colchester

Haverfordwest County 1 B36 Torshavn 1(aet)

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(B36 Torshavn win 3-2 on aggregate)

Haverfordwest County’s progress into the second qualifying round of the European Conference League was a beautiful thing and a tremendous way to witness my long-awaited first ever Haverfordwest County match.  It brought its own problems, however.  I hadn’t honestly expected that win, as welcome and wonderful as it was, but having started out on the ‘European adventure’ I now had to see the next game and consequently arrange time off work, match tickets and somewhere to stay in Cardiff.  Lovely, first world problems, but to a fundamentally lazy person committed only to bobbing through life like a cork on the tide, a challenge that had me feeling unpleasantly like Odysseus or other heroic figure charged with completing onerous tasks.

My wife Paulene arranged everything of course, except the time off, which I managed, and after intermittently aquaplaning and queuing along the M4, waking up to a spectacular view of the Bristol Channel from our ninth-floor hotel room and whiling away the day marvelling at the cuddly dragon and sheep souvenirs available in Cardiff gift shops, we now find ourselves on platform 3 of Cardiff Queen Street station awaiting the 18:31 for Radyr, calling at Cardiff Central (Caerdydd Canelog) and more importantly Ninian Park (Parc Ninian).  On platform 2 are two well-built women, one carries a large koala bear on her back, the other an even larger red and white fluffy octopus; they gaze across the tracks then descend the stairs into the subway that connects the platforms and disappear from view forever.   When the ‘train’ eventually arrives, seven minutes late, it is sadly no Ivor the Engine, but instead an aged sort of bus on rails, which chugs and grinds and squeals its way past Cardiff’s ripped backside towards once elegant Cardiff Central station where, the guard explains, we are held by a red light. “A riddle for you while we wait” says the guard, “What starts red and ends on green?”.   The riddle solved, some passengers alight and others climb aboard before we continue what is probably the shortest and slowest train journey I have ever been on (£2.60 return with Senior railcard).  Ninian Park station consists of two windswept open platforms and if the train hadn’t stopped there to disgorge, we might have thought it had been closed since the days of the evil Dr Beeching.

It’s a short and now familiar walk to the Cardiff City stadium, across Sloper Road, past the Jubilee Recreation Ground where a rugby team is about to begin a practice session, and then through the Lidl car park.  Entry to the stadium tonight is again through Gate 9.  Approaching the nest of steel barriers around the turnstiles, I spot a man wearing a day-glo coat featuring an Ipswich Town club crest.  Being an Ipswich Town season ticket holder myself we accost him but don’t learn much. He’s lives in Torquay, would very much like a Haverfordwest shirt, was an Ipswich season ticket holder several years ago and claims Ipswich is a dump nowadays and Colchester is better. I re-educate him as best I can about the relative merits of Ipswich and Colchester and tell him Ipswich still has its beautiful buildings and parks and history and is therefore as good as it ever was, it’s just that the inhabitants buy everything on-line, so the town centre shops have shut and for some of them being miserable and a bit racist is all that keeps them happy, hence we have a Tory MP.

Having previously mastered the concept of my mobile phone having a wallet, entry to the stadium is a breeze tonight and I am soon eagerly presenting my bank card to pay for a replica Haverfordwest County shirt (£45) and a bucket hat (£15) which both commemorate the Pembrokeshire club’s presence in this season’s European Conference League. Excited beyond words and now sporting my commemorative bucket hat, I head with Paulene for our seats.  Emerging from beneath the stand back into the evening sunlight we talk to the steward at the top of the stairs who tells us where we will find our seats, but also points out there are free Haverfordwest T-shirts randomly draped over the backs of the seats; they’re in different sizes so it’s a question of looking until we find two our size.  The tag inside the neck of the first shirt I pick up reads ‘L’ and on the back of the shirt is the surname of the current French president.  That’s me kitted out, but the search for a ‘S’ for Paulene continues.  A man with two sons says all the ‘kids’ have been looking for them, then another younger man says “What size do you want?” I tell him I need a small. “Here you are” he says, almost immediately turning up the required shirt on the next seat he comes to. What a kind bloke, I think to myself as I thank him.

We watch the two teams warm up and the seats about us fill up with Welsh bottoms; I return ‘below’ to buy two bottles of water (£2.50 each), but experience no urge to pay £6 for a paper carton of insipid Amstel beer, I did that before the previous match, so do not need to do it again.  I reminisce that the only other occasion when I ever drank Amstel was in a bar in Amsterdam before the second leg of the 1981 UEFA Cup Final, I don’t know how many guilders and cents it cost but I expect it was my father’s round anyway.  When the game eventually kicks off, B36 Torshavn get first go with the ball and are kicking from left to right towards far off Pontypridd and Aberdare; they wear yellow shirts and socks with navy blue shorts, a bit like Oxford United or the Swedish national team, which is unexpected because the Faroes are Danish.  Haverfordwest are in this season’s signature kit of all navy blue with pale blue and white chevrons on the front, and to my knowledge resemble no one else but Haverfordwest.  Away from the pitch and back in the stand, people are still emerging at the top of the stairs like bubbles from a crack in the seabed, but they’re much more annoying as they dither on the steps trying to find their seats and blocking my view.  I can at least console myself with the thought that they have arrived too late to nab a free T-shirt, that’ll teach them.

“Blooobi-irds, Blooobi-irds!” chant several people like demented evening paper vendors as the excitement of the game having actually started takes hold.  “What seat is your number?” says a bloke behind me confusedly to the person next to him and in a not overly Welsh accent.  I don’t catch the answer, and I’m not really interested.  On the pitch, Torshavn’s number 8 Taufee Skandari hacks down Haverfordwest number 3 Rhys Abbruzzese, and whilst escaping punishment from the referee, other than a free-kick, he will hereafter be roundly booed by the crowd whenever he touches the ball.  Barely ten minutes have passed, but it’s always good to identify a pantomime villain early on.

“That’s blown my mind a little bit” says the bloke behind me about something which disappointingly I didn’t catch.  The game is close at the moment and cagey, and perhaps therefore a little dull, so I would have liked to have known what blew his mind, even if it did only get blown a little.  After ten minutes Haverfordwest get the kudos of winning the game’s first corner. “Blooobi-irds” chant the blokes who like to chant, and when Skandari touches the ball they boo too.  “  ‘kin ‘ell man” says the bloke behind me as the ball seems to wilfully run away from a Haverfordwest defender as he shapes to clear it.  “Aaah, talk man” continues my neighbour as the ball is booted out for Torshavn’s first corner kick just a goalkeeper Zac Jones arrives hoping to gather it up in his arms.  The Faroese number three takes an age to take the corner as if he’s first having to calculate precisely the trajectory of the ball before kicking it.  A second corner follows but thankfully to no effect.

It takes a half an hour before Haverfordwest have a shot on goal, although a diving header is required from Torshavn defender moments before to clear the ball for a corner and a few minutes before that Oscar Borg sent Martell Taylor-Crossdale away down the left to optimistic and encouraging cheers, but the Faroese goalkeeper got to the ball first.  To even things up, Skandari volleys over the cross bar to inevitable jeers and his team are on the up as they win two more corners and Haverfordwest captain Jazz Richards goes down injured and has to be substituted with ten minutes still to go until half time.  It’s not a good time for the home team as a shot now has to be cleared off the goal line after a Torshavn free-kick; I thought it was going to go in.  As if by way of desperately trying to restore the balance in favour of Haverfordwest, the boos when Skandari next touches the ball are even louder.

