Ipswich Town 6 Sheffield Wednesday 0

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol City 2

March 7, 2024July 9, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

One of my favourite books in my embarrassingly large library of books about football is the Observer’s Book of Association Football, a handy pocket-sized publication which is invaluable whenever I want to pretend it is still the early 1970’s. The page on Bristol City begins with the sentence “Nothing they have achieved since can compare with Bristol City’s performances before the First World War”. Unfortunately, for the club from what before 1^st April 1974 was the biggest city in Gloucestershire, despite the Observer’s book of Association Football now being over fifty years old this sentence still holds true, and Bristol City have an even emptier trophy cabinet than Norwich City. Tonight, Ipswich Town play Bristol City at Portman Road, and after five consecutive victories for the Town I have been increasingly looking forward to the match, safe in the knowledge that all Bristol City’s best players must by now be at least one hundred and thirty years old. Oddly enough, had he not died in 1971, possibly at about the time when I was first enjoying the Observer’s book of Association Football, today would have been the eve of my grandfather’s one-hundred and thirty-fourth birthday, although as far as I am aware he was only ever associated with Shotley Swifts.

A week-night football match as ever makes the working day a little more bearable, and despite today otherwise being depressingly dreary and wet, my lunchtime was unexpectedly and inexplicably brightened by the discovery of the Bristol City team bus in the miserable, puddle-bound temporary car park on West End Road. I do like a team bus. I escape work at a bit after half past four and head for the club shop to buy a programme (£3.50), noticing on my way a posse of what look like nightclub bouncers at the back of the Sir Bobby Robson stand who wear coats bearing the name Achilles Security. It’s an odd choice of name for a security firm I think to myself, and one which doesn’t inspire confidence, suggesting as it does that despite being mostly strong, ultimately they also have a fatal weakness.

Worrying about how much Ipswich’s purveyors of security services know about classical mythology I leave beautiful down-town Ipswich in order to spend a bit more than an hour drinking breakfast tea and discussing current affairs with Mick, who is sadly unable to get to the match tonight because he is convalescing after an operation on his right foot, although not on his heel. Mick hopes to be fit enough to re-enter the fray of spectating from the West Stand in early April. From the cheery parlour of Mick’s Edwardian, suburban home I proceed to ‘the Arb’ to practice the all-important pre-match ritual of drinking, albeit on my own, sad and friendless as I now am. Shockingly, there is no Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride on the beer menu tonight, so it is a pint of Lacon’s Fireside (£3.96 with Camra discount) that I clutch in my cold right hand as I head for the beer garden, where I sit alone and read my programme whilst waiting for a dish of “Very French” thick-cut chips (£8.00), which come doused with bacon, brie and onion marmalade as if I and they were in Le Chambon-Feugerolles or Fontevrault-l’Abbaye. Having eaten my chips and sunk the Fireside, I again make for the bar for a pint of Moongazer Harewood porter (£3.96 with Camra discount). Returning to the beer garden I discover that the table where I had been sitting has been taken over by two women and three men who engage in witty conversation about nothing in particular and what they’ve watched on the telly. None of them seem to have watched S4C’s Sgorio, so I lose interest and return to my programme and the haven of my private thoughts.

I leave for Portman Road at about twenty to eight , politely returning my glass to the bar as I depart. It’s a cool and damp evening and at the bottom of Lady Lane a young woman stands on a tree stump like an animated statue, gazing out across the adjacent car park looking for someone who she is speaking to on her mobile phone. Hoping this is a new art installation, I break my stride for a second, but then walk on, realising I am more drawn by the lights of Portman Road than the promise of the Avant-garde. Portman Road is busy with queues for the turnstiles. Two policemen gaze down at their mobile phones, probably watching the girl on the tree stump on tik-tok when they should be watching for football hooligans and people needing to know the time. I join the queue at turnstile 62; next to me in the queue for turnstile 61 is a man I know called Kevin, who asks “Why turnstile 62?”, and then tells me he uses turnstile 61 because it was the year in which he was born.

The queue at turnstile 62 moves quickly, although not as quickly as that at turnstile 61, but before I know it I’ve drained my bladder , waved to a woman I know but whose name I can’t remember and am hearing Pat from Clacton say “Here he is” as I shuffle to my seat next to Fiona, next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game. With the game on Sky TV tonight we are treated to erupting flames and momentarily warmed faces as the teams and their acolytes stream onto the pitch. I half expect to detect the smell of singed hair and melted polyester but fortunately never do. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams and as ever almost gets half way through the team before he gets out of sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard. I shout the surnames out as they appear on the screen nevertheless, pretending to be French. If there was a lycee or Conservatoire for stadium announcers Murphy would be in the remedial class.

At last the game begins, Town having first go with the ball and mostly directing it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow fanatical ultras in our cheap, mass produced blue and white knitwear. Town are of course in blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Bristol City are also wearing their traditional signature kit of red shirts and white shorts, although their shirts are adorned with white stripes, which are too thick to be pinstripes and too thin to be real stripes. With their goalkeeper in all black with multi-coloured day-glo squiggles, there is vague 1990’s vibe to their couture.

