol City 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Looking back, as I often seem to do nowadays, I find that the first time I saw Ipswich Town play Bristol City was nearly forty-nine years ago. Back then, both clubs were in what has since become the Evil Premier League but this has no bearing whatsoever on the fixture that is taking place tonight at Portman Road. The past is a foreign country, which makes us all immigrants.

It’s been a dull day decorated with scudding clouds courtesy of a brisk but strangely cold southerly breeze. But then, it is January.  After a day’s work at home, I head for the railway station. The train is on time and Gary joins me on it at the first station stop. It’s dark outside so we don’t see any polar bears as the train reaches Wherstead and I’m not about to suggest the bears begin to wear dayglo gilets.    Leaving Ipswich railway station, the Portman Road football ground shines like a glorious blue and white beacon or even a jewel on Ipswich’s evening skyline. Gary, a man not known for his interest in graphic design remarks upon the clear, classic font of the letters that spell out the words ‘Ipswich Town Football Club’ on the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.

By way of a change this evening, I decide we should not walk up Portman Road, across the corner of Portman Road car park, along Great Gipping Street, up Civic Drive, across the car park where the Civic Centre used to be, up Lady Lane, over the crossing where St Matthews Street meets Crown Street, up St George’s Street, along Upper High Street and into High Street to reach the Arb.  Instead, we just walk up Princes Street and Museum Street and into High Street. Gary thinks the other way is quicker but he’s an Ipswich supporter who is awkwardly unfamiliar with Ipswich’s historic town centre and doesn’t realise how many more listed buildings we have passed tonight.

I’m first to burst through the door when we reach the Arb (not listed), and I get to the bar first to invest in a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£10 something for the two with Camra discount) for myself.  Gary heads for the cool of the beer garden whilst I linger a little longer to select a snack to help sustain me through the evening, choosing a felafel Scotch egg (£8) before joining him in the shelter (not listed) backing onto High Street, which is otherwise empty, for the time being anyway.

Our conversation meanders from Trump to religion to ‘famous’ Bristol City players (Billy Wedlock and Gerry Gow,) to how far south and east we’ve travelled, to tonight’s team and how unexpectedly cold it is this evening.  Gary buys another pint of Estrella Galicia for himself and one of Suffolk Pride for me.  I buy another half of Suffolk Pride and when there is no one else in the beer garden we up and leave; it’s a bit before twenty-five past seven.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand tonight, there are queues to be scanned for weaponry and scrap metal, it’s hard to know why, other than lots of people arriving at once or more people than usual carrying weapons and scrap metal.  But I’m soon on my way through the Football League Champions Memorial Turnstile, number 62, and after releasing spent Suffolk Pride I’m joining ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton on the lower tier of the stand.  There’s no Elwood tonight, nor man from Stowmarket (Paul), although his grandson is here with his girlfriend (Paul’s grandson’s girlfriend that is, not Paul’s), nor Fiona, who is feeling unwell.  In Fiona’s place however is Angie, who usually occupies the seat in front of Pat from Clacton.  I shout out the players’ names as best I can when the excitable young stadium announcer reads them aloud, but he’s not in time with the scoreboard.  In the questionnaire I receive from the club by e-mail after the match I will suggest he goes on a fact finding mission to Lens, Lille or Paris to see how it’s done.

When the game begins it is Ipswich that get first go with the ball, which they send mostly in the direction of me and my fellow ultras.  Naturally, Town are in blue shirts and white shorts but strangely, Bristol City, or ‘The Robins’ as they are known, presumably because of their signature red shirts, are wearing what must be their little-known winter plumage of white shirts and black shorts, like a poor man’s Germany or Port Vale.  Town are soon on the attack and win their first corner after barely three minutes. Angie remarks on the height of referee’s assistant, who although bearded like a garden gnome is much taller than the usual.  “Come On You Blues” five, or possibly six of us bawl and we do it again and then again as Town take two more corner kicks until Bristol goalkeeper Vitek punches the ball high into the air before catching it on its descent to spoil our fun.

It is the ninth minute. Jens Cajuste pirouettes to leave some hired imitation Bristolian in his wake and passes to Jack Clarke.  All floppy hair and loping gait, Clarke drops a shoulder or two, eases the ball on with a stroke of the outside of a boot, and then side foots it inside the far post past a clutch of legs from about twelve metres out. Town lead 1-0.  It’s yet another early goal from the left and Jack Clarke and Jaden Philogene who isn’t playing tonight seem to have become one.

“One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand, mysteriously goading the pensioners and conservative people in late middle age who populate the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand.  Fifteen minutes have melted into history and Town continue to do what is sometimes described as ‘taking the game to the opposition’. “Go on Wes, do ‘im” says Angie as Wes Burns receives the ball on the touchline and runs at the Bristol full-back.

But five minutes later Bristol almost score, as ‘playing out from the back’ fails to live up to expectations and Bristol get gifted a free shot on goal that Christian Walton saves rather well, giving Bristol a corner. Tension is relieved however by the sight of former ‘Blue’ Sam Morsy stepping out from what once was a dugout but now looks like a section from a short but wide open-top team bus. “He’s Egyptian, but he comes from Wolver’ampton” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of “She’s electric” by Oasis, although I might have misheard.  After Wes Burns shoots to win Town another corner that comes to nothing Sam Morsy then replaces a bloke called Adam Randell and everyone applauds arguably Town’s best captain since Matt Holland.

The first third of the match begins to slip out of sight, except as recorded highlights, and Ivan Azon wins another corner and then shoots narrowly and quite spectacularly over the Bristol crossbar from about 20 metres away.  “Ole, Ole Ole Ole, Azon, Azon” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers as they tuck into their tapas and click their castanets.  Seemingly aiming to please the home crowd further, Sam Morsy shoots wide and everyone cheers ironically, and then with no hint of irony at all the few hundred visiting supporters and possibly the fifteen-hundred or so empty plastic seats allocated to Bristol City but left unsold sing “Your support is fucking shit” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

Nine minutes until half-time and Town notch yet another corner to a tiny chorus of “Come On You Blues” before Bristol City hint at having a pact with the devil as Cajuste’s shot is blocked and Azon’s sudden follow-up attempt is deflected by unseen forces over the bar, although it is goalkeeper Radek Vitek who gets the thanks from his team mates.   With five minutes until half-time the home crowd celebrate again as referee Mr Whitestone selects Bristol’s Neto Borge to be the recipient of his first yellow card, after Borge shoves Dara O’Shea headlong into the West Stand advert hoardings.