After another Torshavn corner and a shot which narrowly misses the Haverfordwest goal but ‘scores’ in the staircase up into the seats behind the goal, Haverfordwest’s Lee Jenkins misses arguably the best chance for a goal so far as he heads a fine cross back across the goal instead of into it.  With half-time two minutes away a mass exodus occurs, which includes the bloke behind me and his friends who it seems are heading for the bar.   Above us, a gang of three or four seagulls circle and swoop over the crowd, perhaps on the look out for someone who has already obtained a hot, half-time carton of chips or someone who has discarded a cold one.  Paulene is intrigued by the men in suits stood by the players’ tunnel and remarks that at every game there are always men in suits stood by the players’ tunnel.  We wonder who they are, and I speculate that they are no one in particular, but that for a fee football clubs will hire anyone a suit and let you stand there, like a sort of adult mascot. Then half-time arrives.

I usually like to take a wander at half-time, but tonight I don’t. I think the sight of that mass exodus a few minutes ago has made me want to stay put; I‘m not one to follow the herd.  The match resumes at twelve minutes to nine and Haverfordwest set off as if the first half was just a warm-up and now they’re going to play properly.  A corner is soon won and then Ben Fawcett is free in space and time at the edge of the penalty area, but he shoots wide of the Torshavn goal.

As always seems to happen in the second half of games, players start getting shown the referee’s yellow card.  Like in life, the more time goes on the less one cares, but perhaps others become more desperate.  The names of Lee Jenkins, Ricky Watts and Torshavn’s Isak Jonsson all enter the referee’s notebook in just seven minutes of deviant behaviour.   From the crowd a new song is heard to the tune of Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’, with the words ‘Silver Lining’ being substituted rather neatly and amusingly with ‘Hav-er-ford-west’.  Twenty-minutes of the second half pass and the ball is knocked down in the Torshavn penalty area. Messy moments of uncertainty follow before the ball is slamming into the roof of the goal net; booted there by Ben Fawcett. Haverfordwest have scored, and the tie is level on aggregate; I begin to mentally prepare for penalties and Fawcett slides across the turf towards the adoring, cheering crowd before disappearing under a pile of his excited team-mates.

TV pundits tell us that goals change games, but Torshavn change their team by bringing on a couple of substitutes.  It works to an extent as they reverse the traffic towards their goal and win a corner, and their number nine has a shot on goal which draws a few worried gasps from fellow spectators around me, but happily the shot goes wide.

Tonight’s attendance is announced as 2,119, and as often happens at football matches nowadays some people break into a round of applause.  I can’t decide if they’re clapping themselves, each other, the announcer or whoever it was who counted everyone.  There are seven minutes of normal time remaining and Skandari falls to the ground with an anguished groan; naturally he is booed. When he gets up a bloke behind me somewhere shouts “Miracle!”.  The final minutes belong to Torshavn who win a succession of corners as Kai Whitmore joins the gang of Haverfordwest renegades who have been booked and Torshavn substitute Valerijs Sabala shoots over the cross bar. Only two-minutes of added on time are added on, it’s as if the referee thinks it’s pointless adding any more because no one’s going to score so we might as get on with extra-time.

Extra-time begins at twenty-one minutes to ten and I realise there will be no prospect of catching the five to ten train from Ninian Park back to Cardiff Queen Street, or the ten-thirteen.  The first half of extra-time sees Haverfordwest’s Oscar Borg stride forward and shoot over the cross bar, but then disaster strikes as a mess in the Haverfordwest goal mouth ends with a shot which is blocked on the goal line by Rhys Abruzzese and the referee awards a penalty for handball. Jann Julian Benjaminsen accepts the referee’s gift to the people of the Faroe Islands and scores high into the net as Zac Jones dives, conveniently for Benjaminsen, in the opposite direction.  A minute of added on time is played and the final fifteen minutes of the European tour beckon.

Naturally, Haverfordwest attack.  A shot is tipped over the bar for a corner, Martell Taylor-Crossdale is crowded out and falls down in the penalty area; was he shoved?  A shout of “The referee’s a wanker” from somewhere behind me suggests someone thinks he was, but it could be cramp.  When they get the ball, Torshavn pass it around just to retain possession, which they do quite well.  With the game into two minutes of added on time, Zac Jones heads up field to join the throng in the penalty area for a corner but, there’s to be no glorious goal from the goalkeeper tonight, and no glorious penalty saves.

With the final whistle, the applause from the crowd is every bit as loud and appreciative as it might have been had Haverfordwest won, it just lacks the roar and the beaming smiles.  Paulene and I stay for a while to pay our respects before heading off into the night for Ninian Park station.  It’s 10:30 when we get there; the last train is at five to eleven, but the information screen says it’s not expected until eight minutes past.  With over half an hour to wait on a bleak cold platform we decide it will be quicker to walk, and this is how our European Tour ends.

Haverfordwest County 1 FK Skandija 0

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(1-1 on aggregate, Haverfordwest win 3-2 on penalties)

Entering the world in Haverfordwest, Pembrokeshire just a couple of days before the great Welsh statesman Aneurin Bevan departed it, in July 1960, I sadly didn’t hang about in Wales for very long and instead grew up on the far side of neighbouring England, in Suffolk.  I always liked the idea of being a bit Welsh however, and having developed an interest in football I quietly hankered for the day when I might watch Haverfordwest County play; but distance, idleness and following Ipswich Town home and away  each week conspired for over fifty years to deny me the opportunity, although I did twice get as far as Swansea and have become an avid viewer of S4C’s Sgorio.  Then, earlier this year, having finished seventh in the twelve team Welsh Premier League, Haverfordwest unexpectedly won two penalty shoot-outs against Cardiff Metropolitan University and Newtown in an unlikely European qulification play-off success. Haverfordwest, known also as The Bluebirds, were drawn to play FK Shkendija, a team from North Macedonia and the second leg of the tie was to be played at the Cardiff City Stadium in Cardiff.  Cardiff seems a lot closer and indeed is quite a bit closer to my home near Colchester than Haverfordwest; I’d been to Ninian Park and the new place a few times before to see Ipswich play Cardiff City and as this would be a landmark game, being only the second time ever that Haverfordwest had qualified for European football I decided that this was the time to at last fulfil my ambition and see Haverfordwest County in the flesh.

Travelling to Cardiff was a breeze in my planet saving Citroen e-C4, even if the initial stop to recharge the batteries at Membury Services had to be abandoned because the touch screen on the electric charger didn’t work.  But the chargers at Leigh Delamere services were all functioning and my wife Paulene and I arrived in plenty of time at our hotel to sample the delights of Cardiff Bay with its Norwegian sailors’ church, Welsh Assembly building, National Arts Centre, pierhead building and shops and bars, which seemed almost exactly the same as the shops and bars in every other waterfront development we’d ever been to.

 Today, we traipsed round Cardiff Castle, sampled the local Brains beer (it’s great saying “I’ll have a pint of Brains please”) and dodged hundreds of students in mortar boards and gowns and their parents and siblings all dressed up to the nines to be there when the degrees are handed out.  We ate in Wally’s delicatessen and coffee house, which is in one of the many arcades in Cardiff.  Wally, I learned, was a refugee from Nazi Austria in 1939.  Luckily for him, we didn’t have a Tory government in 1939 or else his café might be a floating one on a hulk in Cardiff Bay.

