Ipswich Town 1 Leicester 1

March 8, 2026March 8, 2026 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It has been a gloriously dank, miserable, grey, Spring morning in which I have put some vegetable peelings, apple cores and fruit skins in the wormery at the end of the garden, re-filled the bird feeders in the front garden and annoyed my wife Paulene by somehow implying that I didn’t want her in the kitchen watching Aussie Rules footie whilst I was making breakfast. It is now still gloriously dank, miserable, and grey as I walk to the railway station and my thoughts turn to Ipswich Town versus Leicester City and by association King Richard the third, Joe Orton, the Engineering Faculty building at Leicester university and the popular beat combo Kasabian.

The railway station is busy with wannabe travellers, and a London bound train squeaks to a halt by the opposite platform pretty much as I reach the anointed spot on the Ipswich bound platform where I will wait. I don’t squeak like the London bound train but instead speak to a fellow Town supporter who I regularly see near this point on the platform and who has made it into this blog before. The train is three minutes late and when it arrives the carriage I board is populated at one end by loud, lairy youths unable to converse without shouting at each other; they need to discover narcotics.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and is with a man called Chris, who I used to travel to away matches with about twenty-five years ago and who also used to watch Wivenhoe Town. Chris is a laughing, smiling, happy man and he is keen to look out for polar bears as we near Ipswich. We see one which is swimming in one of the pools, although we don’t see a towel laid out at the poolside. Arriving in Ipswich, the town is like a black and white postcard of itself, Leicester City fans are singing in the beer garden of the Station Hotel and we head for the Arb up Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street. Seizing hold of the narrative Gary tells me that he is going to be first through the door of the Arb today and indeed he is as I stand back and accede to his wish. Gary’s progress to the bar is unhindered and he buys a pint Lager 43 for himself and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and is about to pay when Mick arrives and so Gary buys him a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride too. We repair to the beer garden where many of the seats are unpleasantly damp, so fearful of the seats of our trousers becoming moist we stand and drink and talk.

Our conversation today lurches between the ownership of the Estrella brewery, my boycotting of American products, today’s team, what food Mick has ordered (Falafel Scotch egg), the lunacy of Christian nationalists, and religion. Luckily, the arrival of Mick’s food coincides with a table with dry seating becoming available in the shelter that backs onto High Street and we move there as I fetch another pint of Suffolk Pride and another pint of Lager 43 plus a single Jameson whisky for Mick (£14 something with Camra discount). We are of course the last to leave when we depart for Portman Road shortly before twenty to three.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand the queues to be searched for weaponry and scrap metal vary between short and non-existent today and I am soon through the checkpoint and waiting behind three people at illustrious turnstile 62, but the person at the head of the queue is either incompetent or trying to use a library card to gain access, and being impatient I switch to turnstile 61, which is almost as illustrious as its neighbour, but not quite. I am comfortably minus some spent Suffolk Pride by the time I take my seat next to Fiona, next but one to Pat from Clacton, and a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood. The man from Stowmarket (Paul) is still convalescing after the operation on his left eye. I must have arrived early to day because I am here in time to bellow the surnames of players like a Frenchman at the Stade de Francis Le Ble in Brest as the excitable young announcer reads out Town team.

After the usual rendition of a verse of Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown the game begins and Ipswich get first go with the ball, which they generally aim towards the goal nearest me and my fellow ultras. Town are of course in our signature blue and white whilst Leicester wear somewhat effete away strip of pale pink shirts with black shorts.

After a few all too brief moments of Town possession, Leicester take over rather and after only five minutes have won a corner. Happily, the Leicester corner is as useless as most corners are, but Town keep giving the ball away in our own half and it’s fortunate that Leicester’s players seem a bit short-sighted and haven’t quite worked out where the goal is. Leicester’s early dominance has Town supporters in an even more introspective, withdrawn mood than usual and only seven minutes are lost to history before the visiting supporters are chanting “Football in a library, du-du-du”. Meanwhile, I can’t help thinking that the Leicester players names Winks and Skipp sound like they’re made-up or are just nicknames and not real names at all. “Winks, didn’t he used to play for Tottenham?” asks Pat from Clacton. Fiona and I don’t know but I add that he can’t be much good if even Tottenham didn’t want him.

