Ipswich Town 2 Fulham 1

October 11, 2026October 11, 2026 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

It seems hard to believe that despite it now being a third of the way through October, and with the football season having started in August, Ipswich Town have so far only played two league games at home. But that’s modern football and the Premier League for you, just another part of the mad scramble to concentrate as much money as possible into the hands of as few people as possible before the apocalypse, which will probably be streamed live on tv. Today, as the season begins for a second time, Ipswich will play funny old Fulham, the jokey little London club loved by Tommy Trinder, Wolfie Smith and Terry McCann.

It had been quite a good week, I had returned home from my personal pilgrimage to Haverfordwest and spent a day with my brother-in-law, which was entertaining. Yesterday however, I received the sad news that my dear friend Ray had died that afternoon. As everyone I know who knew him agrees, he was such a lovely bloke; thoughtful, funny and kind, he was so good at being those things he didn’t need to be anything else. Ray didn’t believe in God and given that he is now dead, but Donald Trump still lives, I think he was probably right. The existence of Satan might be a different matter, however. On a happier note, this morning I have been vaccinated against influenza, so that’s good.

The train to Ipswich is late but only by a minute or two and when Gary boards at the next station stop it’s not a topic of conversation, instead we talk of my trip to Wales and of the contrasting customer service of Greene King and Royal Mail. In my recent experience Greene King dispense beer vouchers and complimentary cases of beer whilst Royal Mail witter on in lengthy AI generated e-mails and pay no attention to what you tell them; as Royal Mail pensioners, Gary and I both agree it wasn’t like that in our day.

Arriving in Ipswich, the sky is overcast and the station forecourt and Princes Street are busy with folk. We make our way through the town past the ‘new’ (it was the original town museum) ‘Museum of the Environment’ on aptly named Museum Street to the Arb, where I join a queue for the bar whilst Gary heads for the beer garden to look for a vacant table. Mick soon appears and he buys the drinks, a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and pints (one each) of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for Mick and me. As we emerge into the light of the beer garden Gary simultaneously nabs a table as other lunchtime drinkers leave. Our conversation rambles, I buy another round of drinks (Suffolk Pride, half of Estrella and a Jameson’s whisky for £12 something with Camra discount) and we express surprise and amusement at how by half past two we seem to be the only people left in the beer garden. Mick attributes this to a modern epidemic of anxiety. I worry he might be right.

At twenty to three we drain our glasses and set off for Portman Road. As ever, there are queues for the Cobbold Stand in Portman Road and at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand. Making a quick assessment of the relative length and speed of each queue I join the shortest, fastest moving one where I stand behind two men discussing their holidays. “Yes” says one “We went on a cruise down the Rhine” and then as if it was the most natural thing in the World “It was drink all you want”. I’ve stopped smirking by the time I reach the front of the queue where I congratulate and name as ‘employee of the month’ the young, handsome man of Asian origin who is so quickly scanning us for weapons and scrap metal and letting us go onto the second challenge of the afternoon, the turnstiles. The queue for illustrious turnstile 62 looks a bit sluggish so I go for the next best thing, turnstile 61, which turns out fine once a steward explains to the bloke in front how to present his mobile phone, and I’m soon shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat where I say hello to the bloke next to me and to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and see the backs of the heads of ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.

The game begins beneath grey clouds after the Fulham captain Bassey (Shirley) has got up off his knees and finished praying, to whom or what, or for what it is impossible to say. It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball though, sending it when they can, mostly in the direction of the goal in front of me and my fellow ultras. Ipswich are of course in classic blue and while, whilst Fulham look a mess in red and black chequer-board shirts and red shorts, when their traditional white shirts and black shorts would have suited the occasion perfectly well. We can but hope however, that they will lose as a result. “Fulham, Fulham” chants the Fulham supporters, supportively, before launching into a rendition of Frankie Valli’s 1967 hit “Can’t take my eyes of you” which sadly sort of peters out after the words “I love you Fulham”, as if nobody was really sure of the words after that. “MSC, moving the world together” announce the neon advertising boards on the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I feel we should get the United States government to fund a message directly after it reading “Donald Trump, moving the world further apart”.

