Henry VIIIās original ex, Catherine of Aragon died on the 7th January 1536 in Kimbolton, Cambridgeshire and was then buried in Peterborough cathedral, and indeed what is left of her still is. This burial is perhaps the city of Peterboroughās main claim to fame, and I must admit to being quite impressed, although given that after Henry split up with her in 1533 Catherine lived in Hatfield, Enfield , Ampthill and a couple of other places too before rocking up in Kimbolton it seems like just a bit of luck for Peterborough that she finally conked out in the PE postcode area. Peterboroughās other claim to fame is its football clubās impressive record in competitive fixtures against the mighty Ipswich Town. In sixteen games since November 1955 Peterborough have won nine, drawn four and lost only three fixtures. Amongst those victories for Peterborough were two FA Cup āgiant killingsā as a non-league club in the 1950ās and then this century a stonking 7-1 thrashing live on TV, although this can excused by the fact that Town were at the time managed by Roy Keane, who if not insane is at the very least a bit odd and after āHurst the Worstā was easily Townās most terrible ever manager.
Today sees the seventeenth competitive meeting between Ipswich Town and Peterborough United and just to make it memorable itās kicking off at 12:30pm, presumably to ensure anyone travelling from beyond the Ipswich area can get home in time to watch England lose to France on the telly in the World Cup quarter finals. For even more added interest, itās a particularly cold day with a thick frost clinging to the windows of my trusty Citroen C3 and many other surfaces as I prepare to set off for what I now call āThe Arbā for my usual pre-match drink with friend Mick. Having parked up the Citroen, the walk to Portman Road through Gippeswyk Park is glorious beneath a clear, pale blue sky across earth as hard as iron and frosted, quietly crunchy grass. The icy air feels clean and fresh as I breathe it in. On Ranelagh Road I follow a man for whom the peculiarly low crotch on his trousers makes him look like he has very short legs and a long body, but then again perhaps he has. Constantine Road is quiet and what used to be Portman Walk is too. As usual I pause to buy a programme (Ā£3.50) from the kiosk on the corner of Alderman Road. The kiosk window is steamed up due to the cold and I can only see the middle third of the programme seller, who remains legless and headless. To add to my retail experience, I go to pay by card, but the touch screen thing doesnāt work and I have to insert my card into the plastic contraption and tap in my PIN number. āI hope Iām not charged twiceā I tell the midriff, and a disembodied voice tells me to take it up in the shop if I am.
I cross the threshold of āThe Arbā at 11:15 and buy a pint of Mauldonās Suffolk Pride (Ā£3.95) which I take into the garden where I text Mick to tell him āJe suis dans le jardinā. Mick soon arrives, pint of Suffolk Pride in hand, and asks if my sitting in the garden is still a reaction to Covid. I tell him it is, but it also saves me having to take my coat off. Our conversation as ever is about sex and death. We finish our drinks by noon but hang on another ten minutes because we donāt want to arrive too early.
We join the match-bound crowd as we and it cross Civic Drive. What used to be Portman Walk is full of people crossing paths and making beelines for their chosen turnstiles. The low chatter of the crowd, the purposeful walking and checking of tickets, the approaching kick-off, itās all part of the mounting excitement. There is a queue at turnstiles 59 and 60 to the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and I find myself behind a man called Kevin. I compliment him on the 1970ās vibe of his cap, donkey jacket, Doc Martenās and turned up jeans, he says heās come as a Council dustman.



I step onto the former terrace of Churchmanās as the teams form parallel crocodiles onto the pitch and the crowd rises to applaud, it feels like quite an entrance. I edge past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to sit next but one to the man from Stowmarket. Two rows in front of me ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here, but his son Elwood is not. Phil and Fiona hand me Christmas cards and Stephen Foster the stadium announcer reads out the teams and then the match begins, with Peterborough getting first go with the ball. Town are rightfully in blue and white whilst Peterborough are sadly in black as if perhaps still mourning Catherine of Aragon, although apparently Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn both wore yellow to mourn her. The Aragonese flag is of yellow and red stripes which would make a cracking away kit. From up in the Cobbold stand comes the unlikely chant of āPeterborough, Peterborough FC, The finest football team the world has ever seenā to the tune of the Irish Rover. As if in response the Sir Bobby Robson stand sing something a bit tuneless, which nevertheless ends with a joyful āWo-oh-oh-oh-oh, Wo-oh-oh-ohhā and the melting frost that had been clinging to the roof of the stand drops in large, loud splashes on my SuperDry coat, which seems ironic.