The half comes to a close with three minutes of added-on time, another necessary save from Christian Walton and yet another hollow chorus of “Come On You Blues” from me and the other five ultras as Town’s corner count exceeds its ultra count.  Applause greets the half-time whistle, and I take a short trip to the front of the stand to speak with Harrison and his dad Michael, and briefly with Dave the steward before I head indoors to release more spent Suffolk Pride, returning in time to see the football resume at twelve minutes to nine.

Unexpectedly, it is Bristol City who win the first corner within a minute of the re-start, whilst Pat from Clacton shares the news that Angie’s bobble hat was new from the club shop tonight; nine pounds in the ‘under a tenner’ sale.  Angie wears the woollen hat well, but I don’t think such a large bobble would suit me at all.  I might write to the club to suggest the shop stocks blue berets and ITFC pin badges to be sold in tandem with prescription sunglasses for that authentic Ultra look.

Seven minutes into the latest half and Walton makes another save, this time from Emil Riis. It’s an incident that prompts Town fans to plead “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” a minute later.  Clearly struck by the crowd’s imploring cries Town up their game and Azon chases down the right before squaring the ball to Jack Clarke who sweeps the ball very precisely but stylishly inside the far post as only a man wearing a hair band can. Two-nil to Ipswich.  “We’re on our way to the Premier League” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers suddenly filled with a hitherto missing confidence, although they soon reveal that they’re a little unsure how promotion actually works chanting “How do we get there?  I don’t know”.    Moments later however they seem more certain as they launch into “Ee-I, Ee-I, Ee-I, Oh, Up the Football League We Go”, again probably for the first time this season.

Mass substitutions soon follow for Bristol City as their fabulously Germanic sounding manager Gerhard Struber trusts in ringing the changes and bringing on players called Pring and Earthy.  Although often messy, with possession changing hands a bit too frequently, the game provides plenty for the crowd to enjoy and no more so than when, possibly just for old times’ sake, Sam Morsy gets shown Mr Whitehouse’s yellow card.  But Morsy is in good company in this Bristol City team, which almost queues up to be cautioned with a series of assaults on Jack Clarke, Dara O’Shea and Ivan Azon or anyone who runs past with or stands between them and the ball.

Not to be outdone by the former insurance salesman from Austria, Keiran Mckenna makes the customary multiple substitutions too, giving opportunities for the home crowd to give dedicated applause for the excellent efforts of Azon, Burns, Cajuste, Clarke, and Nunez, who have all shown skill and endeavour in the face of a team that with the possible exception of Sam Morsy due to his religious beliefs, probably trains on rough cider.

With the second goal the game had become a matter of will we or won’t we score a third goal.  “I don’t need to get Monkey out do I” says Pat from Clacton, referring to the lucky charm who apparently used to cause instant changes of fortune for struggling Town teams upon leaving her handbag but has since lost his touch a bit.  Angie is reduced to giggling about the surname of Bristol’s Rob Dickie, whilst I enquire of her whether she thinks he’s from Billericay.  I hope she remembers Ian Dury.

It’s been a relatively comfortable game for the Town with the feeling that if we wanted or needed to, we could always try a little harder and score some more goals.  Six minutes of added on time is therefore a little unwanted for both teams probably, but we survive it.  With the final whistle we can clear off home safe in the knowledge that a third consecutive home victory over teams beginning with letter ‘B’, after just one win and two draws in consecutive games against teams beginning with the letter ‘W’ back in September and October is a slightly strange measure of how much the team has improved. It’s just a pity that if things keep on like this, we might end up in the bloody Premier League again

Ipswich Town 3 Blackburn Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Woke up, fell out of bed.  It was damp and dreary outside when I drew back the bedroom curtains.  Feeling inspired, I thought I’d check to see when I had last seen Ipswich Town play Blackburn Rovers, and I was surprised to learn that it was in August of 2018; it was the first game at Portman Road under the pitiful and thankfully brief leadership of the diminutive Paul Hurst.  In case you’re wondering, I missed Blackburn’s last visit to Ipswich in September 2023 because I was in Brest, where I witnessed Stade Brestois beat Olympique Lyonnais one-nil to go top of Ligue1.

Times change, but Ipswich Town are playing Blackburn Rovers again today (Brest are away to Lyon tomorrow) and today’s match kicks-off at the silly time of 12:30pm, when civilised people should be eating lunch, in the pub, or still in bed.   I catch the train to Ipswich, looking up I notice it isn’t late, and I have a carriage to myself until Gary joins me at the first station stop in his brightly coloured anorak. The train speeds on through a damp and dismal winter wonderland of bare trees and decaying vegetation, brightened only by the sighting of two very off-white polar bears that live by a lake in Wherstead.  Arriving in Ipswich, pale sunshine is straining its way through the cloud because the sun always shines in Ipswich or tries to.  As we cross Princes Street bridge there are just two people sat in the beer garden of the Station Hotel and they look very young; they’re probably drinking Vimto.

In Portman Road, a crowd of people loiter, waiting for the turnstiles to open.  Gary and I speculate as to the attractions that Portman Road holds ninety minutes before kick-off but can’t think of any.  I am first through the door at the Arb and with no other punters at the bar I am soon paying for a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint each of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for Mick and myself (£14.90 with Camra discount).  We repair to the beer garden to sit in the shelter that backs on to High Street, joining a solitary man with glasses and tied back hair at the end table having first asked if we may; we may. Mick is late, but it’s not long before he arrives.  We talk of the African Cup of Nations, how Mick will miss Tuesday’s match because he must go to Scotland for a funeral, of the Tory councillor from Lymington in Hampshire sent to prison for twenty weeks for stalking former Tory MP Penny Mordaunt, and jury service.  Gary buys more drinks and we leave for Portman Road at about ten past twelve once we’re happy that we are the last to leave.

We part ways near Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue; Mick and Gary heading for the west stand whilst I make for turnstile sixty-two and the cheap seats of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, where a smiling man first scans me for concealed weapons and scrap metal.  From outside, I have already heard the excitable young stadium announcer reading out the names of the teams and I didn’t join in.   After disposing of spent Suffolk Pride in the proper manner, I make for the stand, pausing only to allow the minute’s applause for all deceased Ipswich Town fans to end. I’m not a fan of the mawkish, public sentimentality of the ‘Memorial Day’.  Grief is private, life is for the living and we’re all going to die.