The game seems slow to start and I miss nothing when Fiona hands me a birthday card to sign for Adam in the row in front, who turned eighteen earlier in the week. “Many Happy Returns to Portman Road” I write, confusingly. Town win an early free-kick, but it is poor and easily forgotten. Nine minutes elapse and Bristol look like they have the games first corner, provoking a single chant of “Come On You Reds” from the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand , but it’s not a corner and they’ve wasted their breath on a mere throw- in. But Portman Road is cacophonous as Blue Action in the Cobbold Stand and two sections of the Sir bobby Robson Stand all seem to be singing different songs. But all the same, it sounds better than the usual “When the Town go Marching In” dirge.

Seventeen minutes have gone forever, and all Town have done so far is have a hopeless free-kick, which I haven’t forgotten after all. From the stands, the songs sound sort of slurred as if everyone’s been in the pub all afternoon, perhaps they have. Five minutes later, Towns first shot on goal sees Sam Morsy put Keiffer Moore through, but the ball dribbles weakly to the goalkeeper. “Carrow Road is falling down” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, which in terms of wit and cutting humour is on a par with “Jingle Bells, Delia smells, The canary laid an egg”, which I actually prefer.

It’s the twenty-eighth minute and Bristol City win a corner, hastily pursued by another, and the Bristolians chant “Come On You Reds” just once, as if it’s rationed. “We’ve got super Keiran Mckenna, He knows exactly what we need” sing both ends of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, but not at the same time so it sounds like they’re singing rounds, which in fact would be really good if they could pull it off. Drizzle is falling, appearing through the beams of the floodlights like a fine cascade over the roof of the stand. Occasionally I feel a drop on my face and hands. “You’re quiet tonight” says Pat from Clacton, and she’s right. “There’s not much to make a noise about” I tell her to my shame, believing that that’s exactly when crowds should make most noise. On cue, Town win a corner and I’m able to bellow “Come On You Blues” repeatedly from the time Leif Davis begins to walk to the corner flag until his kick falls disappointingly short of the near post and is easily cleared.

There are eight minutes left of the first half. “What a save!” exclaims the bloke beside me, and a second later so does Adam in the row in front of me, meanwhile Vaclav Hladky has just caught a diving header. Just four minutes until half-time now and there is a prostrate Bristol player thumping his hand on the lush Portman Road turf, using what has become international sign language for “Pay me some attention, I’m hurt, but I’m only putting it on really”. I tell Fiona how last night I saw a David Attenborough programme about animals and sound, and how Kangaroo Rats will thump their feet on the ground to ward off snakes. Fiona hopes there aren’t any snakes on the Portman Road pitch.

The game resumes and from the far end of the ground comes an Oasis song which I can’t recall the title of, and then a chorus of “Lala, lala, lala, lalalala, la, Keiffer Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Moore” to the tune of “Baby give it up”, a song in which in the original lyrics the singer seems to be pestering a pretty girl for sex. It was a UK number one for KC and the Sunshine Band in 1983. Just when it seems the half will end, Murphy announces that there will be at least another four minutes, close to the end of which Bristol win another corner after Town carelessly give the ball away and once more there is a solitary chant of “Come on your Reds” from up in the Cobbold Stand .

The break in play is a relief, after one of the less enjoyable halves of the last two seasons. Ray and I analyse the reasons for this and decide upon Bristol’s constant harassment of Town players and a weak referee, who doesn’t know a foul when he sees one. We’re not unduly bothered though as Ipswich pretty much always seem to win in the end, whatever happens. As we chat, two boxers ponce about on the pitch and one of them reveals that he is wearing a Norwich City shirt, which is what can happen if you get punched in the head a lot. Quite a few people are hurling vitriolic abuse at the poor man, seemingly having missed the point that they’re part a pantomime for grown-ups.

Despite having welcomed half-time, I’m now pleased to have the football back, although things don’t improve much, with repetitive chants of “Red Army, Red Army” from the Stalinist Bristolians and I decide that Mr Webb is spoiling the game by allowing their teams gulag-style rough house tactics. Then, with nine minutes of the half gone things get even worse and Bristol score, as their number eleven Anis Menmeti is allowed to run at the goal until he’s close enough to easily shoot past an indecently exposed Vaclav Hladky. Worse almost follows five minutes later as Bristol’s Sam Bell strikes the Town cross bar and some other bloke in a red shirt misses an easy looking header as he follows up. Town’s response is quick and decisive with the biggest mass substitution ever seen at Portman Road as Jack Taylor, Wes Burns, Ali Al-Hamadi and Jeremy Sarmiento usurp Massimo Luongo, Omari Hutchinson, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Keiffer Moore and Marcus Harness. Bristol make a substitution too but nobody notices before Leif Davis shoots and Ali Al-Hamidi flicks the ball over the goal, line possibly with a deft touch, or possibly because he simply couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough. Town are level.