“Super Fulham, Super Fulham” sing the Fulham fans and after eleven minutes and a spell of pressure Ipswich become the first team to win a corner. “Come On You Blues” everyone chants, more or less. “Create more space with a mezzanine floor” announces that neon sign, which seems to have taken to providing surreal in-game coaching advice to the team. Two minutes later and Town have another corner, the game is fast and Portman Road is noisy, a few of us again chant “Come On You Blues!”! A further three minutes pass and the highlight of the half for Town arrives with a neat move down the right, a touch back and a measured, curling, low shot past the post from Julio Enciso.

The first half is never as good again for Town and Leif Davis is soon booked for a not particularly bad foul. “Sets a precedent” says the bloke beside me suggesting anyone could be booked for anything from now on. The sky remains cloudy and grey, Fulham win a corner, “Come On Fulham” chant their fans and the neon sign says “Hot Sausage Company” and then “The ideal pre-match meal”, hopefully information that any watching scouts from Town’s next opponents, Manchester City will take to heart and implement. On the touchline, Gary O’Neil strikes a pose which if he was wearing a white suit with wide lapels and flared trousers rather than a zip-up cardigan might make him resemble John Travolta.

Fulham have begun to dominate possession and in one of the growing number of dull moments Pat asks if I’ve seen her new blue and white earrings, which she then displays by turning her left ear towards me. I ask if she’s wearing her blue pants too and a look of horror crosses her face as she realises she has forgotten them, although happily she does have some underwear on, although apparently it is beige. Fulham’s dominance of possession continues and chants of “Blue Army!” fail to reverse the tide. Fulham win a second corner and hit a shot wide of the Town goal. “The future of flat roofing today” says the neon signage. The half concludes with a minute of added on time and an equalising booking for Fulham’s number seven Gonzalo, who tackles Lukic in a different financial year to the current one.

At half-time, the scoreboard wishes happy ninetieth birthday to Sheila who sits across the gangway from Pat from Clacton, and who miraculously doesn’t really look any older than Pat does. I use the remainder of half-time to vent spent Suffolk Pride and then chat briefly with Dave the steward, to whom I proudly reveal that I am now retired and it’s marvellous. Dave won’t retire for another four years, poor devil. The football resumes at two minutes past four and Leif Davis is soon launching a really lousy free-kick high over the Fulham cross bar before at the other end Fulham players come out with some very imaginative appeals for a penalty before hanging about in the Town box winning three corners in quick succession. The third corner is headed clear by Diop but falls to Fulham’s Ryan Sessegnon, who is lucky enough to see his speculative low shot from 25 yards avoid all of the thirty to forty ankles and boots in between and then nestle in the corner of the Town goal. “Super Fulham, Super Fulham FC, the finest football team the World has ever seen” chant the Fulham fans and then “We are staying up, We are staying up”, which seems an unusually modest ambition for the greatest football team the World has ever seen.

Within five minutes, Ipswich come close to equalising but Emmerson ’s close range header hits a post instead of the net and the Fulham fans begin to get a bit cocky with chants of “No noise from the Tractor Boys” and “How shit must you be we’re winning away”. Without the gift of foresight they are living in the moment, blissfully unaware of what is to come.

It is the sixty-second minute, and Town bring on Exequiel Palacios and Jack Clarke for Florentino and Philogene, immediately improving the team. “Come on Town!” shouts the bloke beside me with rekindled optimism “These are fucking rubbish”. Palacios soon helps Town to gain and keep more possession whilst Clarke runs at defenders. Nine minutes later and Akpom and Flemming replace Enciso and Emmerson. The grey cloud has lifted, the sky is blue and the sun shines into the faces of the Fulham fans in the Cobbold stand. Fifteen minutes remain and Daizen Maeda prompts VAR into action after he falls to the ground in the penalty area, but predictably no foul is acknowledged. The best substitution of the match follows soon afterwards when Fulham replace Bobb with Kevin, although regrettably the excitable young stadium announcer wastes the opportunity to pronounce Bobb in the way that Rowan Atkinson did in the first episode of Blackadder 2.

