Ipswich Town 1 Preston North End 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol City 0

January 22, 2026January 22, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Looking back, as I often seem to do nowadays, I find that the first time I saw Ipswich Town play Bristol City was nearly forty-nine years ago. Back then, both clubs were in what has since become the Evil Premier League but this has no bearing whatsoever on the fixture that is taking place tonight at Portman Road. The past is a foreign country, which makes us all immigrants.

It’s been a dull day decorated with scudding clouds courtesy of a brisk but strangely cold southerly breeze. But then, it is January. After a day’s work at home, I head for the railway station. The train is on time and Gary joins me on it at the first station stop. It’s dark outside so we don’t see any polar bears as the train reaches Wherstead and I’m not about to suggest the bears begin to wear dayglo gilets. Leaving Ipswich railway station, the Portman Road football ground shines like a glorious blue and white beacon or even a jewel on Ipswich’s evening skyline. Gary, a man not known for his interest in graphic design remarks upon the clear, classic font of the letters that spell out the words ‘Ipswich Town Football Club’ on the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.

By way of a change this evening, I decide we should not walk up Portman Road, across the corner of Portman Road car park, along Great Gipping Street, up Civic Drive, across the car park where the Civic Centre used to be, up Lady Lane, over the crossing where St Matthews Street meets Crown Street, up St George’s Street, along Upper High Street and into High Street to reach the Arb. Instead, we just walk up Princes Street and Museum Street and into High Street. Gary thinks the other way is quicker but he’s an Ipswich supporter who is awkwardly unfamiliar with Ipswich’s historic town centre and doesn’t realise how many more listed buildings we have passed tonight.

I’m first to burst through the door when we reach the Arb (not listed), and I get to the bar first to invest in a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£10 something for the two with Camra discount) for myself. Gary heads for the cool of the beer garden whilst I linger a little longer to select a snack to help sustain me through the evening, choosing a felafel Scotch egg (£8) before joining him in the shelter (not listed) backing onto High Street, which is otherwise empty, for the time being anyway.

Our conversation meanders from Trump to religion to ‘famous’ Bristol City players (Billy Wedlock and Gerry Gow,) to how far south and east we’ve travelled, to tonight’s team and how unexpectedly cold it is this evening. Gary buys another pint of Estrella Galicia for himself and one of Suffolk Pride for me. I buy another half of Suffolk Pride and when there is no one else in the beer garden we up and leave; it’s a bit before twenty-five past seven.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand tonight, there are queues to be scanned for weaponry and scrap metal, it’s hard to know why, other than lots of people arriving at once or more people than usual carrying weapons and scrap metal. But I’m soon on my way through the Football League Champions Memorial Turnstile, number 62, and after releasing spent Suffolk Pride I’m joining ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton on the lower tier of the stand. There’s no Elwood tonight, nor man from Stowmarket (Paul), although his grandson is here with his girlfriend (Paul’s grandson’s girlfriend that is, not Paul’s), nor Fiona, who is feeling unwell. In Fiona’s place however is Angie, who usually occupies the seat in front of Pat from Clacton. I shout out the players’ names as best I can when the excitable young stadium announcer reads them aloud, but he’s not in time with the scoreboard. In the questionnaire I receive from the club by e-mail after the match I will suggest he goes on a fact finding mission to Lens, Lille or Paris to see how it’s done.

When the game begins it is Ipswich that get first go with the ball, which they send mostly in the direction of me and my fellow ultras. Naturally, Town are in blue shirts and white shorts but strangely, Bristol City, or ‘The Robins’ as they are known, presumably because of their signature red shirts, are wearing what must be their little-known winter plumage of white shirts and black shorts, like a poor man’s Germany or Port Vale. Town are soon on the attack and win their first corner after barely three minutes. Angie remarks on the height of referee’s assistant, who although bearded like a garden gnome is much taller than the usual. “Come On You Blues” five, or possibly six of us bawl and we do it again and then again as Town take two more corner kicks until Bristol goalkeeper Vitek punches the ball high into the air before catching it on its descent to spoil our fun.

It is the ninth minute. Jens Cajuste pirouettes to leave some hired imitation Bristolian in his wake and passes to Jack Clarke. All floppy hair and loping gait, Clarke drops a shoulder or two, eases the ball on with a stroke of the outside of a boot, and then side foots it inside the far post past a clutch of legs from about twelve metres out. Town lead 1-0. It’s yet another early goal from the left and Jack Clarke and Jaden Philogene who isn’t playing tonight seem to have become one.

“One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand, mysteriously goading the pensioners and conservative people in late middle age who populate the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. Fifteen minutes have melted into history and Town continue to do what is sometimes described as ‘taking the game to the opposition’. “Go on Wes, do ‘im” says Angie as Wes Burns receives the ball on the touchline and runs at the Bristol full-back.