Bristol resort to even more blatant fouling as Wes Burns is steamrollered, although Mr Webb refuses to reach for his yellow card and I am reminded of the previous two season’s games against Cheltenham Town, who like Bristol City are from Gloucestershire, wear red and white and are also known as the Robins; Bristol City it seems are just a slightly upmarket version. “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand summoning the combined powers of Harry Belafonte and Boney M, which earns Town a corner before Murphy announces tonights’ attendance of 28,001 including a fairly meagre 410 Bristolians.

Things have taken a turn for the better with the the arrival of Wes Burns and Ali Al Hamadi, who are running at the Bristol defence. But just as I start thinking all is right with the world again Anis Menmeti hits the Town cross bar and only moments after Harry Clarke replaces Axel Tuanzebe, Leif Davis misjudges a punt forward allowing it to bounce up for Eric Sykes to stretch and hook over to Russ Conway who appears from the subs bench to loop a header into the top corner of the Town goal. Only thirteen minutes of normal time to go and we’re losing again.

With ten minutes of normal time left however, and following a foul on Al-Hamadi, which must have been a really bad one because Mr Webb books the perpetrator, Leif Davis crosses the free-kick to the near post and Conor Chaplin heads a second equaliser. The roar from the crowd is the sort to lift roofs and worry any passing Tyrannosaurus. Pat from Clacton begins to look forward again to her pre-bedtime snack of Marks & Spencer cheesey Combos and then Town have a penalty as Wes Burns is fouled by someone called Pring. After much debate, standing about on the penalty spot, and a booking for the Bristol goalkeeper, Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to take a very poor penalty, which the miscreant goalkeeper undeservedly saves. There’s no time to be disappointed or down-hearted however, and, because we are watching Ipswich Town, it isn’t really a surprise when three minutes later the ball goes forward, is nodded on and Leif Davis runs onto it, dodges a burly Bristolian and shoots past the Bristol goalkeeper; there’s another Bristolian on the goal line to get the final touch, although he needn’t have bothered, it was going in anyway. At last, what we had all expected, Ipswich are winning and I’ve not known celebrations like it at Portman Road since the play-off semi-final against Bolton Wanderers twenty-four years ago.

Added on time sees Town win two more corners, narrowly lose a game of bagatelle in the Bristol penalty area, have Jack Taylor hit a post with a shot, and have shots from Sarmiento, Chaplin, Burns and Al-Hamadi all blocked or saved as Town pack a game’s worth of attacking intent into just eight minutes.

The final whistle brings relief and glory and a realisation that this has been one of the most extraordinary games I’ve ever seen. Bristol City might have run Town close for eighty-four minutes tonight, but happily there’s still no reason for anyone to re-write their page in the Observers book of Association Football just yet.

Ipswich Town 3 Birmingham City 1

February 25, 2024March 17, 2024 / martinpbrooks / 4 Comments

When I was growing up in 1960’s Shotley, a village about 13 kilometres from Ipswich, our next door neighbour was from Birmingham. Barbara spoke with a somewhat whiny, nasal accent but was a very skilled seamstress and made some excellent clothes for my Action Man, including a pair of stripey pyjamas and a set of underwear, the sort of apparel I would wager most Action Men could only dream of, if indeed Action Men do dream, which I doubt. A few years later my sister left school and went to Birmingham University, and I remember visiting her there and discovering the delights of the Bull Ring and the then brand new, but now sadly demolished Birmingham Central Library, a concrete wonder in the Brutalist style; I also remember Birmingham having lots of blue and cream buses and I came home with a pocket full of bus tickets, which on the back had what looked like a squirrel stuck in a glass, the logo of Ansell’s brewery.

It was in December 1973 that I first saw Birmingham City play Ipswich Town at Portman Road; although eventually avoiding relegation by two places and five points (Norwich finished bottom), Birmingham were rubbish and Town won 3-0, and throughout the rest of the 1970’s I never saw Birmingham City do anything but lose at Portman Road. Fifty years later I’m hoping history is repeated as I watch Town play Birmingham for the thirty-sixth time. It’s a glorious, bright, sunny day as I leave my wife to an afternoon of watching people in lycra cycling around Belgium on the telly. The train is six minutes late, but once on board I am entertained by a man on his ‘phone who says “Let me call you on a normal phone, I’m on the train” and “I think it’s a bit of a crap connection”, sadly I can hear him perfectly. The phone man gets off the train at the next stop and a chubbier man sits opposite me who looks a bit like the former Poet Laureate Sir John Betjeman, but of course it can’t be him because he died in 1984. The dead poet doesn’t stay long and soon walks off down the train, perhaps seeking inspiration.