The last ten minutes of normal time arrive with a final substitution for Town as Eggy replaces Daizen, which is nice for our Norwegian supporters but less so for our Japanese ones. Today’s attendance is announced as being 29,445 and we are thanked for our “…incredible support”, and without a hint of sarcasm. Town are dominant but I am far from convinced that we are going to do anything other than lose one-nil. Pat from Clacton debates whether or not to get the masturbating monkey charm out of her handbag but she probably shouldn’t, Fiona’s niece is here with us today and she’s only twelve. Town are getting plenty of crosses into the Fulham penalty area. Another goes in and is cleared by Shirley (Bassey) but only to Abdoul Outtara who has been brilliant at right-back all afternoon. Outtara takes a touch, steps forward and unleashes the proverbial ‘rocket of a shot’ from may be 30 metres out; it arrives instantaneously just inside the far post, and the score is one-all. As if being an 88^th minute equaliser isn’t enough it’s fantastic, it’s spectacular and makes Sessegnon’s earlier flukey goal look like a tap-in.

There will be five minutes of added time and having scored so late we could be happy with a draw, but the feeling is we can win this, it’s like Escape to Victory all over again. The match is now into time added on and Chuba Akpom wins a freekick on the left; Jack Clarke takes it, flighting the ball to the near post, and then the ball bulges the net from Dara O’Shea’s imposing header. Town lead two-one and there are ecstatic arms, legs, bodies and other things joyously jumping, flailing and hugging and being thrown and bounced around all over the place. There’s still time for Christian Walton to make a match winning save with his left leg from Kevin but in yet another marvellous climax Town emerge victorious and Fulham live up to the comedy billing of their eternal association with Citizen Smith.

Fiona and Pat from Clacton make their customary sharp exits with the final whistle but I hang on to applaud and sing of Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown, who everyone calls Ted. In truth, Town have only been good in parts, but what parts they were and of course football punditry wisdom tells us that it’s good to play badly and win, even if in fact we didn’t play badly. Whatever, it was a magnificent win and although I’m not a sentimental man it feels to me like a win for Ray.

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 Oxford United 1

January 3, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 0 Newcastle United 4

December 22, 2024December 22, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I had hoped that I might be able to acquire an extra ticket for today’s game, which I would have given to my friend of forty years or more, Jah, who is a Newcastle United fan. Predictably perhaps, the slender avenues of opportunity were few and they proved to be culs-des-sacs. I’m not a member, and having a season ticket continuously for over forty years counts for nothing; I was resigned to my fate. There are now, no doubt some who having read the above are apoplectic with rage that I should consider buying a ticket for someone supporting the opposition team. To them I say “Grow up, it’s only a game” and “Yah boo, sucks”.

It’s the Winter Solstice today, a grey day, like most days lately, but the train is on time and I see a polar bear through the window as we descend into Ipswich through Wherstead, which is better than seeing one inside the carriage. Gary is not with me again today; after going to previous matches with his brother and then having hurt his chest, which made him unable to make the hike up to the Arb, he has now awoken to find a toenail hanging off and so once again cannot make the trek to the pub. Alone, but in the company of hundreds of other people sporting blue and white favours, I make my way to Portman Road to buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the booths that I hope will one day also sell ice creams, and observe the gathering crowd. The Bobby Robson statue sports a “half and half” scarf, which controversially suggests he was what people younger than me call a “plastic fan”, when in fact he’s probably made of bronze. People are having their photographs taken with the statue and I think of two songs by the Kinks, ‘Plastic Man’ and ‘People take pictures of each other’

At the Arb, I am mercifully served quickly and take my pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£4.14 with Camra discount) into the beer garden where I sit at one of the tables in the shelter, opposite a couple who are probably in their forties and seem pleased that this part of the shelter has the benefit of two electric heaters, even if it’s not going to help save the planet. I am a minute or two early; I’d arranged to meet Mick at 13:45 and an exchange of text reveals he is only now leaving home, so I read the programme I bought earlier and reflect on how the pieces by the manager , CEO and captain are just like every other piece by a manager, CEO or captain I have ever read before , but then, what is there to say? Today’s front cover, which isn’t the front cover (it’s inside the back page) is by a designer called James Hobson, who if his picture is to be believed, wears 3D glasses possibly as a fashion accessory, or possibly when working or just when having his photo taken. Either way, I decide that I like his design, which is reminiscent of some of the more graphically adventurous programmes of the early 1970’s, of which Ipswich Town’s was sadly not one.