It’s a good forty-minute walk from our hotel to the Cardiff City Stadium, which means it takes Paulene and me an hour, because she’s only short and doesn’t walk very fast.  We pass the railway station and what was the Millenium Stadium; a bloke in the pub told me it’s now known as the Principality Stadium, not because Wales is a principality, although it is, but because since 2016 the Principality building society has been paying for the privilege. We walk across the bridge over the River Taff and into Tudor Street, which leads into Ninian Park Road.  As well as houses, Tudor Street has many small shops and takeaways, and realising I have forgotten to bring a pen and paper to jot down notes from tonight’s match, I go into the Al-Ismah shop at number 52 where, unable to find me a small enough notebook, the very kind man behind the counter tears five pages from his own notepad. “Would you like them stapled together?” he asks.  “…and do you need a pen?  Thanking him gushingly, I let him staple the pages for me, but happily I do already have a pen.  “What a great bloke and perhaps another refugee” I think to myself.

The Cardiff City Stadium is a disappointing looking structure, clad in grey metal and standing across a large car park beyond a Lidl and a retail park.  I photographed it from the top of Cardiff Castle earlier today, but it could be anywhere; Southampton, Derby, Leicester, Reading, they all look much the same. With no sites to see here we head quickly for the turnstiles.  My ticket says to go to Entrance 9, but as we look to step beyond the first turnstiles we come to, a steward steps in front of me and says that’s been changed, it seems we’ve been downgraded to Entrance 5.  Getting into the stadium is not easy, I’ve got the e-mail ready on my phone,  but apparently I needed to put it in my ‘wallet’, whatever that is.  I saw on the e-mail that it said “Click to put in wallet” but I thought I could equally not click if I didn’t want to put in my wallet, and not really understanding how a phone could have a wallet I didn’t want to put the ticket in there anyway.  As usual in these situations my wife Paulene takes over and downloads a wallet and puts the tickets in it.  The steward at the turnstile, a man with grey hair not unlike myself, tells me he leaves all this kind of thing to his wife as well.  Experience now tells me that on balance, matrimony is probably a good thing.

Just inside the stadium, a well-located man with what looks like a huge fold-out suitcase-come-wardrobe is flogging scarves for £15 that announce when you hold them up “Haverfordwest European Tour”.  Naturally, I buy one.  With no ticket stub or programme from this fixture, I need a souvenir of some sort to put away in a cupboard and never look at again before I die, when my stepsons will finally put it in a skip as they clear my house. Glowing with pride at the scarf around my neck, I am now in the sort of mood where I will pay a staggering £6.35 for a paper carton of Amstel beer, possibly the World’s most bland fizzy beverage. Paulene gets more intoxicated on a bottle of water for £2.50 and we head for our seats, but stop to chat with the stewards at the top of the stairs.  They tell us there is an expected crowd of 1,200 tonight and we can sit where we want regardless of what it says on our tickets, although the visiting supporters are sitting mostly to the left, so we might want to turn to the right.

We wait for kick off and enjoy the music over the appalling public address system, which includes The Jam’s version of The Kinks’ David Watts and Jeff Becks’ Hi-Ho Silver lining; it almost sounds as if I’m back in 1984 when, with my friend Stephen who I’d known since primary school, I first visited Ninian Park, arriving by train courtesy of half-price rail tickets from a promotion by Persil washing powder. We walked down Tudor Street that day too as I did today; it hasn’t change much.  As I recall, the match was an FA Cup third round tie and Ipswich won 3-0.

Eventually, kick-off approaches and the teams are announced, albeit incomprehensibly over the echoing public address system by a seemingly dyslexic announcer for whom Bluebirds’ Kai Whitmore swaps first names with a make of Korean car.  The names of the visiting team sound like random animal noises transmitted through the medium of a bowl of water, but we don’t care too much and in truth it only adds to our enjoyment.  The sun sinks slowly below the stand at the Lidl supermarket end and the game begins. Haverfordwest are a goal down from the first-leg but get first go with the ball as the sun goes down behind them.  Haverfordwest wear all navy blue with pale blue and white chevrons on their fronts and Shkendija are all in white.   The hollow sound of clapping and the cheers of a handful of excited individuals echo briefly around the thirty-one and a half thousand empty blue plastic seats that surround us all on three sides.

Seven minutes pass and the Shkendija supporters begin to chant.  “Bluebirds, Bluebirds” comes the response from somewhere up over my right shoulder as Pembrokeshire rises to the challenge. Fifteen minutes have gone and Haverfordwest win a corner in the aftermath of a free-kick.

“Why are their numbers so high” says the bloke behind me to the bloke next to him, having presumably spotted that two Shkendija players are sporting shirts numbered seventy-seven and ninety-five.   “I don’t know” replies his accomplice, “I think it’s an east European thing”.   “You wouldn’t get a ninety-seven unless you were a development player” he continues, strangely sounding both knowledgeable and a bit clueless at the same time.  I notice the bloke in front of me is wearing a top with the crest of Undy Athletic FC emblazoned on the back; I joke feebly to myself that rival fans probably think Undy Athletic are pants. It smells like the bloke in front or the bloke next to him might have farted.  Nearly half an hour has passed and Haverfordwest have their first real shot on goal.

“Blueb-i-rds” bellows a voice sounding like a foghorn from a ghostly collier in Cardiff Bay.  There’s a little less than ten minutes until half-time and a Shkendija player shoots straight at Haverfordwest goalkeeper Zac Jones. It’s a rare bit of excitement in a cagey first half when the loudest cheers have been for Shkendija players dribbling the ball into touch or for timely interceptions by Haverfordwest defenders.  Personally, I’ve mostly been learning about the geography of Malaysia; reading adverts around the ground beseeching me to visit Sabah, Johor, Terengganu and Pahang, places I’d previously never even heard of.  Courtesy of their club’s owner, Cardiff City fans must now be the EFL’s most knowledgeable on the tourist traps of Malaysia.

Five minutes remain until half-time and Haverfordwest have what might be a chance to score as a cross is swung in from the right, and their massive number 18, Tyrese Owen, a man seemingly double the size of anyone else on the pitch, swings a leg, but can only divert the ball over the cross bar from six yards out.  As if provoked, Shkendija respond, and number seven puts number five through on goal with just Jones to beat for a 2-0 aggregate lead, but he can only boot the ball wide of the Haverfordwest goal post.  In the final minute of the half Haverfordwest then make desperate calls for a penalty as the ball passes in front of number five at hand height, but the referee is understandably not impressed and after the game’s first booking (for Haverfordwests’s Ben Fawcett) and a minute of added on time it’s half-time, a time to wander beneath the stand and enjoy a welcome burst of the Undertones’ Teenage Kicks over the tannoy.  Paulene admits to having become bored and a bit cold.

Within three minutes of the re-start a Shkendija player flashes a header past a Haverfordwest post and six minutes later, perhaps by way of revenge Haverfordwest earn a corner.  I’m becoming more familiar with the Haverfordwest team as the game progresses and particularly like full-back with Oscar Borg with his mop of dark woolly hair and the bald-headed and bearded, chunky Emperor Ming lookalike Jazz Richards.  Haverfordwest win another corner and the ball is cleared off the goal line.  A yellow glow now shines through the Perspex at the back of the stand at the Lidl end and the game is clearly getting more competitive as the booking count racks up for both sides.  Shkendija’s Eraldo Cinari and the wonderfully named Kilsman Cake go onto my list of players who impress.