Arriving in Ipswich I find it full of policeman in baseball hats, who eye everyone suspiciously and to my mind look like what would have happened if Sir Francis Chichester had been in Z cars. I want to stop and ask a policeman if Birmingham City supporters are considered dangerous, but I don’t, I just assume they are. I carry on up Portman Road to ‘the Arb’, pausing only to buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the ice cream booths, and crossing Civic Drive I admire a snippet of Victorian Ipswich skyline which includes the town hall clock, St Mary Le Tower and a bit of the Corn Exchange. The sound of happy drinking and chatter spills from an open upstairs window and from the garden of ‘the Arb’ as I approach. Soon, with a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra discount) in hand I find a seat in the beer garden which is full of pre-match drinkers. I flick through my programme, which today has a front cover across which stride the well-proportioned features of recent signing Lewis Travis, a bearded man who I am pleased to see doesn’t have all his hair shaved off in a band around his ears and the back of his head like some unfortunate army conscript.

Another pint of Suffolk Pride later, and with everyone else in the beer garden already gone, I depart for Portman Road, politely returning my glass to the bar and thanking the bar staff as I do so. It seems it must be one of those days when the automatic turnstiles haven’t been working as they should, as Portman Road is thick with queuing spectators and so is the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, but the queue at turnstile 62 moves along at an acceptable pace and I am soon shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona and behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood, to take my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul). Between me and Paul today is a quiet man with a dome-like bald head, although facially he resembles Baldric (Tony Robinson). In no time at all the players are parading onto the pitch and Murphy is announcing the team; at first he succeeds in keeping at the same pace as the scoreboard, but as usual he races off like a whippet after a rabbit and by the time we get to Wes Burns he is hopelessly out of sync and I am left to bawl out the players surnames on my own as they appear on the scoreboard if I want to continue to pretend to be at a football match in France, which I do. Murphy finishes his awful announcement with a cringe inducing “1-2-3, Blue Army” and as he says it again I think we are all meant to join in and shout “Blue Army” after three, but needless to say I don’t. He’ll by saying “Nice to see ya, to see ya nice” next week.

With the usual communal rendition of Hey Jude out of the way, it is Ipswich, and more precisely Conor Chaplin who gets first go with the ball as the game begins under a pale blue, late winter’s afternoon sky decorated with puffs of grey cloud. Town are aiming at the goal in front of me and my fellow ultras, and as ever wear blue and white, whilst Birmingham City sport vivid, flaming red or orange shirts the colour of red-hot pokers, but adorned with black marks that make the shirt look as if it had been momentarily placed on top of a hot grill or barbecue. Their shorts are black and their socks are same colour as their shirts, but minus the decorative soot and scorch marks.

“Keep right on to the end of the road” sing the visiting Brummies, and Pat from Clacton complains that it was Town fans who used to sing that when she first came to games, I think Pat thinks the Brummies stole it, and they apparently first sang it as recently as the 1956 FA Cup semi-final, so she might be right. At the front of the stand I can see Ray’s slightly bristly pate glinting in the winter sunlight. The flags on the roof of the Cobbold Stand hang limply, but below them it’s pretty noisy. The Birmingham goalkeeper John Ruddy is roundly booed by the Town fans because he used to play for Norwich. Four minutes pass; Town earn a corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues”. Pat from Clacton joins in, but doesn’t bellow, and I’m pretty sure ever-present Phil joins in too, but as boiling cauldrons of noise go, the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand is still an ice bucket.

The corner comes to nought, but two minutes later as, in a spirit of bonhomie, the whole crowd joins in with a minute’s applause for Birmingham manager and former town captain Tony Mowbray, who is ill, Wes Burns scoots away down the Town right and pulls back a low cross which Keiffer Moore is about to sweep into the net when it is cleared off the end of his toe by a Brummie defender. Within sixty-seconds Moore nearly scores again, but shoots over when through on goal and it’s not long before he’s chalking up a third near miss with a scuff. He can’t seem to get anything quite right, but undeterred the Town fans that sing, sing “Addy, Addy , Addy – O” and then those that serenade, serenade John Ruddy with “He’s only a poor little budgie, his shirt is all tattered and torn”. Birmingham have some forays forward too, but not as good as Ipswich ‘s and the afternoon is tense and exciting.

“Come On You Blues” I yell again and again as Town win their second corner, in the eighteenth minute, and Conor Chaplin’s header is caught by Ruddy. Two minutes later Wes Burns limps off and Omari Hutchinson sprints on. Then Birmingham’s number four Marc Roberts is laying prone on the grass and the game is stopped, but referee Mr Gavin Ward walks over to him lays his hand upon his back and Roberts is back up on his feet; I speculate to Fiona as to whether Mr Ward has healing hands before Pat from Clacton, having watched Leicester City play Leeds United on the telly last night reveals that she doesn’t like the Leeds manager Daniel Farke, she thinks he looks scruffy and even dirty. I agree with her that he is a bit of a “Farke” because he managed Norwich City (twice), but secretly I quite like his German hippy vibe and suspect he’s quite nice, probably giving his players lifts home after training in his VW camper van.