As a result of a catalogue of dubious free-kicks our conversation turns to the referee, the diminutive Mr John Busby, who we all agree is awful. “We’ve had him before, do you remember?” asks Pat from Clacton. The bloke next to me tells me that Mr Busby was referee for the Preston North End game, which ended in a frustrating one-all draw, although he did award Town a very late penalty. But then Mr Busby books Leicester’s Luke Thomas and I suggest to Fiona that perhaps Mr Busby isn’t so bad after all – but of course he is.

It has taken until the twenty-first minute for Town to win a corner, and eight minutes later they win another, but not before Leicester win one too. From the second Town corner Dara O’Shea heads narrowly wide at the far post when it looked as simple to score. “Come On You Blues” a few of us chanted, and it nearly worked. The thirty second minute is now here, O’Shea shoots over the Leicester cross bar and I notice that the seat in front of Fiona is occupied today by a man with no hair and the floodlights are reflecting off his shiny bald pate; visually he reminds me of the Catherine Tate character Derek, who would exclaim “How very dare you” whenever anyone inferred from his extreme campness that he was gay. “Blue Army, Blue Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers as Town begin to dominate.

Perhaps sensing Town’s improvement Mr Busby books Wes Burns before Christian Walton easily gathers a shot aimed straight at him. On the touchline Kieran McKenna looks a little more tense than usual and his clothes look a bit crumpled too, like he might have slept in his car. Kieran might dress all in black, but Diego Simeone at Atletico Madrid and Habib Beye at Marseille have the edge on him sartorially.

Back on the pitch Mr Busby just can’t help awarding free kicks whenever anyone falls over and from the latest injustice a deep cross is diverted into the Town goal net courtesy of a bloke from Zambia called Patson Daka. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers. “How shit must you be, we’re winning away” chant the Leicester fans and it’s not clear if their chant is directed at Ipswich or Mr Busby. Their claim to be the EFL’s most confused fans is quickly confirmed as they chant “Who are ya? Who are ya?” when only ten minutes earlier they had been chanting “Small club in Norwich, You’re just a small club in Norwich”. They need to make their minds up about what they think they know.

The half ends with Mr Busby once again placing himself centre stage as he penalises the Leicester goalkeeper for holding onto the ball for too long, something for which I don’t’ think I’ve seen a free kick awarded this century. Fiona has to explain to me that the punishment for this is now a corner kick and by the time she’s done this I’ve missed the chance to bawl “Come On You Blues” and as a result of this Town don’t score, again. A minute of added time is taken from all our futures to make up for the inadequacy of the past, but it makes no difference and with half-time Mr Busby is deservedly booed into the tunnel by those who haven’t already made a dash for the khazi.

I spend my half-time as usual in conversation with Dave the steward and Ray, but either time passes quickly, or half-time is briefer than usual as I don’t get time to vent more obsolete Suffolk Pride and I worry slightly that this could make the end of the game more tense than usual, especially if there is much added-on time. On the way back to my seat, I speak with ever-present Phil who never misses a game. Phil it seems is full of woe and lists several portents of doom such as his not having stood up until the game kicked-off, Elwood having never seen Leicester City lose and Town not yet having won a match this season having gone a goal behind. I tell him it’ll be alright because I’m wearing a new T-shirt today, but he interprets that as a portent of doom too.

The football resumes at three minutes past four and from the start Town are on top, never again do they allow Leicester to dominate possession or look in any way like the better team, which of course they’re not. Within two minutes it looks from where I’m sat that Town have missed an open goal and Leicester will from now on live very dangerously until nearly five minutes to five. Four minutes later and Mr Busby takes the name of Leicester’s number fourteen, which turns out to be Bobby Decordova-Reid. I notice and remark to Fiona that the little bald bloke who was sat in front of her hasn’t returned for the second half, how very dare he?

Fifty-seven minutes have been spent watching football and Town win another corner. Nunez is yet another player to have his name collected by little Mr Busby. An hour has passed and although Town are playing well just as they are, Keiran McKenna replaces Dan Neil with Jack Clarke because he cannot not make a substitution with an hour gone. Best of all however, the excitable young stadium announcer barks out the name “Jack Clarke” in the way that Duff-Man announces his own name in The Simpsons, and merely says Dan Neil like he might say “yes please” if asked if he wants milk in his tea.