Shkendija win a rash of corners, Adents Shala heads wide, Ennur Totre shoots straight at Zac Jones and Haverfordwest lead 4-2 on bookings as the first substitutions are made. Ten minutes of normal time remain and Zac Jones makes a brilliant diving save from a header to keep the score on the night goalless.  Off to our left a Shkendija supporter in a red shirt and black bucket hat stands to conduct his fellow supporters in songs and chants, although he seems to forget the words at one stage, but gets a laugh.

Full-time is looming and I’m beginning to resign myself to Haverfordwest being knocked out, but they win another corner as the stewards line up at the front of the stand; presumably anticipating a possible a pitch invasion, but I’m not sure by whom.  Three minutes to go and Haverfordwest appeal more in hope than expectation for a penalty and are awarded a free-kick at the edge of the box, which requires a decent save from the Shkendija goalkeeper. Was that the last chance of an equaliser?  There’s a minute left of normal time but it turns out not to be normal at all as the ball skitters across the back of the penalty area  and Lee Jenkins swings a leg at it. The ball strikes a defender and deflects off, high up into the goal net beyond a hapless, flailing goalkeeper and Haverfordwest have only gone and equalised.  I leap from my seat in disbelief with fifteen hundred others.  The goal is so unexpected,  so late, and so precious  it ranks as one of the ‘best’ I’ve ever seen.  Being one of a relatively small crowd in a stadium much too large for us somehow just adds to the experience, it makes me feel like we are in a world within a world, an alternative reality. Wow.

“You’re not singing anymore” chant the Pembrokeshire contingent to the tune of Cwm Rhondda, but the visitors clearly understand some English because they immediately begin to sing again; perhaps we should have sung in Welsh (dydach chi ddim yn canu mwyach? Blame Google if it’s wrong). There’s still time for a corner for each team as time-added-on is added on and Shkendija almost equalise with a header that skids past the post, and then it’s extra-time, but it feels like we’ve won already.

Extra time sees an early exchange of corner kicks and Cinari whacks a 35 yarder over Zac Jones’ cross-bar. “Oi Borat” shouts a female voice, which doesn’t seem very politically correct and Shkendija win a couple more corners and a free-kick as they begin to dominate a visibly shattered home team, who one by one seemingly all fall victim to cramp.  Shkendija are full-time players, Haverfordwest are not, this doesn’t seem fair.  But breaking through the pain barrier Lee Jenkins chases back to execute a brilliant saving tackle. From the corner a shot is touched past the post and from another Cake heads over the bar.  The final minute of extra time arrives with Shkendija taking yet another corner and then appealing for a penalty for handball, which the referee, who remains anonymous, waves away with wonderfully dismissive and assertive body language. 

Haverfordwest might be clinging on to parity by the tips of their studs, but Shkendija are desperate and number 77 Florent Ramadani shoots wide with an extravagance to match his shirt number.  Being the only Bluebird not suffering from cramp, goal keeper Zac Jones feigns an equally extravagant  dive for the ball to ease the tension and it works, the game is over and it’s penalties.

I’m happy to say I’ve not seen many penalty shoot outs;  the one I do remember I do so because it was so bad, Ipswich beating Luton 2-1 in the long forgotten Zenith Data Systems Cup. Tonight’s penalty shoot-out starts badly for Haverfordwest; missing the first one is horrible, even more so when Shkendija score theirs, it feels like that’s it; over.  But it isn’t and soon Haverfordwest have taken a 3-1 lead.  If Kamer Qaka now misses or Zac Jones saves we win; but Qaka scores. It’s 3-2.  Now Ben Fawcett only has to score and Haverfordwest win. Surely he will score, he has to, but instead he blazes the ball out into Cardiff Bay, just so we get our money’s worth.  Shkendija have already missed two penalties, they won’t miss again and then it will be 3-3, and then who knows?  Florent Ramadani of the extravagant number 77 shirt and extravagantly wide shot steps up.  He shoots.  Zac Jones saves!  Haverfordwest win! Bloody Hell!

What a night this has been. I have seen a lot of football in fifty odd years of going to games, I’ve seen Ipswich Town win the FA Cup and the UEFA Cup and a play-off final, but tonight is up there with the most memorable of matches and tonight I’ve never been so happy and proud to have been born in Haverfordwest.  Come On You Bluebirds!

Ipswich Town 0 Cheltenham Town 0

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It’s been a while since I’ve been to watch the Town at Portman Road, having forgone the last six matches thanks to the pandemic.  But it’s been a lot longer since I last saw Cheltenham Town play (7th September 2002 at Layer Road, Colchester to be precise), and it’s a lot longer still since Cheltenham Town played at Portman Road (19th March 1938 in the Southern League).  Add to the weight of history the fact that because I am not in my nineties, I have never seen Ipswich Town play Cheltenham Town at Portman Road, and you have the recipe for an evening of excitement to rival that of the last match I saw live, Town versus Barrow in the FA Cup, a truly awful goalless draw as I recall.  On days like this I don’t miss the Championship one little bit.  What’s being in the third division for if it’s not for playing the likes of Cheltenham Town?  Live for the moment and breathe as deep as you dare.

Rocking up on Anglesea Road at twenty-seven minutes to seven, I park my trusty Citroen C3 on a single yellow line and head for what I call the Arboretum pub, but the current occupiers label the Arbor House.  Eight minutes later I have hurried as quickly as I could through the bar, pausing only to mumble a request for a pint of Lacon’s ‘Jack Valentine’ (£3.80) through my face mask, and now I sit in the peace, solitude and creeping cold of the softly lit beer garden.  Amusing myself with the wonders accessible on my mobile phone I sip my beer and get into the funky groove of the righteous soul music climbing out of the plastic speaker in the corner of the garden shelter in which I’m sat. If I didn’t know I was in Ipswich I’d think I was in 1970’s Harlem as the sounds of Sir Joe Quatermain and Free Soul ((I got) so much trouble in my mind (1973)); Smokey Robinson (Baby that’s backatcha (1975)) and the Bobby “Blue” Band (Ain’t no love in the heart of the city (1974)) move my feet and my boogie body.  Beginning to feel like I’ve stepped back in time and looking forward to seeing the likes of Ian Collard, David Johnson and Colin Harper at Portman Road tonight I suddenly return to the now with the realisation that for £3.80 I could probably have bought everyone in the pub a drink or may be two in 1973, although I would have been a tad underage to have done so.

Leaving my reverie in the pub garden I head for Portman Road, my heart leaping a little as I catch a first glimpse of the glare of the floodlights in the night sky.  I approach the ground along Alderman Road to manufacture that ‘going to the match’ down terraced streets feel.  In the back of the Sir Bobby Robson (North) stand supporters already in the ground appears as silhouettes on the stairs and through the plate glass windows of the concourse.  Having purchased nothing with coins of the realm for over a month I recklessly buy both a programme (£3.50) and a Turnstile Blue fanzine (£1). I walk between the rows of fumy supporters’ buses lined up opposite the old tram depot and approach the Sir Alf Ramsey stand from the Constantine Road gate, eventually returning to Portman Road through turnstile number 60. I’m back.