A Conor Chaplin shot, another corner. Another chance to bawl “Come On You Blues”, and the first half is half over. Seven or eight minutes on and Sam Morsy shoots from 20 metres or so, Conor Chaplin is in the way, he looks offside, but diverts the ball past Ruddy and he’s not offside and he scores! Town lead 1-0. “E-i, E-i, E-i, O, Up the Football League we go” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand before progressing on to their all-time favourite Christmas ‘Number One’ and “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away”; who cares that Christmas is still another ten months away, although admittedly almost to the day.

Half-time is drawing near and Keiffer Moore’s close range header falls straight to ruddy Ruddy again, before Town win what will turn out to be their final corner of the half and I bawl “Come On You Blues” for all I’m worth. Then suddenly, there are chants from the Brummies up in the Cobbold stand of “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you?” and “I can’t read and I can’t write, but I can drive a tractor” which I don’t think I’ve heard away fans sing this century. The Brummies cap it off with a more contemporary ditty that goes “You are wankers, you are wankers, you are wankers”, and the bonhomie of the sixth minute seems to have been lost somewhere.

Two minutes of normal first half time remain and Birmingham win their first corner, and then within a minute their second. “Four additional minutes” announces Murphy and I worry how many more corners they might get, but corners are the least of our worries as following a run down the Town right by Birmingham’s Koji Myoshi, they have the cheek to equalise thanks to Jordan James. “Who are ya, who are ya ?” chant the Brummies, struggling to know how to react to their team’s moment of success, and equally confused the Sir Bobby Robson standers chant back “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you?”. I blame a diet of Coca Cola and fast food. Fortunately, Nathan Broadhead seems to know who he is and he dances himself into a shooting position, but sends the ball narrowly past the post before Mr Ward finally calls time on the first half.

After syphoning off some excess and spent Suffolk Pride, I join Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand and Ray bemoans Mr Ward’s inability to spot persistent fouling and thinks referees should be ex-players who understand what cheats footballers really are. Our conversation moves on to laughing about a former work colleague before the Town players are wandering on to the pitch again and it’s time for the football to begin once more and I must return to my seat where i still find time to eat a Nature Valley crunchy oats and honey bar.

There are fewer clouds in the sky and a seagull sits on the central flagpole on the Cobbold stand as play resumes. Massimo Luongo is booked for a harmless looking foul and then Nathan Broadhead wins a corner and Axel Tuanzebe heads the ball at Ruddy and Mr Gavin completes the Town central midfield on his bingo card as he books Sam Morsy for another innocuous, imagined infringement. Birmingham win a corner and I notice that the floodlights seem brighter as the sun sinks lower behind the West Stand. Birmingham have more attacking intent this half and an undetected Jay Stansfield shapes up to volley a cross at the Town goal, but gets it completely wrong and the ball skids harmlessly off the side of his boot; popular 1980’s chanteuse and winner of TV’s ‘Search for a Star’, Lisa Stansfield could probably have done better.

With thirty-one minutes of normal time remaining applause breaks out around the ground, I am a little mystified but Fiona tells me it is for another Town supporter who has sadly died. Two minutes later and Nathan Broad is substituted with Jeremy Sarmiento, whilst Birmingham ostentatiously make a triple substitution; one of the departing players being former Town starlet, Andre Dozzell, who I hadn’t really realised was playing, so some things don’t change. Birmingham and Town exchange corner kicks and the Sir Bobby Robson stand even chants “Come On You Blues” before repeating “Blue and White Army” at least three times a few minutes later after Jeremy Sarmiento shoots wide.

The sixty-ninth minute arrives with Town playing competently but unable to find the key to a second goal and therefore Pat from Clacton fishes the masturbating Cambodian monkey charm from her purse. She rubs his head for luck and then keeps him inside her glove, which is probably the best place for him. Murphy has now counted the crowd and tells us that there are 29,363 of us here today including 1,979 away supporters and he thanks us for our continuing support, which could of course melt away at any moment.

Back on the pitch, I become aware of Birmingham’s number 34, Ivan Sunjic, who, with his long hair and beard has something of the popular impression of the Messiah about him. Moments later , although he might look like Jesus, Mr Ward doesn’t think he plays like him and he books him for a foul on Omari Hutchinson. Fourteen minutes remain, and while Ipswich are dominating, Birmingham manage to break away and Jordan James forces Vaclav Hladky into a save to win a corner. Beams of golden sunlight stream across the upper tier of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, which is probably a bit of a bugger if you’re sat there with the sun in your eyes.

Eleven minutes remain and continuing pressure wins Town a corner. Two minute later and Omari Hutchinson plays in Axel Tuanzebe who seems to run in slow motion into the box before carefully squaring the ball for Jeremy Sarmiento to side-foot into the goal and Town lead 2-1. It’s taken twelve minutes but the masturbating monkey from Cambodia has worked his magic. “Jeremy Sarmiento, something, You Know” chant the home crowd impressively, even if I can’t work out all the words. At least I know the lyrics to “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” so, I feel like they’re doing it for me when they sing it again.