The second half has now developed into a litany of Town crosses, Town corners, occasional Town penalty appeals, far post headers from Dara O’Shea, blocked and missed shots and hurried Leicester clearances. The home crowd are unusually supportive of the team, the inept decision-making of Mr Busby helping us all unite against a common enemy. As the sixty-ninth minute edges closer Pat from Clacton ponders whether to release “Monkey” the lucky charm from her handbag. She doesn’t and as it turns out she doesn’t need to as in the seventy sixth minutes Eggy lashes the ball into the Leicester net with aplomb at the end of a bout of bagatelle in which Ipswich get the hi-score. “Oooh, I feel ill now” says Pat from Clacton as the pressure of wanting to win usurps that of obtaining a mere equaliser.

Ten minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young announcer thanks us for our “incredible support” which today amounts to 28,704 of us. The Leicester fans had been impressively if not incredibly noisy until Ipswich scored, but now they probably feel a bit sick like Pat from Clacton. The home support has not been as impressive, but has had a better game than usual, mainly thanks to Mr Busby who now has one final trick up his sleeve, a piece of showboating and his equivalent of a couple of stepovers, a scorpion kick or a drag-back. With the game well into five minutes of added on time, a cross from the right sees Cedric Kipre moving towards its trajectory at the far post only to go sprawling in a way that is the very definition of sprawling and looking very much like he had been floored by Leicester’s Hamza Choudhury.

Within a short space of time the game is over amidst much wailing and gnashing of teeth and singing to the tune of the 1934 Rogers and Hart tune Blue Moon, “Short refs, we only get short refs”. At least I think that’s what people were singing. Mr Busby is surrounded at the final whistle by Leicester players and coaches wanting to congratulate him on how spectacularly bad he has been. When Mr Busby eventually leaves the field of play, he is invisible in the middle of a protective shield of stewards, all of whom are inevitably much taller than he is.

An inglorious end to a glorious, dank, miserable, grey Spring day.

Ipswich Town 1 Hull City 0

March 5, 2026March 5, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

When did football matches become like buses? None for a month and then three all at once. Although in rural Suffolk the pattern is slightly different being one of no buses since 1985 except for the occasional rail replacement that takes a wrong turn off the A140. But if it’s Tuesday it must be Hull City and after a day’s quiet toil in front of a couple of computer screens, and then a late afternoon plate of left over and re-heated cottage pie, I find my self once again walking along my local railway station platform to catch the train to Ipswich.

Evening sunlight abounds, illuminating faces and fascias. A boy with big ears looks up from his phone and smiles and a man in his thirties who is showing early signs of balding carries his grandmother’s handbag, although I suppose she could be his aunt, or even his wife or lover, I don’t ask. The train arrives and I sit opposite a woman who easily looks sixty and whose blond hair simply has to be dyed, like the grandmother’s was, although she had chosen an improbable ginger or auburn with grey streaks. Gary joins me at the first station stop and has been thinking, seemingly at length, about when Ipswich Town’s twice postponed game at Portsmouth will eventually be played. I tell him I had heard someone say that there is a scenario where it would be on Good Friday although we’re already scheduled to play at Southampton that day. I guess the idea is that the EFL will say “well, whilst you’re in area, you know, two birds with one stone and all that”. Gary favours Portsmouth having to waive the fixture and Ipswich being awarded a 6-0 win. Gary, sixty-seven and still a dreamer.

Ipswich is busy with buses and cars filled with people going home from work as we head up Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street to the Arb. As ever, I’m first through the door and soon invest in a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10 something with Camra discount) before we repair to the beer garden, where we sit in the dimly lit and echoey shelter backing onto High Street. Mick soon arrives, goes to fetch a pint of Suffolk Pride for himself and returns before being served “mini fish and chips”, which we know he ordered when buying his beer. I ask if it’s the fish that is mini, a Stickleback perhaps, or the portion. Strangely, the mini fish and chips is served in a ceramic cup of chips with the piece of fish balanced on top, which Mick then has to tip out onto the plate to eat. Mick explains that this sort of presentation is ‘a thing’ with chefs; “de-constructed” is the word apparently. “Daft” and “poncey” are other words that spring to mind. I laughingly tell him he should have said “what am I supposed to do with this, drink it?” to the unfortunate fellow who brought it from the kitchen.