In due course, Mick arrives and we talk of my wife, our siblings, Mick’s recently deceased neighbour, the smoke detectors in the flat in Felixstowe where Mick’s paramour lives, Christmas, how sentimental people are nowadays, and Gary’s absence. At some stage I obtain a further pint of Suffolk Pride for me and a Jameson whisky for Mick (£8.80 with Camra discount) and we talk until a quarter to three, by which time we are alone in the beer garden and this makes us wonder why everyone is so keen to not just turn up as the game is about to begin. After the easy downhill walk to Portman Road, we part at the junction of Sir Alf Ramsey Way and I make it to my seat in time to bawl out the surnames of three of the Town team as the excitable, although today very serious sounding young announcer reads the team line-up to us. Naturally, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are already here.

Ipswich get first go with the ball this afternoon, but you wouldn’t know it, because no sooner has the game begun than Newcastle are one-nil up as a long ball forward, a cross, a very poor clearance and a bouncing shot puncture all our hopes of the sort of straightforward home win we crave. There is a long wait of over a minute for VAR to dismiss the possibility of offside and predictably it does so. “ Newcassul, Newcassul, Newcassul” sing the Geordies in the Cobbold stand and then “Haork, noww heeya …” with their accents coming across far clearer than the words they’re singing, in a way that is unmatched by supporters anywhere else in England. The Town fans fall silent but then a brief chorus or three of “Come On You blues” rings out, before fading feebly into the gloom as darkening drizzle sweeps across the pitch and Newcastle dominate play, seemingly at times just through being bigger blokes. Fifteen minutes up and it should be two-nil as Anthony Gordon heads down and the ball bounces over the Town bar. Ipswich are incapable of holding onto the ball for more than a couple of passes, being brushed off the ball by these bigger boys; it’s like watching Under 15s play Under 13s.

The worst of it is that whilst Town are of course in blue and white, Newcastle have not turned up as Newcastle United in their famous black and white stripes, black shorts and stockings; no, they’re in some weird, needless arrangement of white shirts with green sleeves and green shorts, the colour of the Saudi Arabian flag. “He’s good that thirty-nine” says the bloke behind me. “He’s always available” . “It’s Graham Harbey, isn’t it?” says the bloke next to him. Twenty minutes gone and Jens Cajuste conjures Town’s first shot on goal, one that flies above the cross bar and hits a woman a few rows away. Sam Morsy makes a saving tackle and is serenaded; I hope he likes Oasis. “We’ve been a bit more involved, the last five minutes” says the bloke behind me and the drizzle has become rain and has begun sweeping in beneath the roof of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. My trousers are flecked with spots of rain.

It’s the thirty second minute, Newcastle have the ball, just passing it about around the Town penalty area, then they’re two-nil up. A bloke with the unpromising name of Jacob Murphy just fires the ball into the roof of the goal net. Apparently he used to play for Norwich City, and Wikipedia tells us he is a nephew of former Town bench-warmer Tommy Parkin. The goal happened so quickly it feels like Newcastle have scored without even bothering to have had a shot. Hurt, but not beaten I chant “We’re going to win 3-2”, to the tune of Blue Moon, the 1934 song by Rodgers and Hart, but I feel as if I’m being ignored. I tell Fiona that I recall Town beating Newcastle 5-4 back in March of 1975 “I remember it was a wet afternoon like this….” I tell her wistfully. I also recall Town losing 0-3 to Newcastle the following August, but I don’t mention that.