Not long left, but another goal would be nice. As I left ‘the Arb’ earlier I heard the bloke who I assume to be the owner tell someone he would put money on 3-1 today, and that would seem to be a fair reflection of the game. Pat, Fiona and I all look at one another and agree it feels like it suddenly got colder, as if s a ghostly presence has just walked up the stand, or it’s nearly five o’clock in the afternoon and it’s February. Either way, Pat is looking forward to her baked potato when she gets home, which she’s having with a Marks & Spencer prawn salad; I think she’s a creature of habit is Pat.

The last five minutes of normal time have arrived and Conor Chaplin is down hurt. Birmingham make another substitution and the sun shines on the girder across the roof of the Sir bobby Robson Stand. It’s the final minute of normal time and Conor Chaplin is replaced by Marcus Harness with, as Pat from Clacton tells us, “his lovely blue eyes”. I tell her I can see them sparkling from here, which of course I can’t. There will be six minutes of additional time Murphy tells us. I am confident that Town are more likely to score than Birmingham and am sure a statistical analysis would prove me right. There’s a throw in, a high ball forward, Keiffer Moore nods it on and Omari Hutchinson is through on goal with just Ruddy to beat, which he does. “E-i, E-i, E-i-O, Up the Football League we go” is the chant and Town are going to win 3-1. Town do win 3-1. Axel Tuanzebe is voted man of the match by some sponsor or other with a very long name, and with smiling faces Pat and Fiona make a quick exit as Mr Ward blows the final whistle. The quiet man with the dome-like head who has quietly sat next to me leaves quietly.

I linger to enjoy the post-match celebration and to applaud. The man from Stowmarket and I agree that Axel Tuanzebe has played a masterful game as if he was told exactly what to do and he has studiously and calmly followed it to the letter. It’s been a magnificent match which I have thoroughly enjoyed. It’s been tight and close, but Ipswich have always been the better side; they had ninety minutes in which to win and saw nothing wrong in using nearly all of them all to do so, well why not? As a final thought, I’m glad I don’t have my Action Man anymore, if I did I would be regretting tonight that Barbara never made him an Ipswich Town kit.

Ipswich Town 4 Rotherham United 3

February 22, 2024February 23, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

In the interests of helping to save the planet by reducing the number of journeys I make, all be they mostly by electric train or electric car, I have once again synchronised my one day a week in the office with a mid-week football fixture at Portman Road, this time against bottom of the league Rotherham United. Eight hours of toil and sweat and sometimes blood and tears is more than enough for anyone I reckon, and so at about ten past four I down tools, pack up my bag and head off into town to enjoy dusk and the gradual, gentle illumination of Ipswich’s ancient streets. It feels almost like it did back when I was still at school, and I’d have a free lesson at the end of the day so I’d nip off and with time to kill before catching the bus home I’d may be trawl the likes of Parrot Records, or Discus on St Helen’s Street or the Record Shop opposite the Old Cattle Market bus station. By way of a hollow tribute to my past I visit the HMV store and see if they have anything by Greek prog rockers Aphrodite’s Child, they haven’t. But as Laurence told us in Abigail’s Party, “We don’t want to listen to that fat Greek caterwauling all night.”

Often recently, when I have walked through Ipswich of an evening it has felt a little down at heel, but not this evening, perhaps the soft lights and the shadows are hiding things, but there are people about, teenagers queue outside the Corn Exchange for an evening of Drum & Bass and the soul of the town is shining through with the streetlights and glowing shop signs. The recently restored pargetting of Sparrowe’s (aka The Ancient House) looks magnificent as does Cornhill, but I live in hope of one day meeting someone else who appreciates the 1950’s splendour of the old Co-op lighting department, the colourful, blocky repetition of the frontage of what once was Woolworth’s, and the little glimpse of 1960’s Brutalism left behind by the Carr Street precinct; when I was eight or nine these buildings were new and exciting, and I think they still are.

Time moves on and as six o’clock draws near I head for ‘the Arb’. An empty tin can rattles down Black Horse Lane, blown by the breeze. A woman and I catch each other’s eye and smile as crossing the road in opposite directions we both look the same way at the same time to check we’re not about to be run over. In the Arb I have to wait for my pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra discount) as the barrel has to be changed, and I use the time selecting from the menu a tea time bowl of ‘Very French’ chunky chips (£8), which come with bacon, brie and onion marmalade. Eventually, pint in hand, I repair to the beer garden to wait for my chips and delve into the match day programme (£3.50) which I purchased earlier in the club shop, before strolling around town. Keiffer Moore adorns the front cover, caught in a pose with a ball on his head, which resembles the AFC Bournemouth club badge. Inside, there is an interview with Keiffer, which at five pages in length and with small print seems like a start has been made on his biography.