Gary reprises his concerns about the re-scheduling of the Portsmouth match, presumably just for Mick’s benefit, before we look at the changes to tonight’s team compared to Saturday’s, and I point out that tonight is our second in three consecutive games against teams from cities which were home to notable British literary figures, namely Dylan Thomas, Philip Larkin and Joe Orton. We go on to think of people with the first name Winston but can only come up with author Winston Graham and the fictional Winston Smith, although much later at home I will recall Winston White who played for Colchester United. Gary and Mick both return to the bar for more beer and whisky and once everyone else has left for Portman Road, we do too.

On arrival at Portman Road, I am disappointed to find queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand as everyone is checked for weaponry and scrap metal. When I get to the front of the queue I am asked by the man wielding the scanner if I have something in my pocket, I reply that I don’t know and I don’t, because I don’t know which pocket he means; I have several in my large black coat. I am let through without further questions and proceed to the famous turnstile 62. By the time I’ve vented some spent Suffolk Pride and arrived at my seat the excitable young stadium announcer has already read out the team names, un-necessarily bellowed ‘Blue Army’ a couple of times and weirdly asked us all to be loud and proud. Naturally, ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here along with Pat from Clacton and Fiona but tonight we are missing ever-present Phil’s son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who has had an operation on his left eye.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they mostly aim in the direction of the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras, and of course Town are in our signature kit of blue and white. Hull City meanwhile are appropriately kicking in the direction of Wilberforce Street, named after William Wilberforce, who was born and grew up in Hull, and wear their signature gold shirts and black shorts. Doubtless because Hull City are known as the Tigers, the sleeves on their shirts rather unpleasantly feature a sort of tiger-skin print of the sort you might normally expect to see on a dress worn by the fictional Bet Lynch of Coronation Street fame, or perhaps Eartha Kitt.

The game starts slowly with Town striving to gain an early advantage but becoming mired in Hull’s dense defensive formation. “Windows”, “Doors”, “Conservatories” announce the illuminated advertisement hoardings on the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and confusing which electronic displays are meant to encourage our support for our team, and which are there to just flog us stuff I get the urge to shout the words out. Fortunately, the urge is resisted. On the pitch meanwhile, several free kicks have already been awarded causing Fiona to remark in a tone of deep resignation “Seems the referee’s not going to let anything go”.

With the tenth minute Town win a corner to please fans of decimals, and Fiona and I are a little shocked to hear a surging chant of “Come On You Blues” emanating from the far end of the ground. Naturally, we join in and for a few moments Town lay siege to the Hull penalty area until Marcelino Nunez puts a lid on our excitement as he ill-advisedly shoots high and wide of the Tigers’ goal. Five minutes elapse and Town win another corner and then another, and a more normal, somewhat weedy chant of “Come On You Blues” comes from the usual half a dozen suspects. With the eighteenth minute Jack Taylor shoots thunderously but narrowly wide eliciting an “Ooooh!” if not from everyone, then from me at least, before Fiona shudders slightly as if someone had “…walked over her grave”, the scientific explanation for which is apparently that it is a release of adrenaline, which is understandable when watching Ipswich Town.

Twenty minutes have now left us and Hull City manage a shot, but typically for a team who seldom venture outside the safety of the area just in front of their own penalty box, it is from distance. Normal service is soon resumed however as Town win a fourth corner and once again half a dozen of us do what football supporters are supposed to do on such occasions and shout encouragement to our team. The visitors in the Cobbold stand have by now noticed the reticence of the home supporters to sing and shout much, and respond with an ironic chant of “Ipswich, Ipswich, give us a song” which isn’t one I’ve heard for several years and possibly reveals either imagination or what an out of the way place Hull really is. But moments later the Hullensians are singing about football in a library, which I don’t suppose was something Philip Larkin ever considered.