Kick-off is moments away as I shuffle past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat a row or two behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood, and two along from the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who today is making his return to Portman Road after missing several matches. When the game begins, it’s Blackburn who get first go with the ball, which they launch in the general direction of the Vets for Pets premises on Handford Road and the Co-op next door. Blackburn are wearing an unpleasant looking yellow kit, which from where I am sitting looks as if it is covered in brown smudges, ‘skid marks’ perhaps.  According to the Lancashire Telegraph however, the shirt is gold in colour and is a ‘love letter to Blackburn’ featuring several of the town’s landmarks throughout the design.  I squint and think I might just be able to make out the four thousand holes, give or take three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine.  Aside from the shirts, the first two minutes of the game are ‘all Blackburn’ and in the third minute their number 20, Erain Cashin scores a spectacular goal, albeit in his own net.   Nunez and Philogene exchange passes before Nunez delivers a low, hard cross, which Cashin belts into the top corner of the goal from a seated position, thereby promoting himself as the possible answer to Town’s perceived need for a ‘top striker’.  Town lead one-nil.

The goal results in Ipswich gaining the confidence for Eggy to have a volley tipped over the crossbar by Blackburn goalkeeper and ancient Egyptian deity Toth.  The Blackburn number 10 is jeered by home supporters. “That’s Cantwell” says the fella in front of me. “Whoever he is” I respond, genuinely not knowing who he is although I’d seen his face before.  “He used to play for Norwich” says the fella.  “Like Nunez” says Fiona.  Ipswich have a corner “Come on You Blues” chant at least five of us. A far post header sends the ball into the six-yard box, Toth smothers the ball but then doesn’t and Jack Taylor belts it into the roof of the goal net from less than a metre out. It’s a goal ugly enough to have travelled through time from the days of Mick McCarthy.   Town lead 2-0, although I had expected the goal to be disallowed, but that was before I remembered we’re not in the Premier League anymore.

“All games should start like this” I think to myself and then tell Fiona.  Seventeen minutes have left us, Town still lead two-nil, Blackburn win a corner. Eight further minutes pass into history and Blackburn’s Atcheson claims the day’s first booking after fouling Jaden Philogene. I had been wondering how many goals we might score but things have quietened down.  A long throw from Darnell Furling momentarily excites. “A helluva throw” says the bloke beside me, “Like a bullet”, and it was.  Then Blackburn win another corner. “Wanker, wanker, wanker” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers, and “He’s only a poor little budgie” to the tune of ’The Sparrow’, a Christmas 1979 hit for The Ramblers, a choir from the Abbey Hey Junior School, Manchester, and along with Brian and Michael and St Winifred’s School Choir, a rarely celebrated part of the ‘Madchester scene’.  I assume the target for the abuse is Cantwell, a man who sports a mullet, which makes him resemble a cross between Jerry Seinfeld and Mickey from the Job Centre in the BBC tv series  ‘The League of Gentlemen’.

There are twelve minutes remaining until half-time and as we wait for Leif Davis to take a corner having chanted “Come on You Blues” a few times for luck, Fiona comments on the grubby appearance of Blackburn’s yellow shirts that look like they’re covered in brown marks of unknown provenance.  An injured Jaden Philogene is replaced by Jack Clarke, Blackburn win another corner and two minutes of added on time are stolen from our futures before half-time arrives.

During half time, I talk to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who has been in hospital.  He tells me all about it and I can only marvel again at the NHS and the beautiful idea of distributing resources amongst the population for the common good and according to people’s needs.  I vent more spent Suffolk Pride and at twenty-six minutes to two the football resumes beneath a hint of winter sunshine.  Five minutes in and Ipswich have a corner.  The crowd is mostly quiet today because Blackburn have had a lot of the ball, albeit without doing much with it.  But Ipswich are dominating now and the Sir Bobby Robson standers sing “When the Town go marching in” at a depressingly funereal pace appropriate for ‘Memorial Day’.  Five minutes later however they feeling are more up-beat as they chant ‘Blue and White Army’ and it works as Town win another corner.

But Ipswich’s domination is fleeting as a Blackburn shot is blocked and another goes tamely wide.  When Blackburn win another corner, I see just how bad Cantwell’s mullet is and so advise him to “get your ‘air cut, Cantwell” as any responsible citizen would.  “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” pleads the home crowd and as if in response Eggy and Hirst are replaced by Ivan Azom and Wes Burns who draws a cheer for just trotting onto the pitch.  “I don’t need to get Monkey out, do I?” asks Pat from Clacton, and Fiona and I agree we don’t need any lucky charms yet, because we’re still two-nil up. 

In the final twenty minutes of normal time three more Blackburn players, Trondstad, Cantwell and Cashin are booked by referee Mr Kitchen, all for fouls on Jack Clarke who has become Blackburn’s target man since Philogene had to go off.   Mr Kitchen meanwhile sports an impossibly neat but receding hairline as if like a 1960’s Action Man his hair has been painted on to his scalp.   More substitutions are made, Pat from Clacton tells me about the pantomime she saw, the dame was called Belle Ringer, and for a short while my mind wanders off, I’m not sure where but I’m back in time for the eighty-eighth minute when Jens Cajuste surges forward, slips a through ball to Wes Burns and his square pass is swept into the Blackburn goal by Sammy Szmodics.  Town lead three-nil and five minutes of added on time make no difference, although it sounds like Cedric Kipre has been chosen as man of the match by something called Holiday Testing Concrete Limited; I expect it’s something to do with Brutalist architecture.

The final whistle sounds and people stay and leave in equal measure to cheer the victors or catch buses and trains or queue in car parks. or just walk home.  It’s been a slightly odd game, good in parts, very good in flashes. Ipswich have been too good for Blackburn whose greatest contribution to the spectacle has been providing a pantomime villain in Cantwell. Most significantly however, for the first time this season the visiting supporters have failed to sing “Football in a library, do-do-do”.  Having had to get up in the middle of the night to travel over 400 kilometres for a 12:30 kick-off I don’t suppose they could be bothered.