The first ten or fifteen minutes of the game are a bit frantic and formless. With half the pitch in deep shade the sombrely dressed Peterborough players appear as dark silhouettes in the gloom, a bit like the people in an architectās conceptual drawing.Ā āFootball in a library, de-de-deā chant the Peterborough fans tunelessly before going for the jugular with the Welsh hymn Cwm Rhondda, to which they apply the words āYour support is fucking shitā, just like everyone from every other club always does, Ā
Peterboroughās hefty looking, almost chubby, and extensively surnamed Jonson Clarke-Harris goes down in a very large heap. āGet Up!ā bawls someone behind me not unreasonably, and with no one showing him much sympathy he does. Peterborough get the ball to the by-line. āCome on Boroā, Come On Boroā ā chant the away tribe supportively. āAddy, addy, addy-Oā chant the home fans happily. The flags on the Cobbold stand hang limply in the cold, still air.
Itās the thirteenth minute and itās unlucky for Janoi Donacien who is laid low by a mystery injury, perhaps due to the extreme cold, and he is replaced by Kane Vincent-Young. The first shot on goal arrives in the twentieth minute as Sone Aluko bounces a hooked attempt into the ground and past a post at the end of a move down the Ipswich right. Two minutes later and another move on the right ends with the ball played back and then crossed by Sam Morsy. Running towards the ball Conor Chaplain leaps and twists his neck to glance the ball into the far corner of the goal and give Town the lead. Itās a beautiful goal, but one that unearths that tired clichĆ© about the shortest player on the pitch scoring from a header, as if to say players under 1.8m in height arenāt allowed to jump.
I start to dream of another three points banked and more importantly a long-awaited victory over these upstarts with their medieval cathedral and royal tomb. A third of the match has now gone to join the reformation and Catherine of Aragon in the past and a woman arrives in the gangway next to Pat from Clacton, who appears to be lost. It seems she went to the loo and hasnāt been able to find her way back to her seat. Helpfully, ever-present Phil, who has the āknowledgeā to be a Sir Alf Ramsey stand taxi driver, if such a thing were possible, gives her directions āhomeā. Distracted by this incident perhaps, we have allowed Peterborough to win their first corner of the game and as a subsequent angled cross by Kwame Poku arcs towards the far post I spot Peterboroughās Frankie Kent lingering on his own and realise he is likely to score, and he does. Itās almost exactly like one of the goals Town conceded against Barnsley; it doesnāt help that Frankie Kent sounds like he could have been an associate of the Kray twins if given the pre-fix āmadā.
The goal provokes chants of āE-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the football league we goā from Peterborough which seems optimistic on the strength of one equalising goal, but you have to get your pleasures where you can. āWe should be shuttinā āem down a lot quicker that what we are doinā says the bloke behind me by way of explanation for our disappointment. āFuck off you cuntā shouts a less philosophical character from further behind me as the Peterborough goalkeeper Lucas Bergstrom then takes his time over a goal kick after Sam Morsy has sent a pretty solid looking shot narrowly wide of the goal.
Not unexpectedly the Peterborough fans now alter their words for Cwm Rhondda from āYour support is fucking shitā to āYouāre not singing anymoreā, failing to spot the inconsistency in their song-based argument.
Seven minutes until half time and Sone Aluko produces a piece of skill worthy of the great Clive Woods as he dribbles mazily to the by-line before pulling the ball back, only for Bergstrom to somehow get lucky and grab the ball as it is sent goalward by Wes Burns. Bergstrom stays down on the turf to eke out some more time and I decide that with his short, lank hair and lanky stature, from behind Bergstrom looks a bit like Gareth in āThe Officeā. Sam Morsy has two more shots on goal, one at Bergstrom and one over the cross-bar before Stephen Foster announces that there will be 3 minutes of added on time. A bit like the match versus Fleetwood, the game started quite well but has descended into uncertainty, but I take solace by chatting to Ray although his son Michael and grandson Harrison are absent today, having made one of their overly frequent visits to CenterParcs for rest and recuperation. Ray tells me about his cruise to Madeira and Cape Verde and how he vomited in the Bay of Biscay.