The bloke sitting beside me and the blokes behind me leave for the bar, being two-nil down is evidently more than they can bear without the crutch of alcohol, they may need help. “Bruno, Bruno” chant the Newcastle fans, and then “There’s only one Bobby Robson”, although in truth there is either no Bobby Robson anymore or there are several of them, all of whom remain, so far, unknown to us. There are ten minutes until half-time and Conor Chaplin takes his usual sit down on the turf to allow everyone a few moments of remedial coaching on the touchline and to put in their orders for half-time refreshments.

With play resumed and half-time fast approaching, Muric makes a flying save from a shot by someone metaphorically draped in the Saudi flag. The approach of half-time is then slowed down as four minutes of added on time are announced and Sam Szmodics replicates Jens Cajuste’s earlier shot over the cross bar, meaning Town have at least now had two attempts at scoring. But seeing a goal not scored at the far end, Muric then seemingly decides to try and create one at his own end as he suggests belief in the infallibility of Jens Cajuste by passing to him when there is a Newcastle player directly next to him. Sadly, Jens is not infallible, and an outstretched leg robs him of the ball which runs to Alexander Isak who has the embarrassing task of scoring from a just a few yards out. Now trailing three-nil, Town win their first corner of the game and I chant “Come On You Blues” with decreasing enthusiasm as hope is sucked from me by the aura of gloom all around. Inevitably the bigger boys get the ball away.

Half-time is a relief as I get to jettison excess Suffolk Pride, look at the half-time scores and eat a Nature Valley Crunchy Oats & Honey bar. It is six minutes past four when the match resumes with Ali Al-Hamadi having appeared in place of Omari Hutchinson; within four minutes a busy Al-Hamadi has a shot blocked. A glowing advert for Hawk Express Cabs makes its way along the front of the North Stand offering a number to call for anyone lacking the mental strength needed for Premier League football and seeking a means of escape. Fortunately, none of the Town players’ shorts look large enough to conceal a mobile phone inside, except perhaps Jack Clarke’s, but he’s only a substitute today.

The situation nearly worsens as Bruno hits a post with a header in the fifty-first minute, but this is a mere stay of execution as three minutes later Isak completes a hat-tick of goals, unexpectedly stabbing the ball into the net past Muric as Town defenders flounder all around him. “Damage limitation now” says the bloke behind me, although I’m feeling that the damage is already done. Over in the Cobbold stand, the away fans go all folksie and start singing the Blaydon Races and Fiona says “ I can’t hear you singing we’re going to win 5-4” . Perhaps because we’re not going to.

Town substitutions are made in the sixty-second minute as Cajuste and Chaplin wish good luck to Phillips and Taylor. A minute later Wes Burns gets down the wing and puts in a deep cross, or is a shot? Either way it evades the far post, but is worth a round of applause before Newcastle make their own substitutions and Sam Morsy is booked. “Is it worth getting Monkey out? “ asks Pat from Clacton, hoping to revive the Town via the mystical properties of a key ring from Vietnam featuring a masturbating monkey. “He’ll have his work cut out” I tell her “it’ll exhaust him”. But it’s Newcastle who win a corner and when it’s passed, I ask Pat what she’s having for her tea. The answer is a baked potato with chicken in sticky sauce from Marks & Spencer. Fiona doesn’t know what she’s having for her tea yet, and I don’t either.

Twenty minutes left until we can go home and Town win a second corner of the game, Leif Davis holds the ball above his head before he takes it to indicate that it’s one which a Newcastle player will boot clear. Six minutes on and Al-Hamadi is booked before Town’s final substitutions bid a farewell until next time to Szmodics and Wes Burns, and “Hello” to Ben Johnson and Nathan Broadhead, who is soon having a shot saved by the diving Newcastle goalkeeper, which possibly makes Nathan our man of the match in an attacking sense. Today’s attendance is announced as 29,774 with 2,991 being potential extras for TV series such as ‘Vera’, ‘Spender’, ‘Our friends in the North’, When the Boat Comes In’ and ‘The Likely Lads’.