Ipswich Town 2 Oxford United 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I just can’t help it but this morning I feel bright and optimistic. It’s the dawn of a new year, I had a good night’s sleep, a pale winter sun is shining, and I still haven’t forgotten Ipswich Town’s fabulous two-nil win at top-of-the-table, previously unbeaten at home Coventry City last Monday evening.  So cheerful am I that I can’t help feeling that everyone else must feel the same too.  Indeed, supporting my theory, yesterday in a work e-mail from my boss, he couldn’t resist telling me that he too was still “buzzing” from Monday’s win.   To add to the mix, today Town are playing Oxford United, who are just part of the sludge at the bottom of what I call the second division.

I’m not sure that I am buzzing or have ever buzzed, but I think I can at least lay claim to a pleasant hum as I make for the railway station, where the train arrives on time and I sit next to a man who will remain almost bent double over his mobile phone all the way to Ipswich.  Gary joins me at the first station stop and after the usual polite enquiries about our respective Christmases, he is eager to tell me about how Celtic lost the 1926 Scottish FA Cup final two-nil to St Mirren wearing white shirts.  Being at best still Medieval in outlook, Celtic blamed the shirts for their defeat and quickly off-loaded them onto Barhill Football Club in Ayrshire, who had conveniently just written to both Celtic and Rangers asking if they had any old kit they didn’t want.  The punchline to Gary’s tale of silly Scottish superstition resulting in generosity is a photo on Gary’s phone of four Barhill footballers, one of whom is Gary’s grandfather, each wearing one of the said shirts.  The story is the highlight of today’s journey because we fail to spot a single polar bear as the train eases down the gentle incline through Wherstead into Ipswich.

In historic, interesting Ipswich the sun still shines as we make our way down Princes Street and Portman Road and then uphill towards ‘the Arb’ on High Street.  Pints of Lager 43 and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (Eight pounds something for the two with Camra discount) are soon sitting before us in the beer garden, where we talk of Gary having only watched Tanzania in the African Cup of Nations on the telly, whilst I have watched at least some of almost every game.   Our conversation progresses onto  the defining characteristics and dates of Generations X, Y, Z, the “Great Generation” and the “Silent Generation”,  the merits of Dad’s Army, Porridge, the Detectorists and Morecambe and Wise, and the novel ‘The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist’ by Robert Tressell, which we decide is as relevant today as it was when it was first published in 1914.  By the time Gary fetches two more pints our fellow drinkers in the beer garden are fewer in number than they were, and eventually at twenty to three we retain our record of being last to leave.

Gary and I part ways somewhere near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey, bidding each other adieu until next Saturday’s eagerly awaited FA Cup tie versus Blackpool.  As has become normal, there are no queues outside the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, only men in black of mostly south Asian heritage each brandishing some sort of hand-held detection equipment. For a moment as I pass through the famed turnstile sixty-two, I speculate whether a sitcom set outside a football ground and amounting to Citizen Kahn meets The Detectorists could be funny.   Having never watched Citizen Kahn I decide I ‘m not going to know.

After venting spent Suffolk Pride I emerge into the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand just as the excitable young stadium announcer is reading out the Ipswich Town team and failing to co-ordinate his reading with the players’ names appearing on the score board.  I bellow out the players’ surnames, nevertheless, sounding like the echo to a public address system more than I do the crowd at Stade de l’Aube in Troyes or Stade de Furiani in Bastia. Before the na-na-nas of The Beatles’ Hey Jude can ring in the new year I wish a happy new one to Pat from Clacton and Fiona and nod to ever-present Phil who never misses a game and who is accompanied by his son Elwood, although the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is once again absent.

The final prelude to the match beginning is a minute’s applause for recently deceased former Town player Robin Turner, who in ten years started only twenty-nine games with thirty-three as substitute, but nevertheless famously kept Town on course for the 1978 FA Cup with two goals away to Bristol Rovers.  The respect shown for Robin is only very slightly diminished by the scoreboard at the Sir Bobby Robson Stand end of the ground showing his name as ‘Robin Tuner 1955-2025’, but it sounds worse than it looks as if aurally he might have been related to that Lesley Dolphin on Radio Suffolk.

When the game eventually begins it is today’s opponents Oxford United who get first go with the ball, which after a couple of short passes they boot in the general direction of Cumberland Towers and the YMCA.  Town soon have possession however, which they rarely lose, but they seldom make much of it either, although it feels like it will just be a matter of time before they do.   Oxford lack bold intentions and it smacks of gloating by Oxford tourist guides grown big-headed on fancy college architecture when their supporters’ chant that Ipswich is a “shit ‘ole”, when plainly it’s not.  But weak revenge is wrought on the hopefully thinned skinned academic visitors with the words ‘Cambridge Windows’ scrolling across the front of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand in brightly illuminated letters.  “Is this a library?” chant the Oxonians ironically in response, as if they don’t know what a library is and before anyone can chant “Oh fuck off you privileged twats”  to the tune of something by Gaz Coombes of Supergrass, they launch into “Football in a library , do-do-do” just like every other bunch of away supporters that ever visits Portman Road.

“Columbus Mechanical” announces the Sir Bobby Robson stand illuminations, and then “We are Columbus”.  I ask, but Fiona has no more idea of who Columbus might be than I do before she has a conversation with Pat from Clacton about this year’s pantomimes.  The sky has turned from blue to pale grey, Eggy loops a shot lazily over the Oxford crossbar. Only twelve minutes have dissolved into the past and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow, and perhaps as many as half a dozen people join in or at least turn round to stare at the idiot making all the noise. The early pussyfooting has gone; the corner came to nought but five minutes on and Town now attack with pace and clever passes. Oxford intercept the ball, they think it’s all over, but Chuba Akpom wrestles the ball back, Jaden Philogene advances feints, turns, twists feints again and shoots, and Town lead 1-0. Wow. I can feel myself smiling so much it makes me smile some more.

So how many more can we score? Eggy crosses to the far post, Davis heads the ball back and Philogene swipes the ball narrowly over the angle of post and bar from 12 metres or so.  As a brief side-show Oxford’s Siriki Dembele, who has replaced the poorly spelt and now injured Tyler Goodrham, looks to shadow box Town’s Darnell Furlong and is booked for his trouble by referee Mr Finnie, another one of those small, very neat men who seem attracted to officiating.