In the stand I reacquaint myself with Pat from Clacton and ever-present Phil who never missed a game until he caught Covid; they’ve missed me, or at least that’s what they tell me; they’re nice like that. With seconds to go before kick-off Fiona arrives too and I say hello to the man who sits to my right, who I always imagine is older than me, but possibly isn’t.  The game begins; Town getting first go with the ball, but I am quickly struck by how disappointed I am by Cheltenham’s kit. In my mind’s eye, a phrase that reminds me of my favourite Small Faces song, I see Cheltenham Town in red and white stripes, but tonight they sport a sort of knock-off Arsenal shirt with pinstripes and a Raglan sleeve.  The Raglan sleeve incidentally is the least desirable of all the sleeves for use on a football shirt.

Aside from the shirts, the football is fast and frantic, with Wes Burns uncontrollably shooting over the cross bar from close range after five minutes, and Bersant Celina making a weaving run before dipping the ball over the cross bar not five minutes later as Town confidently dominate their sartorial inferiors. The ostentatiously bald-headed referee, Mr Andy Davies, unexpectedly makes me think of the similarly hairless, on-loan St Etienne goalkeeper Paul Bernadoni, before a man behind me with a slightly Northern or Midlands accent annoys with a laugh that sounds like Disney’s Goofy.  “Unlucky, unlucky, unlucky; keep going, keep going, keep going” says an oddly repetitive woman from behind as another Town attack comes to nought and the Sir Bobby Robson Stand show signs of life, breaking into Boney M’s “Mary’s Boy Child”, to sing as ever of ceaseless fighting despite Norwich having run away, and all apparently and mysteriously because of Boxing Day.   High up in the Cobbold Stand the Cheltenham followers reveal a lack of originality matched only by their lack of memory as they chant “We forgot, we forgot we forgot that you were here” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda. With my attention back on the pitch, I can’t help but guffaw as Cheltenham’s  Reece Hutchinson hurls himself headlong to the ground in a wonderfully unconvincing attempt to cheat his way to a free-kick.  What was I thinking, staying away to avoid Covid when I could have been a part of this rich tapestry?

Ipswich’s dominance is total and is such that two of our three defenders, Janoi Donacien and Luke Woolfenden are seen exchanging forward passes within twenty-five metres of the Cheltenham goal.  Then a deep, angled Tommy Carroll cross is met with a diving header from Conor Chaplin, only for Cheltenham goalkeeper Owen Evans to palm the ball away in front of Bersant Celina, who is taken too much by surprise to attempt to kick the ball back at the goal.  I’m just thinking how we haven’t been able to exploit Kayden Jackson’s ability to run very fast, when he suddenly breaks down the left, but when he comes to cross the ball he seems to have become over excited and at the far post the ball skids off the forehead of Conor Chaplin at such speed that it must have caused a friction burn.  It somehow feels as if everyone is just a bit too eager,  but out of the blue at the North Stand end Christian Walton fails to clear the ball successfully and his scuffed effort falls to a Cheltenham’s theatrically named Elliott Bonds, but fortunately Bonds’ left footed shot sails hopelessly high above the goal.

Town’s onslaught resumes and Cheltenham show the first sign of resorting to non-footballing tactics to relieve the pressure. “Oh, get up you wanker” says a polite sounding woman behind me as a red-shirted defender lays prostrate on the turf following a gentle collision with another bloke in a football shirt.  “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” chant the Cheltonians predictably in a quiet moment, and equally predictably no one responds.  Kayden Jackson delivers a slightly limp shot into the arms of Owen Evans and with the first half half-over, Town win their first corner, from which Tommy Carroll shoots impressively wide to the extent that the ball arcs away from the goal and stays on the pitch; Bersant Celina spots the unlikely trajectory and crosses the ball back into the ‘mixer’ but there’s no happy end to the incident.

 The second half of the first half plays out in a succession of Town corners and missed goal attempts.  Much of the first half football has been as exciting as it’s ever been at Portman Road in the past twenty years, but the plain truth is there has been no one to put the ball in the net.  As the half draws to a close Wes Burns turns to lash the ball back into the area in front of the goal from the by-line, but the ball strikes Hutchinson’s outstretched arm or possibly arms; VAR would doubtless have recorded the crime but instead Town are awarded another corner from which Luke Woolfenden deftly diverts a graceful header very precisely over the cross bar.

With the half-time whistle the Cheltenham players jog hastily and as one from the pitch, as if someone had just said “last one back in the changing room’s a sissy”.   By contrast Town’s players seem either less enthused, or just less sensitive to childish name calling.  It seems more likely they are lost in thought, grappling to understand how they are not two or three goals up. Forgetting about football for a bit I pop down to the front of the stand to talk to Ray, his grandson Harrison and Harrison’s dad.  Behind us stadium announcer and former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster hands over his microphone to comedian and TV personality Omid Djalili, but sadly his words are completely scrambled by the hopeless public address system. Meanwhile Harrison’s dad offers me what the Tim Horton’s website enticingly describes as a ‘mini donut style cake ball’.  I am warned that it will probably taste of maple syrup; but contrarily it tastes of cinnamon. Whilst not ungrateful, and happy to ingest either cinnamon or maple syrup flavoured foodstuffs I am happy not to be offered another.

Cheltenham Town kick-off the second half by lumping the ball down field in the traditional manner.  Town soon get back to winning corners, but with much less frequency than before and somehow the speed and excitement of the first half has departed, leaving in its place mis-directed passes and an unsporting belief amongst the Cheltenham team that they could break away and score a goal of their own.   I remain full of hope, but either Town have lost their mojo or Cheltenham have worked us out.  The game descends into more of a battle with half an hour to go as Cheltenham’s Charlie Colcutt becomes the first player to enter Mr Davies’ address book for a heinous foul on Wes Burns and then the substitutions begin with Kane Vincent-Young replacing Dominic Thompson and the oddly named Macauley Bonne appearing in lieu of Kayden Jackson.  Cheltenham stopper Lewis Freestone is next to have his name etched in copper plate in baldy-Davies’s book as ten minutes later the Cheltenham number six ruthlessly chops down Conor Chaplin.

One bright spot in the second half is the announcement of the night’s attendance of 21,318, of whom 251 are supporting Cheltenham.  Pat from Clacton announces to Fiona and I that the winner of the Clacton supporters’ coach guess the crowd competition is the squirrel that steals the food from the bird table in her garden. I explain to Fiona that squirrels are very clever animals, but I didn’t know they enjoyed coach travel.

Following speed, excitement and accurate passing, enjoyment now leaves the game as Callum Wright of Cheltenham hangs about too long in a prone position on the turf and draws the vitriol of the Sir Bobby Robson stand for his trouble.  “Wanker, Wanker!” roar the lower tier to Wright’s bemusement as he is soon substituted with Aaron Ramsey.  “How could they tell?” he must be wondering to himself as he looks for hairs on the palms of his hands.  Time is running out and in desperation a chant of “Come On You Blues!” is sent out into the ever more chilly night air.  But the chant is only repeated twice more, almost as if everybody feels a bit self-conscious about shouting for any longer than that.  

The final ten minutes are miserable as Cheltenham players spend an unusual amount of time apparently suffering from cramp, something that I thought only happened in extra time in Wembley Cup finals.  Sadly, the ever-unresourceful Town fans can only think of chanting “Boring Boring, Cheltenham” rather than urging on their own team to victory by turning Portman Road into a frightening cauldron of noise.  Cheltenham do waste time, but what professional football team doesn’t when they are close to claiming a hoped for but not necessarily expected away point?  