My ‘Very French’ chunky chips arrive soon and are very tasty indeed, even if I am struck by the thought that if Mick or my wife were here with me, I would feel guilty at how much fat I am consuming, and if I wasn’t feeling guilty my wife would surely do her best to ensure I did. I pass my time between eating and taking sips of beer by involuntarily hearing the conversation of the three retired men sat two tables away. The conversation, if it isn’t just a monologue, is dominated by one man who talks about a gay friend whom he describes more than once as a ‘Champagne Socialist’, it’s a silly, annoying phrase with its odd implication that if you’re a Socialist you are not allowed to enjoy Champagne. Typically, people who use the phrase fail to understand that the whole point of Socialism is Champagne for all. When I finish my pint of Suffolk Pride I resist the temptation to share a bottle of Champagne with the blokes on the next table and raise a toast to Socialism, and instead buy another pint of beer, like the prole that I am. With no Mick or Gary to engage in conversation this evening, I leave unusually early for Portman Road.

After negotiating a delightfully queue-less turnstile 62, I find myself amongst Fiona, Pat from Clacton, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the teams are even walking onto the pitch behind the diminutive referee, Mr Keith Stroud, who I am shocked to see hold the match ball up to the sky before kissing it. Stroud has apparently refereed “Premier League” (First Division) games and I can only think that he learned or dreamt up such poncey, pseudo-religious behaviour there. If that’s what the First Division is like nowadays, I think I’d rather stay in the second. To add to the confusion, the man from Stowmarket isn’t wearing his woolly hat tonight, I tell him I think the World must have started spinning in the other direction. Very soon, Murphy the stadium announcer is reading out the team names seemingly oblivious of them appearing on the scoreboard. I’ve had it with Murphy, and tonight I ignore him completely and bellow the player’s surnames only as they appear on the screen. “That will teach the ugly little twerp” I think to myself in a voice like that of Harold Steptoe, although a French accent would have been more appropriate. “You’re on form tonight” says Fiona, apparently impressed by my bellowing.

The game begins, Town getting first go with the ball and generally sending it in the direction of the goal in front of me and the other aging Ultras. Town, as ever, are in blue and white whilst Rotherham United, from a town in what was once known as the People’s Republic of South Yorkshire, are sartorially doing a passable impression of Arsenal or Stade de Reims, the club from the city which is considered the gateway to the historic Champagne region of France. Socialism and Champagne together at last.

When asked at work today what I thought the score would be tonight, I predicted three or four -nil to Town, perhaps more. After 83 seconds Town are losing as an awkward looking number 9 called Tom Eaves easily bustles Luke Woolfenden aside and taps the ball past Vaclav Hladky. Fiona and I look at one another as if to say “what happened there?” and agree that we weren’t really ready . But we don’t worry too much about it and soon Keiffer Moore is heading high over the Rotherham cross-bar and then just a bit past a post. “We often don’t seem to start well” says Fiona. “But we are the best in the division for gaining points from losing positions” I tell her, sounding like a boring pundit or football obsessive, “We have to be”.

It only takes a little more than seven minutes for Mr Stroud to show us, or more precisely Rotherham’s Hakeem Odoffin, his yellow card, but it’s Odoffin’s own fault for fouling Jeremy Sarmiento. Two minutes later and Town equalise as Sam Morsy runs into a bit of space, turns and crosses the ball back in front of the goal so that an unmarked Wes Burns can stoop to conquer and head the ball into the net. People thank the deity of their choice, I choose Wes Burns. Moments later Wes is at it again, but shoots past the far post, although undeterred the Sir Bobby Robson standers are celebrating Christmas all over again with a rendition of “Hark now hear the Ipswich Sing, the Norwich ran away”, and then they sing it again. A minute later, Keiffer Moore is unwrapping his present from Wes Burns in the form of a side-footed shot from a low cross after Wes has scampered down the wing to chase a Harry Clarke through ball. It’s a beautiful goal and I can feel myself smiling uncontrollably; this is what I had expected this evening and it’s nice for those expectations to be fulfilled.

It can only be a matter of time, and not much of it before we score again and then again. But after seven minutes we’re still waiting and Keiffer Moore is rubbing his knee and receiving treatment and it feels like we’ve lost our way a little. To compound matters Rotherham won’t stop winning corners, although they don’t do much with them, but I’m not getting to bawl ”Come On You Blues” at all. “We don’t need corners” says Fiona, perhaps trying to reassure me.

Town flounder for another nine minutes and then all of a sudden click into gear again as Wes Burns bears down on goal and has his shot saved, Leif Davis has his follow-up shot saved and then Mr Burns gets to the ball ahead of two Rotherham defenders and the goalkeeper to roll it into the goal and put Town 3-1 up. “Excellent” I say in the style of Wes’s evil cartoon namesake. This is more like what I had predicted, and surely Town will now go on to win handsomely.