A half an hour has disappeared into the past and strangely Oxford have a corner. “Yellows, Yellows, Yellows” chant the Oxonians up in the corner of the Cobbold Stand, and some big bloke wearing a yellow shirt heads high over the Town goal.  Then Oxford equalise.  A poorly protected left flank, an unhindered run to the penalty area, an exchange of passes and someone with the unlikely surname of Lankshear scores.   We have ten minutes to live until half-time.  In the fifth of those minutes Furlong surges into the Oxford penalty area, squares from the by-line and Chuba Akpom diverts the ball into the Oxford net, well wide of goalkeeper Jamie Cumming. Town lead 2-1 and the world’s natural order is restored.

Forty-two minutes lost to the past and Nunez shoots, Town have another corner. “Come On You Blues” I bawl, but the Oxford goalkeeper gathers.  “Down with the Norwich, You’re going down with the Norwich” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of ‘Guantanamerra’, although stupidly keen to imagine university-based puns I like to think they are singing “sent down with the Norwich, you’re being sent down with the Norwich”.   “Two-one and you still don’t sing” is the Oxonians momentarily inaccurate but understandable response, followed up with an ironic “Your support is fucking shit” from a group of fans who would need to have bought two seats each to fill their allotted space in the Cobbold Stand.  Jaden Philogene shoots wide and three minutes are stolen from the future never to be returned, and are added to the first half.

With the half-time hiatus I vent more spent Suffolk Pride and then head for Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison at the front of the stand, stopping briefly to speak with Dave the steward on the way.   I tell Harrison to check out a music artiste called Spencer Cullum, whilst Ray tells me he won’t be at the next match because he is off on a cruise in the Caribbean; I hope it’s not on a Venezuelan fishing boat.

The football resumes at five past four as Portman Road is briefly enveloped in a radiant, pink sky like the backwash to an unexpected mid-afternoon aurora borealis.  Two more Town corners ensue and along with Oxford’s Brown, Chuba Akpom’s name is entered, no doubt very neatly into Mr Finnie’s notebook when his ire is stoked by the rough conduct of the Oxford defender. “Hot Sausage Company” read the Sir Bobby Robson stand illuminations.  As the violence continues, Helik scythes down Akpom and the home crowd jeer, singing “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you” to the tune of “Cwm Rhondda”, boastful of their ignorance of the Polish international defender.  Mr Finnie again licks the end of his pencil and re-opens his notebook.  “We forgot that you were here” sing the Oxonians, again ironically because judging by the empty seats in the away enclosure many of them genuinely aren’t here, although at £38 a ticket I can’t say I blame them. Whatever happened to ‘twenty’s plenty’?

Almost two-thirds of our afternoon’s ‘football experience’ has been experienced. Leif Davis crosses low, Nunez shoots, Cumming saves and Town have another corner.  Fiona and Pat from Clacton discuss Pat’s handbag.  Pat says she won’t get the masturbating monkey lucky charm out today, it’s too cold; anyway, we’re still winning. A Town free-kick is awarded; Nunez curls the ball over the defensive wall towards the top corner of the goal, but Cumming claws the ball away spectacularly.

It’s time for substitutions and Eggy and Nunez leave, making way for Wes Burns and Jack Clarke.  “Burns, Burns will tear you apart, again” predict the Sir Bobby Robson standers with help from Joy Division.  There is another Town corner and we are thanked for our incredible support by the excitable young stadium announcer, who tells us that we number 28,199.  Will Vaulks completes the neat list of Oxford names in Mr Finnie’s notebook, yet more substitutions are made and yet another Town corner and even an Oxford corner come and go.  At last, another additional three minutes are drawn from the infinite bank of time and then Town are up to second place in the league table because Middlesbrough have lost; vanquished Oxford face the ignominy of being one place below Norwich City who have beaten some Park Rangers belonging to the Queen.

The new year has begun, Ipswich Town have played and I’m still feeling optimistic.  As Pat from Clacton told me earlier, it’s the Chinese year of the horse, which it was in 1978 when Town won the FA Cup and in 1990, 2002 and 2014 when they didn’t.

Ipswich Town 3 Sheffield Wednesday 1

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The words Sheffield and Wednesday when added together conjure several associations in my mind, from the betting scandal of the early 1960’s when three Wednesday players apparently ‘threw’ the game in a 2-0 defeat to Ipswich at Portman Road, to speeding through the streets of Sheffield on a double-decker bus with police outriders after a match during the miners’ strike in 1984 , to dislike because from May 1986 to May 1995 Town never managed to beat them, to a Sheffield Wednesday supporter I met on a course when I worked for Royal Mail, whose idea of conversation was to speculate on whether the barmaid in the pub we were in at the time was wearing a suspender belt and stockings; for the record, he was convinced she was, but this was never confirmed.

Today, Ipswich Town will play Sheffield Wednesday, and I am cautiously optimistic that some degree of Karma will apply, to balance out all those bad associations from the past. After a dull start to the day, it has brightened up and as I wait for the train to Ipswich, I find myself in one of those clear, cold days that characterise winter in Suffolk.  The station platform is well populated and tell-tale club crests on articles of clothing suggest many people are heading for the match just like me.  The train is on time and Gary joins me at the first station stop. We talk of the African Cup of Nations and Gary tells me that he was once at a barbecue with a player who is in the Tanzanian squad and who has two aunts with exactly the same names.  As ever, our journey is crowned by the sighting of a polar bear as the train descends Wherstead into Ipswich; it’s the slightly grubby looking one and for a few moments we wonder if it’s possible to wash and clean a polar bear

Ipswich is busy with football fans and there’s entertainment too as everyone stops to watch a drunken Sheffield Wednesday fan outside the Station Hotel.  Sadly, he’s not a cheery drunk but a stroppy one.  When the traffic lights change Gary and I cross the junction outside the station diagonally, pretending we are in Tokyo where such pedestrian crossings are, I believe common.  I ask Gary if he’s ever thought of going on holiday to Japan; he has but understands it’s expensive and of course air travel for mere pleasure is to be discouraged because of its impact on the environment.   A man walking alongside us asks what we think the score will be today.  With reprehensible pessimism Gary predicts a “boring one-all draw” or worse still a “frustrating one-nil defeat”.  I have no idea what the score will be but retain my optimism by not giving it any thought.   We speed past the programme sellers whose booths look like they might also stock ice creams, and I wonder if the programme price increase to £4 this season has led to much of a reduction in sales. I hope it has because they’re overly glossy and mostly very uninteresting.