The first half enters its final third and Hull City have become a fraction sharper it seems, with a few awkward looking breakaways but then Jack Taylor has another shot and quickly George Hirst has a header but they are both straight at the Hull goalkeeper Ivor Pander, whose name sounds like an admission that somewhere he keeps a black and white, bamboo-eating bear . Hull then have the cheek to win a corner before Mr Lewis gets to air his yellow card for the first time this evening when some bloke fouls young Eggy. As if sulking over mean Mr Lewis’s treatment of his team mate, another Hull player goes down injured and as a result we all lose four minutes of our lives waiting a bit longer for half-time. Pat from Clacton makes use of the time however by finding her friend John in the west stand using the zoom lens of her camera, and Fiona, Pat and I discover that we all know John and we all get texts from him every morning. The half almost ends with another corner and renewed chants of “Come On You Blues”, but then it does.

Half-time is a whirlwind of talking to Dave the steward, from whom I learn that another Dave with whom we both once worked has been dead for a couple of years, talking to Ray, bumping fists with Harrison, feeling spots of water on my face from the sprinklers on the pitch, and decanting more spent Suffolk Pride. When the football kicks off again it is ten minutes to nine.

The second half begins with Hull looking like they’ve decided they should occupy a little more of their time with the ball at their feet. Within two minutes Hull have a corner, but when Town get the ball back, it’s as if the home crowd had felt affronted and they react supportively with repeated surging chants of “Blue Army, Blue Army”, which personally speaking is my least favourite chant of all. With the half now ten minutes old, Dara O’Shea surprises everyone by striding forward and having a shot at goal; it’s much less of a surprise when the ball travels over the cross bar.

Town are sometimes criticised by their own supporters for a perceived lack of urgency, but giving the lie to that today Keiran McKenna makes his first two substitutions in the fifty-seventh minute, at least three minutes before he usually does; Wes Burns and Leif Davis replace Eggy and Jacob Greaves. By the time the substitutes would normally be coming on, Town have another corner and George Hirst is directing the ball at Ivor Pander again. A second Hull player, a huge, bearded bloke called Matt Crooks is booked for a foul on Jack Taylor, but Nunez boots the resulting free kick over Ivor Pander’s bar. Pander is then booked for time wasting and with only five minutes until the witching hour that is the sixty-ninth minute, Pat from Clacton mentions that she might have to get lucky charm ‘Monkey’ out of her handbag despite the chill in the air. Anis Mehmeti replaces Jack Taylor with twenty-two minutes of normal time remaining.

Twenty minutes now remain, Hull’s Egan fouls George Hirst and is booked, both Egan and Crooks are quickly substituted, presumably so that someone who won’t be sent off for his next bookable offence can come on and commit any ‘necessary’ fouls with impunity, or at least until he gets booked too. The excitable young stadium announcer now tells us with uncharacteristic calmness that tonight there are 26,103 of us here and he thanks us for our support but for once does not claim that it is incredible, perhaps because it is not.

A minute later no one cares what the crowd is or who’s been booked as the ball is dribbled in from the left, Leif Davis runs across the edge of the penalty area, squares the ball back to Azor Matusiwa and he gives Town the lead by what can only be described as “twatting” the ball into the top right hand corner of the Hull goal from just outside the penalty area. The relief in the home crowd is palpable, and I can only think the funereally paced rendition of “When the Town go marching in” that follows is an attempt to slow down everyone’s heart rates.

Unfortunately, the final nineteen minutes of normal time and five minutes of added on time do not see Town extend their lead to make the game safe, but nor do Hull succeed in seriously threatening to equalize. Hull nevertheless increasingly find their way into the previously mostly unchartered territory of the Town half; the Town defence however stands firm and Hull never quite manage to locate the goal. Pat from Clacton helps ease the tension by looking in her purse for the piece of paper that records her entry in the ’draw the correct score’ draw on the Clacton supporters’ bus. Pat has drawn ‘3-2’; it makes us all laugh.

Added on time melts away without much delay and with the final whistle we do the same to catch our buses and trains. It’s been a game that‘s made a virtue of patience but now somehow, I can’t wait to get home. After Ipswich lost heavily at home to Hull City back in March 2018 I concluded in this very blog that I couldn’t begrudge any city associated with William Wilberforce, Philip Larkin and Mick Ronson the odd three-nil away win. Tonight however Hull City have failed to live up to the qualities of that illustrious threesome. Ipswich Town on the other hand have comfortably beaten off all comparisons with the work of Brian Cant, June Brown and Nik Kershaw.