“Come on Ipswich, score in the final second” I say to creation as the sixth minute of added on time ebbs away. But the final whistle blows, and it feels a bit like we’ve lost.  That’s the trouble with expectation, especially when you’ve not had any for a while.  Not to worry, I think I’ll still be back again next time.

Ipswich Town 0 Barrow 0

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When I first became interested in football at the tender age of ten, Barrow were in Division Four and had been in the Football League since 1921, when they were elected as original members of Division Three North.  In my Observer’s Book of Football, the one that has a picture of Bobby Charlton on the dust jacket, it states “Honours have always been elusive for Barrow” and it goes on to say that Barrow had just “one season of triumph”, in 1967 when they finished third in Division Four. Sadly for Barrow, by the time I first saw them play, at Layer Road, Colchester in 1990, they had been replaced in the Football League by Hereford United and were not yet half way through a forty-eight year stint in non-league football.  Thirty years on and today, through the wonder of the 2nd round of the FA Cup, Ipswich Town and Barrow meet for the first time ever. I’ve been looking forward to today’s game to some extent since 1971, but more tangibly since the Cup draw was made, and in reality since Idris El Mizouni’s cracking goal ensured Oldham Athletic wouldn’t be making an unexpected run to Wembley.

As befits an FA Cup Day, the sun is shining gloriously, although with little impact on the outdoor temperature as I stroll across Gippeswyk Park and up Portman Road beneath clear azure skies.     Portman Road is notable this afternoon for the atypical absence from the car park behind Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue of some of the usual vendors of chips and other grease-based foods sold inside spongy ‘bread’ products.  There is also a corresponding shortage of human beings in Portman Road today compared to other match days, and whilst you might infer from this that people only come for the grease-based foods, the sadder truth is that the FA Cup simply doesn’t attract football fans like it once did.  I can recall paying full-price to watch Town play fourth division Halifax Town and Hartlepool United in the company of about 24,000 other souls back in the late 1970’s, and now find it hard to understand why with reduced ticket prices the lure of Cup glory against such Northern exotics is no longer an attraction.  In this age of instant gratification and tv reality game shows, Cup football should be more popular than ever with its promise of advancement to the next round and the jeopardy of defeat and expulsion from the competition after just ninety minutes; Death or Glory as The Clash sang just a year after Town lifted the FA Cup. The tyranny of Sky tv and the Premier League is clearly to blame.

Having purchased a match day programme (£2), I head on to what was The Arboretum pub back in the days when 24,000 turned up to see Hartlepool United and Halifax Town at Portman Road,  but is now The Arbor House.  With a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.80) in my cold right hand I sit and wait for Mick in the garden.  Mick soon arrives with a pint of Mauldon’s Molecatcher, a packet of Fairfields Farm cheese and onion crisps and a cup of dry-roasted peanuts.  Mick explains that Molecatcher is brewed to the same recipe as Suffolk Pride but is less alcoholic; I can’t really see the advantage of that at the moment, but our conversation explores various avenues from last night’s Have I Got News For You tv programme to nuns before it is time to walk down the hill past Ipswich Museum to Portman Road.

Today, taking advantage of the reduced flat rate ticket price (£10 for adults and £5 for concessions plus £1.50 each for the pleasure of buying them, which goes to a parasitic organisation called Seatgeek) we are in the top tier of what was the West Stand, but is now the Magnus Group Stand. We are in Block Y where the seats are brown in colour, not because of any sort of unpleasant staining but merely because I imagine brown looked ‘classy’ in 1982 when the top tier was opened; the seats are also padded.  I bought our tickets soon after they went on sale and we benefit from being close to the stairway or vomitorium, and just two seats in from the gangway, so only two old men must rise from their seats for us to access ours.  With everyone in their winter coats it’s a tight squeeze nevertheless.

The teams appear to an introduction from stadium announcer Stephen Foster worthy of the occasion and with knees taken and duly applauded the game begins;  a strong Town team getting first go with the ball and kicking towards the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, formerly plain old Churchman’s.  Town are wearing their traditional blue shirts and socks and white shorts whilst Barrow are in an unexpectedly stylish pale pink shirt and socks with black shorts, vaguely reminiscent of Sicily’s Palermo or the now defunct Evian Thonon Gaillard, briefly of French Ligue 1.   The largely empty stadium is filled with a sense of expectation as the game starts and the murmur of a nascent chant can be detected from the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  Within a minute of kick-off however silence reigns.

From the start Town look as hesitant and short of ideas as their supporters are of rousing supportive chants. It is Barrow who show the first serious attacking intent as several players in pink break forward “They’re all offside, nine of ‘em; except him” says a man with a loud and annoying voice a couple of rows behind me as Barrow’s number eleven Josh Kay bears down on goal beneath the shade of the Magnus Group Stand.  The same voice is all too audible a short while later as Barrow break forward again. “Toto, Toto, leave him alone Toto” he calls as Toto Nsiala tracks a Barrow player into the Town penalty area and makes a tackle before he can fashion a shot on goal.  Had Toto Nsiala followed the spectator’s advice it is likely Barrow would have scored or at least had a shot on target. It’s not a good start by Town or their supporters.  But as a consolation the low winter sun is reflecting a sparkling yellow light back off the windows of the Guardian Royal Exchange office block on Civic Drive, so although the football isn’t, the backdrop is gently inspiring.

Over twenty minutes pass and Barrow earn two free-kicks in quick succession in the Town half and then win the game’s first corner.  Barrow come close to scoring twice as one free header hits a post and then one from Mark Ellis is saved by Christian Walton.  Barrow’s Josh Kay shoots and his shot is tipped over the bar by Christian Walton. “Come on Lambert, sort it out” bawls the ruddy-faced old boy sat in the seat next but one from mine.   Nobody reacts in the seats around me; I fear some of my fellow supporters might have died. I turn to Mick and dare him to shout “Robson Out”.

 It takes Town over half an hour to have a shot on goal worthy of the name as Scott Fraser eventually launches a shot over the cross-bar from outside the penalty box.  I remark to Mick that with the number eleven on the back of his shirt and his short brown hair, from this distance Fraser sometimes makes me think of Mick Lambert.  “I can’t think what Mick Lambert looks like” says Mick. “Well I expect he looks a bit different now” I respond.   Idris El-Mizouni is booked for a foul, a little harshly in my opinion and I wonder to myself whether referee Mr Sam Purkiss is a closet French nationalist in the thrall of Marine Le Pen.  As half-time approaches a rare moment of hope sees Conor Chaplin break away and from a low cross earn a second corner for Town, and then the oddly named Macauley Bonne strides forward to unleash an appallingly bad shot which results in a throw-in to Barrow. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuckin’ ‘ell was that?” sing the Barrovians up in the Cobbold stand in the time honoured fashion. “Good question” mutters the old boy next to me to himself.

Half-time comes as a welcome relief and whilst Mick gains further relief using the facilities, I remain in the stand alongside the two old boys. The match resumes at three minutes past four as dusk descends to shroud Suffolk’s County town in chilly December darkness.