I get to the door of ‘the Arb’ first and burst in, eager for a drink.  There are people stood two-deep at the bar but one of them is Mick, who says it’s his turn to buy the round, but then he always does.  He either has a bad memory or is just naturally generous.  But today I convince Mick it’s my turn to buy, although I leave him to order his own felafel Scotch egg.  With a pint each of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary (£14 something with Camra discount) we retire to the beer garden and find seats in the shelter that backs onto High Street.  Unexpectedly, Mick gives me a Christmas card but explains that he had effectively inherited some, so thought he’d use them.  Along with the card Mick gives me a ‘present’ (unwrapped), which is a programme from Ray Crawford’s testimonial featuring games between Ipswich Town ‘past’ and ‘future’ and the then current Ipswich team and Wolverhampton Wanderers. The programme is a reminder of how plain and straightforward, or perhaps boring things used to be, even as recently as 1969.

Gary buys another round of drinks, which this time comprises just a half a pint of Suffolk Pride for Mick, and by way of a change a pint of Mighty Oak Solstice Porter for me, because tomorrow is the Winter Solstice and being a sucker for megaliths and the like  I like to remember the true meaning of Christmas.  The porter is very tasty indeed but does nothing to take my mind off the rapid emptying out of the beer garden and it’s not yet half past two.   It’s gone twenty to three when we leave for Portman Road and after a downhill stroll, we eventually part ways within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, if only its ears worked. We are agreed that the next game is at home to Oxford United on New Year’s Day, and that I shall try and acquire three tickets together for the FA Cup tie versus Blackpool.

As has been the case for the past few games there are no queues at the turnstile to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and after quick scan for weaponry by a smiling, bearded man of probable south Asian heritage I step through turnstile 61; I would have used the noted turnstile 62 but there was a bunch of late middle-aged blokes milling around it who didn’t  seem to know what they were doing and I couldn’t be bothered to say “excuse me”.  Moments later, standing in front of the stainless steel urinals decanting  spent Suffolk Pride ( I don’t think the Solstice Porter can have made its way through yet) I hear the excitable young stadium announcer announcing the teams and by the time I’m shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat I only get to shout  “O’Shea” in the manner of a Frenchman at the Stade des Alpes in Grenoble or Stade Saint-Symphorien in Metz.   Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is of course here too but not his son Elwood or the man from Stowmarket (Paul).   The excitable young stadium announcer is today wearing a Santa hat as he presumably gets even more excited at the prospect of Christmas.

When the game begins, it is Sheffield Wednesday who get first go with the ball which they boot in the general direction of St Matthew’s Baths and the Broomhill Lido whilst sporting a necessary change kit of all-white, which presumably to the chagrin of Wednesday supporters makes them look like a bit like Leeds United.  It’s no wonder their team is bottom of the league table with minus nine points, although the travelling supporters are making the best of a bad job and chant “Wednesday ‘til I die” impressively, even though these lyrics might tragically imply to some that they haven’t got long left and are going to miss Christmas.    Ipswich are naturally wearing our signature blue shirts and white shorts.

Early exchanges are dominated by Fiona’s observation that the Wednesday goalie is very small. “He looks about ten” she says, a little unkindly but it is true he is not the usual giant you expect to see in goal and Wikipedia tells us he is a mere 1.86 metres tall, which is shorter than me. In passing I mention Laurie Sivell, who was probably smaller than most modern 14-year-olds.  Ipswich win an early corner, and I notice that the Wednesday shirts carry the words “Mr Vegas” on the front and I assume this is not some sort of self-promotion by comic actor and professional ‘funny person’ Johnny Vegas, but rather an attempt to part people from their money by gambling with it.  “Football in a library” chant the Wednesday fans to show that they’re no more original than the fans of all other clubs.

Five minutes wither away and George Hirst heads a Jaden Philogene cross over the top of the Wednesday goal, and I realise that Pat from Clacton is wearing a set of festive antlers whilst Fiona has donned a blue and white Santa hat, as has ever-present Phil. Meanwhile the Wednesday fans sing “I love you Wednesday” to the tune of “Can’t take my eyes off you”, which was originally recorded 1967 by Frankie Valli.  Nine minutes have left us forever and George Hirst retires early for Christmas due to a mystery injury, to be replaced by Ivan Azon and that’s as exciting as the first fifteen minutes get.  The home crowd is characteristically quiet, taciturn even, waiting to be entertained before deigning to offer vocal encouragement.   Wednesday win a corner which is headed very wide.  “Dogshit innit?” says the bloke next to me using the kind of symbolism which in the circumstances Charles Beaudelaire himself might have failed not to use.   Then Dara O’Shea carelessly loses the ball to the Wednesday number nine who is identified on the scoreboard as J Lowe and therefore not to be confused with either J Lo or as Fiona says, John Lowe the darts player.  Lowe’s shot goes past Christian Walton but is spectacularly cleared by a tumbling, falling, reversing Cedric Kipre.

“Shall we sing a song for you?” enquire the Wednesday fans clearly feeling uneasy about the awkward silences but then Ivan Azon stoops to head wide, almost reminding us of what could be before a rare cogent moment has Jens Cajuste breaking forward into the penalty area, shooting at tiny Pierce Charles and Nunez heading unnecessarily wide. A third of the match is consigned to mostly forgettable history but suddenly a less forgettable moment has Philogene kicking overhead against a goal post and Town winning a corner from which Kipre heads against the underside of the cross bar and into the net.

Town lead 1-0 and I’m feeling grateful as Wednesday win a corner and at the front of the stand an obese woman makes her way back to her seat with a bottle of Coke, a packet of crisps and a bar of chocolate.  It’s not quite twenty to four in the afternoon.  Three minutes of added on time are added on and then it’s time to dispose of the remaining spent Suffolk Pride and the first of the spent Solstice Porter. Relieved, I head to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison and also Dave the steward, who I used to work with at Royal Mail, but who was not on the course with me and the Sheffield Wednesday supporter with the interest in barmaids’ hosiery.