The match resumes at 13:36 and Cameron Burgess lumps the ball up field. Shadow now enshrouds most of the stadium and weirdly I have the sensation that I feel warmer when the ball is in one of the shrinking sunlit parts of the pitch. āCome on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswichā chants the crowd at the north end of the ground as if having resolved over a collective half-time cup of hot-chocolate to help the team to win today. It seems to work as the ball now stays mostly in the Peterborough half. Ten minutes into the second half and Town win their first corner courtesy of a nippy and busy Kayden Jackson. āCome On You Bluesā chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand just like in the old days, and a few of us join in around the ground. Down the right-hand side Wes Burns skips past one player and the crowd roars, he goes past another, and the roar is louder still producing a sound only ever heard when a wide player goes past a defender, and Iām reminded again of Clive Woods, Mick Lambert, Kevin OāCallaghan and Bobby Petta. There is momentum building and Town win a second corner. The ball is crossed from the left, a Peterborough head glances it away but only to Conor Chaplin who instantly controls it and slams it high into the roof of the goal net to give Town back the lead. Itās another perfect goal from Chaplin and itās the Town fansā turn to sing āE-I, E-I, E-I -O, Up the Football League goā, and with some justification as the goal takes Town back to the top of the third division.
The pressure on Peterborough continues for a while and Sam Morsy gets his customary booking, unusually for supposed diving, which draws chants of āYou donāt know what youāre doingā directed not at Morsy but at referee Ollie Yates; sadly and perhaps surprisingly neither assistant referee is called Stan, but strangely one of them does look a bit like Lionel Messi. Peterborough make multiple substitutions including bringing on a bloke called Jeandro Fuchs, a case of Fuchs on rather than Fuchs off. Mr Yates then achieves the ironic cheer from the crowd as he finally gives Town a free-kick. Behind me, the bloke who was displeased by Bergstrom in the first half has spotted what a big fellow Clarke Harris is. āLooks like he could be a scrum half, that cuntā he says, using his descriptive powers to the full.
Town make substitutions, bringing applause for departing Kayden Jackson and Sone Aluko, and this afternoonās attendance is announced as 24,849 with 1,230 of those being from Peterborough. āYour support, Your support, Your support is roughly 5% of ours (numerically speaking)ā chant the Magnus west stand, whilst the Sir Bobby Robson Stand quickly chant “Here for the Ipswich, Youāre only here for the Ipswichā before the away fans get the chance to claim that anyone has only turned up exclusively to see the Boroā. Incidentally, Catherine of Aragon came to Ipswich at some point between 1517 and 1522 to visit the Shrine of Our Lady of Ipswich which was somewhere near where Lady Lane is now, so just a couple of goal kicks away. On the Clacton supporters bus Kieron is todayās winner of the guess the crowd competition with an estimate of twenty-five thousand seven hundred and something.
After the excitement of the Town goal and the pressure that led to it, the game has settled down and Peterborough, despite being behind, are slow to get forward as they pass the ball about amongst themselves. āLet āem fuck around with itā calls the bloke behind me in a āsee if I careā tone of voice. Soon however, both teams are succeeding in frustrating their own supporters as Peterborough continue to āfuck around with itā whilst Ipswich fans are expecting their team to get the ball and go and score a third goal as insurance against the late disappointment witnessed at Charlton and versus Fleetwood.
Peterborough make a fourth substitution bringing on a bloke called Kell Watts, reminding me of the Australian TV series Kath & Kim in which Kimās mother Kath has a metrosexual boyfriend called Kel who proudly owns a āman bagā. Town āscoreā with two minutes of normal time left, but Iād spotted the offside flag so remain seated as all around me people rise and cheer. Pat from Clacton admits to feeling nervous. There will be five minutes of additional time Stephen Foster tells us, and Peterborough chuck in a couple of awkward looking crosses preferring to rely on barging and jumping more than incisive passing football to carve open the Town defence. āSmash āim, smash āimā bawls the bloke behind me every time a Peterborough player has possession. Town attempt to waste time making two final nihilistic substitutions and the game wanders off into a seventh minute of additional time, but then all of a sudden, itās over, and Town have won.
Beating Peterborough feels like a much bigger thing than it probably should, but thatās no doubt because Town havenāt beaten them in more than a decade, not that we have met very often, and Town have also lost the last two games to Peterborough at Portman Road. Elated, our little group wish each other a happy Christmas and head off into the cold mid-afternoon with a farewell that says āSee you Boxing Dayā. As for Catherine of Aragon, well at least she was still breathing when she visited Ipswich.





















