Half-time has brought change and Joe Pigott has replaced Idris El-Mizouni who hadn’t looked sure where he was meant to be playing, with Sam Morsy seemingly competing with him for the ball in midfield.  Within three minutes Joe Pigott has found space and strikes a post with a firm shot.  Pigott’s presence continues to make a difference as he seeks space behind the Barrow defence and controls and lays the ball off in a manner which the oddly named Macauley Bonne has so far appeared incapable of doing.  Things are looking up and the Sir Bobby Robson stand feels moved to sing a song which has quite a lot of words, few of which I am able to decipher, but then Kay scoops a shot over the bar for Barrow when it was certainly no more difficult to get his shot on target.

This is a much better half for Town and I sense a glimmer of optimism amongst the Town followers in the meagre crowd of 6,425, of whom a respectable 205 are from Barrow.  The mood hasn’t affected the loud man behind me however, who continues to provide a mainly sarcastic commentary, which sounds both smug and moronic in its delivery.  He clearly doesn’t like Toto Nsiala and bewilderingly urges him to chip the ball over Christian Walton as Toto turns it back towards goal, before saying “He was tempted”.  This man has the sort of voice that would make a more violent person than myself want to punch him in the throat.

Town now dominate possession and whilst still a little slow on the ball they are getting players down both flanks to put in crosses, an approach that is helped by bringing on the exciting Sone Aluko.  The Town  support has corresponding moments of enthusiasm and sing another song with plenty of hard to fathom words, but a simple chorus of “Addy, Addy, Addy – O”, which is the sort of thing heard sung by children in one of those black and white films from the early 1960’s such as A Taste Of Honey, and I half want to see Rita Tushingham and Dora Bryan warming up on the touchline.

As the match winds down into its final fifteen minutes the support wanes, and as we enter six minutes of normal time the ground is once again silent.  As ever, there is a late flurry of goal attempts as the realisation dawns on the players that their failure to score a goal can only result in an evening in Barrow-In-Furness.   Corners are won but no booming chants of “Come of You Blues” or  intimidatingly repetitive calls of “ Ipswich, Ipswich, Ipswich” materialise from the stands;  even the score board seems apathetic as each corner kick is met, not with an entreaty to shout support for the team, but instead a message about how the Ipswich Mortgage Centre “corners all your home improvement and mortgage needs”.    The old boys beside me leave with a couple of minutes to go.  Sam Morsy shoots over the cross bar from close range and substitute Cameron Humphreys heads against it , but Town don’t score and the breath saved by not shouting in support of the Town is expended in a chorus of sadly predictable boos and jeers.

Later this evening I will learn that the Town manager has been sacked and briefly I wonder to myself if the old boy sat next but one to me had been right; Paul Lambert had never actually left the club he’d just shaved the top of his head and swopped his Scottish accent for a Scouse one, but after nearly a season’s worth of games he’d finally been found out.   It’s certainly never dull being a Town fan, well except for the actual games that is. Try stopping me going through it all again in a fortnight’s time though. No, please, try.

Ipswich Town 1 Sheffield Wednesday 1

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Ipswich Town first played Sheffield Wednesday back in August of 1958 in a second division game at Portman Road; trolleybuses were still running in Ipswich and Sheffield still had trams the first time round.  Town of course won (2-0), as we often did before the turn of the century.   By the time I started watching Town the twentieth century had the best part of thirty years still to run, but Sheffield Wednesday were down in the third division and Town were just getting established in what has now unfortunately become the Premier League, and hence the two clubs never met, not even in the Cup.  The first time I saw Wednesday was therefore not against Ipswich at all but at Layer Road, Colchester, in September of 1979, neither team managed to score.  When I eventually did see Town play Wednesday it was at Hillsborough in September of 1984, halfway through the miner’s strike. After the 2-2 draw I was amongst Town fans who were whisked back to Sheffield Midland station at high speed in a double-decker bus escorted by police motorcycles. As we sped through the streets of Sheffield that Saturday evening, we felt unsure if we would end up at the train station or hurtling through a jeering picket line to do a strike-breaking shift at a local colliery. 

Today is a somewhat grey September Saturday morning and it feels nothing at all like thirty-seven years ago, the class struggle seems to have been lost and now both Town and Wednesday languish in the third division playing second fiddle to their loathsome local rivals. I don’t know if it has anything to do with a loss of revolutionary zeal, but my enthusiasm for today’s fixture is oddly muted, particularly given Town’s first win of the season last weekend, and as if to confirm my feelings of ennui this morning I chose to put on a pair of socks that depict Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’. Nevertheless, there is never any doubt that I won’t drive to Ipswich, park up my trusty Citroen C3 on Chantry, wander down through Gippeswyk Park and search out a pre-match beer. Later as I walk up Princes Street, what I assume is a police drone hovers above and I am struck by the new views of Portman Road that have been opened up following demolition of the former Mann Egerton garage from where in 1978 my father bought the brown Triumph Dolomite in which I wooed my first girlfriend.  Having witnessed a man shouting and swearing at his friend or partner trying unsuccessfully to back a mini into a parking space, I end up at the Arbor House (properly known as the Arboretum) where I sit alone in the garden and drink a pint of Woodforde’s Kett’s Rebellion (£3.80). 

At about twenty-five minutes to three I head for Portman Road and join the crocodile of supporters descending St George’s Street from the Greyhound.  Making my way along Sir Alf Ramsey Way and Constantine Road I show my Covid credentials and then enter the Sir Alf Ramsey stand through turnstile number sixty, offering a cheery ‘Hello’ and ‘Thank you’ to the turnstile operator as I enter the ground.  The programme seller in the driveway to the main reception has sold out so I make my way to the little shop at the far end of the stand where I buy a programme (£3.50). “Enjoy the match” says the young man behind the counter as he hands over the glossy booklet and my change from a five-pound note.  “Or bon match as they say in France”, I reply pointing to the “Allez les bleus” slogan on the front of my T-shirt as I turn away and walk into one of the metal barriers that have been set out in front of the shop, presumably to marshal the invisible throng of people over eager to buy programmes and other assorted toot.

On the lower tier of the stand Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, Ray, his son and his grandson Harrison are already in their seats. Pat from Clacton arrives soon after I sit down and as the teams run out, the little band called Blue Action who now occupy Section 6 of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and wave blue and white flags, and brandish a colourful banner that reads “Uppa Towen”.  Compared to the tifos seen in the stands of Marseille or Lens, Blue Action’s effort is rather pathetic, but in the context of soporific Suffolk it’s a bloody marvel and I like it very much.  At a minute past three the game begins with Scott Fraser making first contact with the ball as Town aim to put it in the big white goal just in front of me to my right.  Within 30 seconds Sheffield Wednesday win a corner with their supporters still singing along to ‘Hey Jude’, a song which is played over the PA system with the intention of rousing the home fans, not the away ones; but it’s good to be optimistic.  Three minutes later and Town should be ahead as a simple through ball from Cameron Burgess puts the oddly named Macauley Bonne through on goal, only for Bonne to take too much time and eventually place the ball weakly against the chest of Sheffield Wednesday goalkeeper Bailey Peacock-Farrell, a man who looks like a giant orange-flavour Lyons Maid Mivvi, sounds like a firm of accountants and can stop most shots by merely stringing his name out across the goalmouth.

Behind me two blokes debate which of Town’s two defensive midfielders is Idris El-Mizouni and which is Tommy Carroll. The louder, more assertive bloke concludes that Idris is number 25, which he is not, because that’s Tommy Carroll.  I briefly toy with the idea of turning around to point out his error, but happily his more cautious accomplice discovers the truth a short while later to save me the trouble.   Meanwhile, up in the Cobbold Stand the Sheffielders sing “Shall we sing a, Shall we sing a, Shall we sing a song for you” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.  Nobody responds, presumably because most people are thinking to themselves “Well, they’re already singing a song, what are they on about?”.  For my part, I’m impressed by their politeness and given a choice would ask for something by Heaven 17, Pulp or the Arctic Monkeys.