The football resumes at five minutes past four and Pat from Clacton is soon telling me about her new rimless glasses before referee Mr Webb (‘Spider’ to his mates) unveils his yellow card for the first time when Wednesday’s Liam Cooper fouls Ivan Azon.   A minute’s applause follows seven minutes into the half in memory of supporter who died this week and two minutes later Cedric Kipre slashes a shot wide when given his earlier success he might have considered a header, even though the ball was on the ground. The sun has now long set and darkness looms behind each stand.

Town look a bit better this half, which shouldn’t be too difficult, and a sweeping move from defence into attack with a striding run from Cajuste and a perfect pass from Nunez allows Philogene to belt the ball past little Pierce Charles who as well as being small for a goalkeeper sounds like his name is back to front.   Town lead 2-0 and there are still thirty minutes left to play. “No points today, Ole, Ole, Ole” I think I hear the Wednesday fans sing and a couple of substitutions for Wednesday result in the appearance of one George Brown, a player who I can only hope joins Fulham to play alongside Harry Wilson in a tribute to the Labour governments of the 1960’s.

Today’s attendance is announced as 28,860 and the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for “our incredible support” and I wonder if he’s being sarcastic; personally, I’ve just hollered “Come on you Blues” a few times before two first half corners.  A minute later and from a Wednesday corner the ball fortuitously drops to the ground right in front of Cooper, who only has to swing his leg at it to send it low into the far corner of the Town goal and Wednesday have an unexpected goal.  Hope appears for Wednesday who chuck in a few awkward crosses and George Brown waves his arms about to encourage the away supporters. 

But with fifteen minutes left of normal time Town make three substitutions, replacing Cajuste with Taylor, and Eggy and Philogene with McAteer and Clarke, and Town look likely to score again, which with four minutes left they do as Clarke runs at goal, nips around a bumbling defender and flicks and rolls the ball past little Pierce Charles. 

The game looks won and Town nearly score two more but leave them in the pump for when they might really need them.  The Wednesday supporters, as supportive as they have been have seemingly run out of tunes and have even bored themselves with talk of football in libraries.   A staggering nine minutes of added on time are added on for assorted injuries, and stoppages to give remedial coaching.  At last, with the five o’clock chimes of an imaginary clock ringing in my ears the final whistle is blown, and Town are up to third in the league table.  There is applause, probably partly out of relief, and much of the crowd quickly melts away into the night exchanging seasonal good wishes as they go and talk of seeing everyone again in the new year.  The bloke next to me and the bloke next to him shake my hand; the bloke behind me says he reads this blog and my future memories of Sheffield Wednesday take a turn for the better.

Ipswich Town 1 Stoke City 0

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Matches against Stoke City always remind me of a bloke I knew when I was at university in the late 1970’s called Tony.  Tony was from Wolverhampton and had a thick West Midlands accent but supported Stoke City, or “Stowke” as his accent forced him to call them.  Tony, however, was what many people might term “a bit of an oik” and as well liking to boast that he had “shagged the Chief Constable’s daughter”, (Staffordshire’s or West Midlands’ I assumed), he also once defecated into a milk bottle and regularly claimed that he only went to Stoke City matches for the violence, or “vorlence” as his accent called it.  Oddly, however, he was also a really nice bloke.

Also a really nice bloke is my friend Gary, although he has no discernible accent and as far as I know has never been carnally involved with any relative of a senior police officer.   I must remember to ask him one day what he does with his empty milk bottles.    Gary joins me on the train to Ipswich, which a text from Greater Anglia has told me is running a little late this evening.  Unperturbed, we talk of the World Cup and Gary tells me how the city of Seattle, which has been nominated as one of the venues for World Cup matches, had decided to combine one of its match days with a Gay Pride Day.  The Gay Pride Day was chosen before the World Cup draw took place and when the draw was made last Friday Seattle discovered that on its Gay Pride Day it would be hosting Iran versus Egypt.  I laugh out loud as does the woman opposite us.

We arrive in Ipswich more than two hours before kick-off, but the floodlights of Portman Road are already shining, and Ipswich is aglow with electric light from lamp posts, buses, traffic signs, headlights and windows.  The sky is a deepening dark blue and the tarmac of the roads shiny black. The red and white stripes of a Stoke City shirt peak out from beneath a jumper. Gary and I hasten as best we can to ‘the Arb’, which isn’t quite as busy as usual, probably because it is mid-week.  First to the bar, I buy a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and, impressed by Mick’s lunchtime snack on Saturday order a Falafel Scotch egg for myself, before we retire to the beer garden to drink, eat and wait for Mick.

Mick arrives just as Gary returns from the bar with more Lager43 and more Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride; at my suggestion he also has a pint of Suffolk Pride for the previously imminent Mick.   We talk of relatives’ funerals, Gary’s grandfather, who was a member of the Communist Party, and I tell of how I was watching Toulouse v Strasbourg on tv at the weekend and how when Strasbourg replaced Diego Moreira with substitute Martial Godo I remarked that I had been waiting for him to come on.  In fact, however, I had been waiting for some club or other to sign a player called Godot, or Godo as it turned out, so I could make that joke.

The beer garden begins to empty out as other drinkers fold and head for Portman Road, but like the carefree over-sixties that we are Mick gets another round in; rather curiously a gin and tonic for Gary this time, but I have another pint of Suffolk Pride and  Mick, eager for alcohol has a pint of Leffe.  Gary then tells us about a friend of his who went to Ireland and wanted to buy a newspaper in a village shop, but all the newspapers were dated the day before.   When he asked if they had any of today’s newspapers, the shopkeeper told him yes, but he’ll need to come back tomorrow.   We continue to laugh and drink and enjoy living before I suddenly notice that it’s twenty-six minutes past seven and we probably ought to go.

Once again, down in Portman Road where I can already hear the excitable young stadium announcer excitedly announcing the Town team, there are no queues at the entrances to the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and I breeze through, throwing my aeroplane pose as I’m cleared of carrying any weapons by a man in dark clothing and a hi-vis jacket with a hand-held scanner.  Another similarly attired man tries to scan me again as I reach the famous turnstile 62 but rather than tell him I’ve already been scanned I just say “Oooh, I’m gonna be scanned twice”, which perhaps oddly, perhaps not, seems enough to deter him.