“Na Na, NaNa, Na Na” sing the Newcastle fans to the tune of the 1969 hit “Na Na, Hey Hey, Kiss Him Goodbye”, just as Bob Ferris and Terry Collier might have done at the time had they been real people. Less than ten minutes of normal time remain and Al-Hamadi shoots high and wide and the advert for the Hot Sausage Company makes an appearance between the tiers on the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but the power of advertising is waning because of a mass exodus from the stands as people believe that missing the final whistle will help them deny they were ever here.

Before we all finally slope off into the night, four minutes of added on time produce another goal for Newcastle, for a short while anyway, but this time VAR is the Town supporters’ friend as the messy goal line event is deemed to have been an offside incident. This is a rare good thing on an afternoon of mostly bad things, and I may cherish the memory of it for some time. My friend Jah will later send me a message to say that he was glad he wasn’t at the match because despite Newcastle being “imperious” (pfft) it’s not nice being present at the death of hope. What he doesn’t know is that I’ve witnessed the death of hope dozens of times at Portman Road and it’s not dead yet.

Ipswich Town 1 Fortuna Dusseldorf 2

July 28, 2024August 1, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s late July already, summer has almost arrived, and so has the new football season. In the Eastern Counties Premier League, the likes of Brantham Athletic and Walsham le Willows are starting their league fixtures today, but I have decided to prolong the sense of anticipation for the ‘real’ stuff and am returning early to Portman Road to witness the friendly between the mighty Blues and Fortuna Dusseldorf, or “Our friends from Germany” as they have become known. I am looking forward to an afternoon of Kraftwerk and altbier.

Pre-season friendlies are strange beasts, and I don’t usually bother with them. Back in the 1970’s my youthful exuberance meant I was as eager to see a Will-hire Cup match against Cambridge United as I was to see any game, but I’m mostly out of exuberance nowadays and I begrudge paying the money just to watch the team train. I last saw Town play a pre-season friendly eight years ago when they met Union St Gilloise from Brussels, a club then in the Belgian second division but now regular Pro-League title challengers, although sadly they never quite manage to win it. The fact that St Gilloise are from Belgium and Fortuna from Germany is significant; I can’t resist seeing teams from abroad, even in friendlies. Maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days before that stupid referendum (emphasis on the ‘dum’) cut Britain adrift, or maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days when competitive European games were regular entries on Town’s fixture list, or maybe I’m just hoping to catch the lingering scent of strong beer, trams, fine wine, fast trains, chocolate and haute cuisine clinging to the replica shirts of visiting supporters.

As befits late July, it’s a fine, warm day with fluffy clouds heaped up under azure skies. My train (return ticket £9.60 with senior railcard) is on time, and as I step on board the chill of the air-conditioned carriage comes as a bit of a shock, as does the smell of the toilet. Reassuringly, the eletronic sign above the gangway tells me that this service for Ipswich will call at Ipswich. On the opposite side of the gangway to my seat a man with two young boys has a voice that sounds like a very sleepy version of the now deceased comic and Eastenders actor Mike Reid; “…know what I mean?” he says to the boys after he explains that he doesn’t think any football ticket should cost more than £50.00. I see all four polar bears at Jimmy’s farm as the train eases down the hill into Ipswich.

I am meeting Mick today, but by way of a change our rendezvous is at the Station Hotel, where Mick is already eating the sightly odd combination of a toasted cheese sandwich and chips with his friend Chris, whom he previously met off the train from Felixstowe. I join them with a pint of something called Platform Number 9 (£3.90) and we talk of summer signings, locally listed buildings, prostates, American politics, how some of the cheese in Chris’s toasted sandwich hasn’t melted and how I have had an air source heat pump installed this week and thanks to various pipes and ducts the back of my house now looks like the Pompidou Centre. Conversation continues with a further pint of Platform Number 9 for me and a Jameson whisky for Mick (£7.85 for the two), before Chris suggests we make a move for Portman Road, which is exactly what we do.