Fifteen minutes have elapsed since the game started and so far not very much of note has happened. Then, Wes Burns slams the ball into the net after either the oddly named Macauley Bonne or Scott Fraser flicks the ball on to him, but Burns is, unbeknown to me and those around me, offside; we therefore stand up as one and cheer wildly only to sit down again a moment later feeling cheated and very slightly embarrassed.  To their eternal credit the Wednesdayites do not chant “You thought you had scored, you were wrong, you were wrong”, which is nice of them.

The game is close and compelling although not of particularly good quality; Sheffield are quicker to the ball and dominate possession, but fortunately their tiny ten, the wonderfully named Barry Bannan tends to overhit most of his crosses and long passes.  For Town meanwhile, the oddly named Macauley Bonne looks somewhat lonely up front on his own and I surmise that he wears the number eighteen shirt because he’s doing the work of two number nines.

“It’s gonna come innit?” announces the bloke behind me optimistically as Town waste an opportunity with Idris El-Mizouni passing to Wes Burns when he could have had a shot and Wes Burns overhitting the ensuing cross.  Then, slightly unexpectedly, we witness a Sheffield Wednesday goal instead; Dennis Adeniran becoming the first man called Dennis, with two ‘n’s like the fire engines and dust carts, to score at Portman Road in living memory, although Denis (only one ‘n’) Maffey did score for Town back in September 1947 in a 4-0 win over Southend.

The Sheffield supporters away to my right are predictably pleased and sing an incomprehensible song to the tune of the ‘Yankee Doodle’ nursery rhyme; their euphoria and short vowels rendering their words indecipherable, but for the final one which is ‘Wednesday’.   I have to admit to feeling somewhat depressed that Town have gone behind again at home and can barely remember when I last saw them comfortably win a game by three or four goals to nil, like we used to do.   There must be young supporters who are barely aware that such things ever happened or are even possible.  Pat from Clacton echoes my disappointment. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” she says.

As if the frustration of being a goal down wasn’t enough, the referee Mr Andy Davies, whose head is conspicuously hairless, then proceeds to deny the oddly named Macauley Bonne a free-kick when his feet miraculously disappear from beneath him as he attempts to side step a Wednesday defender on the edge of the penalty box.   “You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand employing a childish simplicity reminiscent of the school playground.  Further decisions from the increasingly inept Mr Davies go against Town and as he speaks to and perhaps compares haircuts with a clearly perplexed Paul Cook, the crowd ask “Who’s the wanker in the black?” suggesting both that they haven’t read the back pages of their programmes carefully enough and that they care not about the possibility of either of the linesmen thinking “Ooh, I hope they don’t mean me?”.

The half-time break arrives and Town still trail, I console myself with a Nature Valley peanut and chocolate protein bar and a chat with Ray, who bemoans the performance of Mr Andy Davies and more controversially of Bersant Celina, who doesn’t look as fit or sharp as he might.  Not far from where Ray and I are standing former Town and Sheffield Wednesday player Shefki Kuqi appears, looking trim and very smart in a grey suit good enough for a job interview or court appearance, and takes the well-deserved applause of the whole ground.

At four minutes past four the football resumes and Town enjoy more possession, although a lot of it involves passing the ball across the field waiting for the right opening to appear.  It’s not long before Mr Davies is showing off his poor refereeing skills once again as Wednesday’s Liam Palmer is tripped on the edge of the Town penalty box.  Appearing uncertain whether the foul happened inside or outside the box, Mr Davies doesn’t give a foul at all, making it the Wednesdayites’ turn to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s doing, provoking ironic jeers from the Town supporters to which the Wednesday fans respond with a chant of “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here”. It’s easily done.

In the sixty-seventh minute Wednesday’s tiny ten, Barry Bannen, leaves the pitch as slowly as his little legs will carry him to be replaced by Callum Paterson.  Barry’s departure leaves Wednesday’s Sam Hutchinson as the only player on the pitch with particularly naff looking bleached blonde hair.  The oddly named Macauley Bonne shoots straight at Bailey Peacock-Farrell for a second time this afternoon, and then for a while substitutions seem to become the purpose of the game, as Wednesday swap seven for seventeen and Town swap Celina and Burns for Harper and Chaplin, before the oddly named Macauley Bonne has another opportunity, which this time is deflected away for a corner, and then Cameron Burgess heads wide of the goal.  For the first time this afternoon the Sheffield Wednesday support has fallen silent, although not as silent as most of the Ipswich crowd is the rest of the time .

Twelve minutes remain and as Sheffield make a rare foray forward, Idris El-Mizouni manages to fell two of them at once with a Keystone Cops style assault, which unfairly results in his being shown the yellow card by the hopeless Mr Davies, who plainly doesn’t appreciate good slapstick comedy when he sees it.  Not long afterwards Idris is replaced by Joe Piggott, but he leaves the field to appreciative and well-deserved applause having played a skilful, controlled game to be expected of a player who grew up in France.  He will be the new Zizou yet.

With the game entering its final throes, one of the seats in the row in front of me and to my left becomes occupied by what I can only describe as a gobby oik, who complains that Town are knocking the ball around like they’re winning.  He seems to know the bloke behind me and after flicking ‘v’ signs at the Sheffield supporters he turns to him seeking his approval; I’m not sure he gets it.  He doesn’t like that no one sings in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and I share his despair, but otherwise he seems a right berk and I hope he abides by his promise that he’ll watch the next game from the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.

Not much more than five minutes of normal time remain and Cheyenne Dunkley, who is even more oddly and improbably named than the oddly named Macauley Bonne, replaces Said Berahino for Wednesday.  Two minutes of normal time remain and Ipswich press for an equaliser. “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chant an almost respectable number of the home crowd, but slightly shyly.  Ninety minutes are up and from my seat it looks like Bailey Peacock- Farrell is about to make a drop kick, but suddenly the oddly named Macauley Bonne has the ball and the Wednesday defence is in disarray, Bonne passes back across the face of goal to  Scott Fraser and Fraser sends it onto Conor Chaplin at the far post and he smashes the ball into the gaping Wednesday net! We’ve equalised! Well, I wasn’t expecting that.

Most of time added on for assorted stoppages remains and Town have the opportunity to score the winner as Rekeem Harper surges unpredictably into the penalty box,  but shoots weakly at the orange Mivvi .  The remaining time ebbs away and the game ends with no further goals, although Scott Fraser makes a final flourish in Mr Davies notebook with a cynical trip.  As the players leave the pitch a good number of people stay back to applaud their efforts.  I am pleased that we haven’t lost, because I thought we were going to, but overall, I am still a little disappointed that we haven’t played better.  As I drive home listening to Radio Suffolk, mainly for the laughs, it’s a view that I learn the legendary Mick Mills also holds, although many listeners seem to disagree.  It is very unusual for me to be disappointed with a Town performance when other Town supporters aren’t.

The first home victory of the season still remains annoyingly elusive, but heck, we’re playing bottom of the table Doncaster Rovers next, so how difficult can it be, so I’ll stay positive and try not to wear the Edvard Munch socks again.