After venting spent Suffolk Pride, I arrive in the strangely sulphurous smelling stand to edge past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat just as everyone bursts into respectful, appreciative applause for former Town goalkeeper David Best, who has died this week at the age of eighty-two.  I don’t know why, but I always think of David Best in the context of the night Town beat Real Madrid, but also wearing a red goalkeeper’s jersey, flying horizontally across the face of the goal in front of the North Stand to perfectly catch a shot and, when he spoke to me as he autographed my Texaco Cup final programme, having the sort of Dorset accent that I imagined belonged in the fictional creations of Thomas Hardy . Incidentally, David Best was for a while manager of Dorchester Town (Casterbridge) where Hardy had lived.

There’s barely time after the minute’s applause for Fiona and ever-present Phil who never misses a game to each hand me a Christmas card before the match begins.  It’s Stoke City who get first go with the ball, which they propel in the general direction of the Brewer’s Arms on Orford Street and the former Spiritualist church on Anglesea Road, whilst sporting their handsome traditional kit of red and white striped shirts and white shorts.   I will later notice however that the red stripes are all a bit wavy as if the kit designer had spent a long lunch hour in the Brewer’s Arms or was trying to convey the sort of weird ghostly aura normally accompanied by the made-up word “Woo-oooh”.  Happily, Town are in their standard blue and white and perhaps as a direct result of this soon have possession of the ball, are advancing down the left, exchanging a couple of passes and Jaden Philogene is cutting inside at the edge of the penalty area to curl the ball inside the far post of the Stoke City goal.  Town lead one-nil, and the game is barely two minutes old.  Every match should be like this I tell Fiona.

Two minutes later however, and Stoke have a corner, and three minutes after that their supporters are singing “Football in a library” and then “Your support is fucking shit” as they embark on a desperate attempt to make us feel bad about ourselves.  Stoke also start to dominate possession.  Behind me a bloke has his scarf wrapped over the top his head. “Dress rehearsal for your nativity play?” asks the bloke next to him.  Sixteen more minutes of winning one-nil elapse and Town dismantle the Stoke City defence again, only for Ivor Azon to shoot high and wide from a metre or so inside the penalty area with Stoke defenders scattered like shards of broken pottery.  The bloke behind me thinks he sees Nunez chuckling.

“One of you singing, there’s only one of you singing” chant the Stoke fans to an oblivious audience, and Jack Taylor generously allows time for the whole Stoke team to receive remedial coaching on the touchline as he receives treatment from a Town physio for some ailment or other.  “Who’s the Stoke manager?” asks Fiona, but I tell her I don’t know and all Fiona can come up with is Tony Pulis.  Later on, I will remember the name Tony Waddington, but Wikipedia will tell me he died in 1994.

The game re-starts and Stoke still keep the ball most of the time, but without ever looking like scoring.  I realise I recognise Stoke’s Nzonzi, having seen him play previously on the telly for Rennes and then I realise he even came on as a substitute for France in the 2018 World Cup final.  “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers out of the blue, perhaps to celebrate the twenty-sixth minute but possibly in an attempt to encourage Town to keep possession of the ball a bit more often.  The chanting of “Come-On Ipswich”, a few minutes later, which sounds more like pleading, betrays our anxiety despite still being a goal ahead.  But gradually the chanting and pleading starts to work, and Town dominate the final ten minutes of the half, even inspiring more confident sounding but boringly repetitive chants of “Blue Army”, whilst Nunez and Philogene both shoot on target but at the Stoke goalkeeper, and Nunez also shoots wide.   

Three minutes of added on time are added on and then it’s time to leak more spent Suffolk Pride before speaking with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison.  When asked by Ray for my thoughts on the game so far, I tell him that despite seemingly never having the ball, Ipswich look like the only team likely to score.  The football comes back at nine minutes to nine and Town soon have their first corner of the game in what will become a better half for the Town in which Stoke look even less like scoring than they did in the first half; although Pat from Clacton woke up with a blood-shot left eye this morning and so even if we did score again, it would be a bit blurry to her. 

Five minutes pass and it’s about now that I notice that the stripes on the Stoke shirts are not straight but a bit wiggly, and not for the first time when watching a team in red and white stripes I am reminded of Signal toothpaste.  Signal co-incidentally and appropriately, given tonight’s opponents, also being the name of the fictional local newspaper in Arnold Bennett’s passingly football-related, 1910, Potteries located novel ‘The Card’.  More Town corners ensue.  “Your support is fucking shit” opine the travelling “Stokies” as they ironically become the first set of away fans in well over two years to fail to fill at least half of the away section.  Not surprisingly, their chants are greeted with disinterested silence, which is followed later by confirmation that tonight’s attendance is a meagre 27,008, the lowest of the season so far.   The drop in attendance and therefore income is large enough to mean that at least one player won’t be getting paid this week.

Only fifteen minutes of normal time remain by now and later than usual Keiran McKenna dives into the world of multiple substitutions as Eggy, Azon and Taylor go for a sit down and Clarke, Cajuste and Akpom get to run around for a bit. Ten minutes left and Azor Matusiwa becomes the first player to be booked tonight by the referee, Mr Adam Herczeg, who is a sucker for giving a free-kick when anyone falls over. Meanwhile, Pat from Clacton won’t be having a baked potato when she gets in tonight, but she will have something cheesy from Marks & Spencer with a latte and she won’t be go to bed until midnight.  As for me, I wish my bed was just the other side of my front door so I could step straight into it when I get indoors.

The final ten minutes ebbs and flows a bit more than has been the pattern up to now but it’s Ipswich who should score and don’t.  Behind me a bloke complains that if he’d only known there would be no more goals he could have gone home after two minutes.   The game soon ends in the second and final minute of the unexpectedly brief period of added on time following a Stoke City corner, which doubtless has legions of pessimistic Ipswich fans anticipating going home disappointed.  With the final whistle, Pat from Clacton and Fiona disappear like water vapour, although Fiona does turn to say good-bye, which water vapour never does.  I applaud briefly and then, conscious that I have perhaps nine minutes in which to catch my train make a bolt for the exits.

It’s been a decent game again tonight, mainly because Ipswich have won again, but despite Stoke dominating possession by a reported 57% to 43%, Town have apparently had twice as many shots at goal (16) and six times as many shots on target.   Statistics are however famously boring and do nothing for one’s personal safety.  On my way back to the railway station therefore I instead keep a look out for any angry looking Stoke fans brandishing milk bottles.