Ipswich Town 1 Preston North End 1

February 1, 2026February 2, 2026 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

It’s been an unexpectedly sunny morning but everywhere is still dripping with last night’s and yesterday’s rain. The morning has drifted by after an energetic start, which consisted of popping to the Co-op before breakfast to buy mushrooms, fruit and three bottles of local beer not available in the monopolising supermarket chains. In the Co-op car park, a large petrol-engined pick-up truck, of the sort I imagine American rednecks driving was parked in one of the electric vehicle charging spaces; the legend along the side of the truck in big letters read ‘Barbarian’, which seems appropriate.

Now, the train to Ipswich is on time but confusingly only half as long as it usually is, as if there is a shortage of carriages, but it doesn’t matter as there is still plenty of room on board and Gary and I can comfortably spread out over four seats when he boards at the next station stop, although it takes him time to find me because the train hadn’t stopped as far up the platform as he thought it would. As we descend through Wherstead, Gary admits to considering buying a season ticket for Jimmy’s Farm, although he’s not sure it would be as good value as one for Colchester Zoo. I spot two polar bears patrolling the fence of their enclosure, but Gary doesn’t.

Sunny Ipswich is busy with pre-football people and as we walk along Portman Road I ask Gary what colour kit he thinks Preston North End will wear today. He doesn’t know but hopes all-white. I tell him that if Wikipedia can be believed Preston is home of the tallest parish church spire in Britain, although here in puritan Ipswich I’m not sure it counts because it’s a Roman Catholic one. Somewhere near the Spiral underground car park I listen to a voicemail message from Mick which tells me he is going to be late because he got half-way to the Arb and has realised he left his season ticket at home, so has gone back to get it. Wracked with doubt and disappointment we arrive at the Arb where, as ever, I am first through the door, and following pub etiquette invest in the first round, a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and one of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10.40 with Camra discount).

Beers in hand we make for the beer garden and select metal chairs to sit on because the wooden seats are damp and the shelter backing on to High Street is fully occupied. When Mick arrives he buys another round of drinks (Estrella, two pints of Suffolk Pride and a whisky chaser) and we settle down to look at today’s team line-up, have Mick regale us with tales of his recent trip to Glasgow and what he did there on Burns (Robert not Wes) night, discuss Charles Rennie Mackintosh, how AI might be able to tells us why Celtic football club has a soft ‘C’ but Celtic culture has a hard one, Antonio Gaudi and the Sagrada Familia, pick pockets in Barcelona, Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Gehry and the Guggenheim Museums in New York and Bilbao, and the contents of the Kelvin Hall Museum.

Sometime after twenty-five to three we depart for Portman Road and part ways in what would be the shadow of Alf Ramsey’s statue if the sun shone from the North not the South, as Mick kneels down to tie his shoelace. Parting is such sweet sorrow in the knowledge that we might not meet again for a whole month before the next home fixture on 28^th February versus Swansea City. There are short queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand where the search by smiling people of mostly Asian heritage for weaponry and scrap metal continues zealously. I enter the stand through turnstile sixty-two, vent spent Suffolk Pride and join Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood and Angie, who is back in her usual seat, just as the excitable young stadium announcer tells us the names of the Town team and I am able to bawl a few surnames as if I was a Frenchman at Stade du Moustoir, Lorient or Stade de l’Abbe Deschamps, Auxerre.

When the game begins, it is Preston North End who get first go with the ball, which they kick loosely in the direction of Gaye Street and what used to be the appropriately named Revett’s motorcycle shop at 53-67 Norwich Road. Preston, or PNE (pronounced Pernee) as I usually think of them are suited in a plain, but classic kit of white shirts and navy-blue shorts, like England or Bolton Wanderers. The virgin whiteness of PNE’s white shirts is relieved only by a frankly under-sized, curvy orange logo that not very clearly reads ‘Spud Bros’ and looks like the brothers might have designed it themselves. Possible relatives of Mr Potato-Head, Spud Bros are more reliably known as purveyors of takeaway baked potatoes to the people of Lancashire, and “stars” of Tik-Tok, although according to Companies House their registered office is in Brentwood. As ever, the Town are in blue shirts and white shorts that make no reference to vegetables or hot, takeaway food.