In Portman Road there are queues for the Cobbold Stand where our seats are sat waiting for our bottoms, but first I stop to acquire a programme (£2.50) from one of the blue booths that look as if they should also sell ice creams. The front cover of the programme gives Mick and I something to talk about in the snaking queue to the turnstile as we comment on the casual, hands in pockets stance of Ali Al-Hamadi, Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke, and the somewhat macho “You looking at me?” expressions on their faces. Mick doesn’t recognise Ali Al-Hamadi or Harry Clarke and I can’t remember Clarke’s name at first either. “That full-back” I tell him, “you know, Colin Harper”.

After venting excess “Platform Number 9” we find our seats and almost immediately the game begins, as if they’d just been waiting for us to arrive. Fortuna get first go with the ball , or it could have been Town, I wasn’t really paying attention. Fortuna, in all red, are kicking the ball mostly in the direction of the telephone exchange, Barrack Corner and what used to be Anglesea Road hospital beyond, where in June of 1976 my father had a hernia operation. A couple of months later he and I would see Town beat Go Ahead Eagles Deventer one-nil in a pre-season friendly. Barely four minutes pass and Fortuna score, Schmidt. It’s an overly simple goal with a cross that reveals an absence of marking and ends with an unchallenged header. Oh well, it’s only a friendly.

“Come on Ipswich” shouts a shrill child behind us and Mick and I piece together the line-up of the Town team. The shirts show squad numbers, but the programme doesn’t provide the key to these and the Town players’ names are not on their shirts either. From what’s on the back of their shirts, all the Fortuna players appear to be called Dusseldorf. Not being ones to memorise the Town squad numbers, Mick and I are at a loss to identify Town’s number 14, but the bloke sat next to Mick that isn’t me helps us out, revealing that it is Jack Taylor; it threw us seeing him start a match. We eventually also manage to deduce that the new signings are number 22 Jacob Greaves, number 8 Liam Delap, number 2 Ben Johnson, and the goalkeeper is Arijanet Muric. After eight minutes Town fashion a first shot on goal, a weak effort by Delap.

Twenty minutes pass and my interest has mostly only been piqued by the building work on the West Stand, where swathes of seats are missing and it’s possible to see the decorative brickwork of the Corporation bus depot through the gap where there will eventually be more hospitality boxes. I note that our goalkeeper wears pink and that Jacob Greaves wears his hair in a small bun, a bit like former Pompey player Christian Burgess who coincidentally now plays for Union St Gilloise. I do like a centre-half with longer hair, it suggests to me a welcome element of flair in a position not usually known for it.

Liam Delap receives a strangely generous smattering of applause when caught offside and after twenty-five minutes Town win a corner, but then Fortuna are awarded a free-kick by referee Mr Smith and the man next to Mick that isn’t me starts waving his left arm about in anguish. “English, and he’s against us!” he shouts weirdly, as if its 1944 not 2024 and the referee is Lord Haw-Haw. I turn to Mick to tell him how surprised I am at how much some people seem to care so much about a friendly; but soon I’m thinking to myself that I’ve not sat in the Cobbold Stand since the Blue Action group has moved in and at half-way through the half the drums are beginning to get on my nerves. Perhaps with the players feeling the same as me, the twenty ninth minute is an unexpected drinks-break, and Mick checks his phone to see what the temperature is. Twenty-five degrees is evidently warm enough to crack open the Lucozade, or whatever isotonic elixir the modern Premier League player and his coach prefer.

Drinks supped and play resumed, Marcus Harness replaces Wes Burns and I admit to Mick that I hadn’t realised Wes was even playing. Harness’s introduction is an immediate success as his first cross is headed goalwards by Jack Taylor and Town have another corner, which George Edmundson heads at the Fortuna goalkeeper Florian Kastenmeier who interestingly shares his first name with Florian Schneider, one of the two founder members of 1970’s Dusseldorf-based ‘Krautrock’ band Kraftwerk. “Use your height Conor” shouts a man behind us before he laughs at his own ’joke’, hopefully out of embarrassment. Not totally absorbed by the match, I’ve noticed that a lot of surfaces around the ground are now painted matt black, including all the vomitoriums (vomitoria?) and I wonder if this is something required by the Premier League along with canapes and a shrubbery for Sky Sports presenters and a toilet reserved for Alan Shearer.