Town sadly never get the chance to gain momentum from the goal as moments after the game re-starts Rotherham’s Femi Seriki dives headlong into the advert hoardings and after a long delay has to be driven away on the back of the club golf buggy/ambulance, which we have now had the pleasure of seeing two matches running. Seriki is replaced by Ollie Rathbone and I start to think of Sherlock Holmes. The remaining minutes of normal time in the first half have just two highlights, one is Wes Burns narrowly avoiding a hat-tick by heading just as narrowly past a post, and the second is the Rotherham goalkeeper sending a poorly directed clearance even more narrowly above Conor Chaplin’s head; a taller player would probably need to leave the field on the club golf buggy. Rotherham then win yet another corner before Murphy excitedly announces that there will be a minimum of ten minutes of added on time, which allows Rotherham to win more corners, but not much more.

With the half time whistle the man from Stowmarket stands up and admits to wishing he had padded trousers as he’s finding his plastic seat a little unforgiving. We discuss cushions and speculate that a patent on padded trousers could be the passport to wealth and a life of leisure. I then migrate to the front of the stand for my half-time chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison which covers Aphrodite’s Child and what an odd first half it has been.

When the football resumes I’m still expecting more Ipswich goals, but it’s Rotherham who are harrying and pressing Town into making mistakes. “Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and ‘Blue Action’ repetitively and then “Addy, Addy, Addy-O, ITFCeeee, We’re the Blue Armeee” and after fifty-seven minutes Town win their first corner of the game. “Are you happy now?” asks Fiona, and in a way I am, but I don’t chant “Come On You Blues” because , as I explain to Fiona, I don’t suppose the players will hear me up at the far end of the ground. I don’t think it’s my fault when the corner kick sails far beyond the goal and harmlessly away. Despite this failure, Boney M’s Christmas number one from 1978 gets a reprise in the Sir Bobby Robson stand.

Town are not playing well and Rotherham are not looking capable of scoring, but then they do. Vaclav Hladky boldly leaves his goal line for a cross which he doesn’t manage to catch and in the ensuing mess the only player to have so far been booked rolls the ball into the unguarded goal; and they say crime doesn’t pay. This wasn’t what anyone expected and suddenly we’ve been transported from a dull game in which we felt comfortably ahead to one in which we seem to be hanging on for a point. This is a poor game, it’s almost reminiscent of how we played in the dark days at the end of Mick McCarthy’s reign of terror, but we have been spoilt for two years.

For a moment or two Town are stung into action as they win a corner and Wes Burns is fouled by the French sounding Peltier, who is booked by Mr Stroud after loud baying from the home crowd. From the corner the Rotherham goalkeeper falls to the ground clutching the ball and some people think it’s crossed the line, there is a roar which isn’t so much half-stifled as three-quarters stifled as Stroud waves play on.

Another ten minutes pass with little to excite, before both teams vainly reach for inspiration in the form of matching double substitutions. For Town Omari Hutchison and Massimo Luongo usurp Conor Chaplin and Lewis Travis. As if that isn’t exciting enough, Murphy announces the attendance as 28,026 with 145 of those from the former People’s Republic. Applause follows, much of it directed at the 145 intrepid northerners. Another two minutes pass and another interruption sees Harry Clarke replaced by Axel Tuanzebe due to injury. Nothing improves and after a run down the Town left and a low cross, Peter Kioso strikes a Town goal post with a shot and the crowd groans with disapproval. Ali Al-Hamadi replaces Keiffer Moore before Rotherham make another double substitution and finally Kayden Jackson is the new Wes Burns. There will be a minimum of eight minutes of time added on says Murphy importantly and Town are hanging on. Pat from Clacton is glad she hasn’t got a baked potato waiting for her when she gets home, she’ll have a pre bedtime snack of Marks & Spencer Cheesey Combos instead. Back on the pitch it’s as if Keiran McKenna has said he wants Town to give the ball away every time they win it so we can practice defending a narrow lead.

Fortunately of course, Rotherham aren’t much good, they’re bottom of the league after all, and they’ve only scored twenty-six goals before tonight. But they have got Keith Stroud, a man who kisses footballs and raises his eyes to the heavens as he does so, and four minutes into time, added on, and enjoying life without Big Brother VAR watching him, he grants them a penalty . Cafu scores with a ‘Panenka’ (incidentally the name of a bar in Sheffield), which is why goalkeepers should never try and guess which way a penalty kick will be struck.

A draw snatched from the jaws of victory seems a certainty, except that this is Ipswich where it’s no longer over until it’s over and so it shouldn’t be a surprise when in a final flourish Omari Hutchinson reclaims the win just a minute later with a fierce shot between the goalkeeper and his near post. Portman Road explodes. With everything put back together again Mr Stroud keeps on playing for another couple of minutes over the original eight, which is enough time to book Axel Tuanzebe, but Rotherham are finally beaten.

I had thought I had seen it all in fifty plus years of coming to Portman Road, but then I already thought I’d seen it all in 1979. Tonight’s game was rubbish after what we’ve seen this season, but Town have scored four goals, all pretty good ones, and what a finale; so why does it also even feel a bit like we’ve lost? Did someone slip something in my ‘Very French’ chunky chips or in my Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride? I can only try not to get here so early in future.

Ipswich Town 2 West Bromwich Albion 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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