The first few minutes of the game have me noting mentally the home debut of recent signing Anis Mehmeti , the fact that the referee Mr John Busby is a very short man who might consider wearing a busby to make him look a bit taller, and how I think today’s tactic should just be to ‘give it to Jack Clarke’. Fiona meanwhile explains her absence from the Bristol City game; although she didn’t feel unwell, she just had to keep running to the loo, so thought it advisable to stay home and watch the match on the telly. Above us, the sky has turned a heavy grey but with welcome patches of blue. With the arrival of the ninth minute Town win a corner and enough of us to form a five-a-side team chant “Come on You Blues”. Fiona asks if Mehmeti is Albanian and the PNE fans sing “Who the fuck are Blackburn Rovers?” to the tune of “John Brown’s Body”.

Six minutes later, and Town win another corner. Again, we chant “Come on you Blues”, but to no avail. Above us there is now more white cloud, and before us the green neon light from the Sir Bobby Robson stand flashes “Health care you can trust” implying rather worryingly that there is also health care that you can’t trust. If Nuffield, who claim to be the trustworthy ones know something, they should tell the rest of us. Four minutes later and Jack Clarke shoots high and wide with the admirable style and panache of a man with a hair band, and he was plainly attempting the curl into the top corner.

The half is not quite half over and a foul throw from a PNE player brings the biggest cheer or rather jeer of the afternoon so far. I decide I don’t really care about foul throws, why not let players just chuck the ball however they like? Town meanwhile have the ball most of the time but are not getting through the massed ranks of white-shirted players and not a single cross has come from the right-hand side, where Mehmeti is possibly crowding out Wes Burns. Finding entertainment where they can, Pat from Clacton and Fiona laugh as they recall occasions when Pat’s sister has fallen over, which apparently, she did today when she called at Pat’s before setting off for the football; I didn’t realise they were so cruel. The best move of the half sees Davis cross the ball, Burns head it back and Azom boot an overhead kick straight into the arms of PNE goalkeeper David Cornell, who forgettably, played for Ipswich in the 2020/21 season; if only Azom had been facing the right way and could have seen where he was kicking it,

A third Town corner turns up to tease us and more lonely chants of ‘Come on You Blues’ prove fruitless again before PNE break up field with their number nine, who expertly lifts the ball over the advancing Christian Walton and comfortably wide of the goal. It was probably the best chance of the half. Little Mr Busby meanwhile is making himself very unpopular with the majority of people in Portman Road by only giving free kicks to PNE, and his efforts to atone by going back and booking PNE’s Thompson for a foul committed a minute or so earlier don’t convince anyone. Mehmeti shoots high into the side netting with great velocity and then PNE win their first corner. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” plead the home crowd staving off boredom as sunshine plays on the Cobbold Stand through gaps in the cloud. If anyone has to shield their eyes, they won’t miss much except perhaps Mr Busby squirming slightly to the choruses of “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee, shit referee, shit referee”. With the final minute of the half Town claim their fourth corner and the cries of “Come on You Blues” briefly reach audible levels before two minutes of the future are requisitioned by the fourth official to make up for moments of collective inertia since three o’clock and Town win a fifth pointless corner.

With the half-time whistle, I break ranks to vent more spent Suffolk Pride and then chat briefly to Dave the steward whilst on my way to speak with Harrison and his dad Michael down at the front of the stand. We talk of music and Harrison tells me of his liking for Paul McCartney’s first solo album ‘McCartney’ and we agree it is his best, even if some of it wasn’t considered good enough to be on the Beatles ‘White Album’.

The football resumes at four minutes past four with George Hirst unexpectedly replacing Ivan Azom before Mr Busby tries to curry favour by booking another Prestonian and the PNE manager Paul Heckingbottom, who sounds like he could be a character from the BBC tv sitcom ‘Last of the Summer Wine’. Soon afterwards PNE miss the second-best chance of the game so far as Alfie Devine shoots over the Town bar after a quick break through a sleepy looking Town defence. The smell of damp turf drifts pleasantly up my nasal passages as any remaining sunlight slips behind the West Stand.