Three minutes of added on time are announced and I realise that from beneath the roof of the Cobbold Stand I cannot see the sky, it’s like looking out through a letterbox. When half-time arrives, I stay where I am for the duration unable to face the confined spaces beneath the venerable Cobbold Stand, although Mick bravely heads off to the lav.

Predictably, the re-start after half-time brings multiple personnel changes on the field of play and Delap, Edmundson, Greaves and Muric can catch the early bus home as they are replaced by Hirst, Burgess, Woolfenden and Walton. Fortuna win an early corner after a mistake by Woolfenden, who Mick remarks will need to improve to retain his place this season, and I agree with him. Then Marcus Harness equalises with a goal not dissimilar to Fortuna’s in that he is left alone on the right-hand side of the penalty area, but it’s a shot, not a header, at the end of a pass from Conor Chaplin.

After a rather dull first half, Town seem for a short while to have re-discovered themselves, and George Hirst breaks forward and plays in Jack Taylor to shoot high towards goal but have his shot saved. The thrills around the Fortuna goal don’t last however and soon it is the German Bundesliga team that are breaking forward with Ao Tanaka who, running on his toes and with a floppy mop of hair looks a bit like an oriental Trevor Putney. Tanaka misses, but within minutes Tim Rossmann is left with almost a quarter of the pitch to himself and he runs on to shoot past Walton with aplomb, and Fortuna lead 2-1. It’s nearly 3- 1 soon afterwards, again thanks to Tim Rossmann, but this time he misses the goal.

With the German lead restored, the game reverts to how it was in the first half and the Fortuna goalkeeper Kastenmeier has the time to stand and watch a seagull soar and swoop above the pitch and I wonder if he doesn’t get to see many seagulls at the Merkur-Spiel Arena in Dusseldorf. Dusseldorf is some way in land, but it is on the Rhine which I imagine seagulls follow up-stream. Annoyingly, I don’t remember if there were seagulls or not when I saw Town play at the Paul Janes Stadion in Dusseldorf back in pre-season,2015. Whatever the ornithological ins and outs of the Rhineland, nine years on and Fortuna are the better team today. On the touchline, Kieran McKenna retreats to the dugout to peer thoughtfully at a his lap top and rest his head on his chin in contemplation.

More substitutions ensue, but I‘ve lost interest to a large degree and the adverts announcing “University of Suffolk – apply now through clearing” and the sight of OGC Nice club crest catch my eye almost as much as the balding pate of Fortuna’s number 27, the obviously bleached blond hair of their number 18 and the enormity of their number 43 who, for a short while until Mr Smith tells him his fortune seems to ‘want a piece’ of Sam Morsy.

“Mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa, Sam Morsy mwa mwa mwa” says the stadium announcer incomprehensibly as the match draws to a close, and we guess Sam Morsy is man of the match, for what it’s worth. Mick and I share our mild disappointment at having forked out £35.00 between us to watch two teams train, and then our equally mild confusion that there is to be a penalty shoot-out despite the game not having ended in a draw. With Fortuna having lost the play-off match for promotion to Bundesliga 1 on penalties at the end of last season, it almost seems like mental cruelty to remind them of the experience so soon afterwards. On the other hand, there is every chance it will be more exciting than this afternoon’s match was, or at least it would be if anyone cared.

Both teams miss their first penalty and score their next four, and the next one , (or is it two?) after that. When Luke Woolfenden steps up to take the next penalty, I tell Mick that he will miss. Whilst Woolfy’s shot is on target it is nevertheless saved quite comfortably and if these are “sudden-death” penalties Fortuna have won for the second time this afternoon. But then Christian Walton gets to take a penalty, which he scores, and I have no idea what is going on, although looking at my watch I realise I’m going to miss my train, and I do.

Unbowed, or just stupid and somewhat mystified, as we head away from Portman Road Mick and I agree to speak soon to arrange buying tickets for the final friendly of pre-season versus OGC Nice (Olympic Gymnaste Club de Nice) of French Ligue 1. A pre-season friendly against French opposition ? We wouldn’t miss it for the world.