Ten minutes of the half have been and gone and already there are desperate pleas of “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” from the home support. For a few minutes PNE dominate possession and I wonder if maybe Town could turn the tables with a quick break away of their own, but we’re never that quick. To pass the time, Town win a sixth corner and Pat from Clacton tells us that in the ‘pick the correct score’ competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus she has drawn 3-3 and 3-1. “Something had better change pretty soon then” I tell her gloomily. A third decent shot on target from PNE sees Christian Walton make a low diving save prompting chants of “P,N,E, P,N,E, P,N,E” from the inhabitants of the town most famous for its admittedly magnificent bus station and having been the first to be by-passed by a motorway.

Twenty-minutes into the second and final half and Eggy and Jack Taylor replace Wes Burns and Jens Cajuste. Within sixty-seconds, George Hirst misses what looks from the lower reaches of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand like an open goal as he heads wide. Such is our anxiety now that it is agreed that Pat from Clacton should release the masturbating monkey good luck charm from her handbag and he is passed amongst us like some sort of weird Communion cup. The blue Dodo from Mauritius follows the same ritual soon afterwards. Meanwhile, today’s attendance is announced as being 27,549 and as we are thanked for attending by the excitable young announcer, Christian Walton makes an acrobatic save to tip a fourth decent PNE shot over the cross bar for a corner kick.

Sadly, whilst corner kicks have a strong element of lucky dip about them, the odds of Town scoring from them are akin to the likelihood of winning the national lottery, whilst for other teams the odds seem more like the chances of winning a game of whist. This being the case, an outstretched leg and a rebound and then a close range scuffed shot are enough to ensure PNE take the lead with eighteen minutes of the originally allotted ninety minutes remaining. The scorer is number nineteen Lewis Gibson, who bizarrely celebrates by cupping his hands either side of his head to make him look as if he has very big ears, and then running towards the PNE supporters. I can only think he has been rendered temporarily insane with the excitement of scoring.

As we head into the last fifteen minutes, Town continue to rack up corners, and the home crowd show growing impatience as Dara O’Shea lingers over the ball rather than surging forward like Kevin Beattie, or just booting it, like Kevin Beattie. Mehmeti shoots wide before Akpom replaces him and Johnson usurps Furlong. Another Town corner develops into an exciting head tennis match or bout of pinball. PNE make substitutions. Town take another corner and I tell myself I am still believing Town will score and go on to win. That things don’t go as they should seems in part due to Mr Busby and the Sir Bobby Robson standers chant “Shit referee, Shit referee, Shit referee” with a passion and a volume never produced when merely attempting to encourage the team.

The final ten minutes of the ninety see George Hirst’s flick over Cornell cleared off the line after a fine pass from Jack Taylor but otherwise Town possession does not translate into shots on goal or the PNE defence being torn asunder. But then, as if by magic, in the very final minute, with additional time of six minutes having just been announced, Jack Clarke runs across the PNE penalty area and is tripped by a Spaniard by the name of Pol Valentin. Mr Busby awards a penalty kick and Jack Clarke scores. Apparently, because Clarke slips when taking the kick, the PNE players try to claim the ball was kicked twice but Mr Busby has received enough abuse this afternoon to stop him entertaining specious claims like that.

Eventually, the six added minutes are played and despite multiple claims for penalties for firstly another foul on Clarke and then two or three handballs, no further goals are scored. It’s been a disappointing afternoon of course, one to file with the catalogue of similar matches from the past against the likes of Cheltenham Town, Oxford United, and Port Vale, clubs often desperately punching above their weight. We win most of them but not all and today we have been lucky to draw.

The crowd depart quickly into the dusky evening both happy and unhappy to have drawn. The late goal almost feels like a win if like me you adjusted your expectations with only time added on standing between the present and defeat. Even if the football wasn’t always the best, we’ve had our money’s worth this afternoon in terms of drama. The Wolsey Theatre would be worried about the competition, but pantomime season has finished.

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol City 0

January 22, 2026January 22, 2026 / 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

January 18, 2026January 20, 2026 / 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.