But five minutes later Bristol almost score, as ‘playing out from the back’ fails to live up to expectations and Bristol get gifted a free shot on goal that Christian Walton saves rather well, giving Bristol a corner. Tension is relieved however by the sight of former ‘Blue’ Sam Morsy stepping out from what once was a dugout but now looks like a section from a short but wide open-top team bus. “He’s Egyptian, but he comes from Wolver’ampton” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of “She’s electric” by Oasis, although I might have misheard. After Wes Burns shoots to win Town another corner that comes to nothing Sam Morsy then replaces a bloke called Adam Randell and everyone applauds arguably Town’s best captain since Matt Holland.

The first third of the match begins to slip out of sight, except as recorded highlights, and Ivan Azon wins another corner and then shoots narrowly and quite spectacularly over the Bristol crossbar from about 20 metres away. “Ole, Ole Ole Ole, Azon, Azon” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers as they tuck into their tapas and click their castanets. Seemingly aiming to please the home crowd further, Sam Morsy shoots wide and everyone cheers ironically, and then with no hint of irony at all the few hundred visiting supporters and possibly the fifteen-hundred or so empty plastic seats allocated to Bristol City but left unsold sing “Your support is fucking shit” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

Nine minutes until half-time and Town notch yet another corner to a tiny chorus of “Come On You Blues” before Bristol City hint at having a pact with the devil as Cajuste’s shot is blocked and Azon’s sudden follow-up attempt is deflected by unseen forces over the bar, although it is goalkeeper Radek Vitek who gets the thanks from his team mates. With five minutes until half-time the home crowd celebrate again as referee Mr Whitestone selects Bristol’s Neto Borge to be the recipient of his first yellow card, after Borge shoves Dara O’Shea headlong into the West Stand advert hoardings.

The half comes to a close with three minutes of added-on time, another necessary save from Christian Walton and yet another hollow chorus of “Come On You Blues” from me and the other five ultras as Town’s corner count exceeds its ultra count. Applause greets the half-time whistle, and I take a short trip to the front of the stand to speak with Harrison and his dad Michael, and briefly with Dave the steward before I head indoors to release more spent Suffolk Pride, returning in time to see the football resume at twelve minutes to nine.

Unexpectedly, it is Bristol City who win the first corner within a minute of the re-start, whilst Pat from Clacton shares the news that Angie’s bobble hat was new from the club shop tonight; nine pounds in the ‘under a tenner’ sale. Angie wears the woollen hat well, but I don’t think such a large bobble would suit me at all. I might write to the club to suggest the shop stocks blue berets and ITFC pin badges to be sold in tandem with prescription sunglasses for that authentic Ultra look.

Seven minutes into the latest half and Walton makes another save, this time from Emil Riis. It’s an incident that prompts Town fans to plead “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” a minute later. Clearly struck by the crowd’s imploring cries Town up their game and Azon chases down the right before squaring the ball to Jack Clarke who sweeps the ball very precisely but stylishly inside the far post as only a man wearing a hair band can. Two-nil to Ipswich. “We’re on our way to the Premier League” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers suddenly filled with a hitherto missing confidence, although they soon reveal that they’re a little unsure how promotion actually works chanting “How do we get there? I don’t know”. Moments later however they seem more certain as they launch into “Ee-I, Ee-I, Ee-I, Oh, Up the Football League We Go”, again probably for the first time this season.

Mass substitutions soon follow for Bristol City as their fabulously Germanic sounding manager Gerhard Struber trusts in ringing the changes and bringing on players called Pring and Earthy. Although often messy, with possession changing hands a bit too frequently, the game provides plenty for the crowd to enjoy and no more so than when, possibly just for old times’ sake, Sam Morsy gets shown Mr Whitehouse’s yellow card. But Morsy is in good company in this Bristol City team, which almost queues up to be cautioned with a series of assaults on Jack Clarke, Dara O’Shea and Ivan Azon or anyone who runs past with or stands between them and the ball.

Not to be outdone by the former insurance salesman from Austria, Keiran Mckenna makes the customary multiple substitutions too, giving opportunities for the home crowd to give dedicated applause for the excellent efforts of Azon, Burns, Cajuste, Clarke, and Nunez, who have all shown skill and endeavour in the face of a team that with the possible exception of Sam Morsy due to his religious beliefs, probably trains on rough cider.

With the second goal the game had become a matter of will we or won’t we score a third goal. “I don’t need to get Monkey out do I” says Pat from Clacton, referring to the lucky charm who apparently used to cause instant changes of fortune for struggling Town teams upon leaving her handbag but has since lost his touch a bit. Angie is reduced to giggling about the surname of Bristol’s Rob Dickie, whilst I enquire of her whether she thinks he’s from Billericay. I hope she remembers Ian Dury.

It’s been a relatively comfortable game for the Town with the feeling that if we wanted or needed to, we could always try a little harder and score some more goals. Six minutes of added on time is therefore a little unwanted for both teams probably, but we survive it. With the final whistle we can clear off home safe in the knowledge that a third consecutive home victory over teams beginning with letter ‘B’, after just one win and two draws in consecutive games against teams beginning with the letter ‘W’ back in September and October is a slightly strange measure of how much the team has improved. It’s just a pity that if things keep on like this, we might end up in the bloody Premier League again

Ipswich Town 3 Blackburn Rovers 0

January 18, 2026January 20, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Woke up, fell out of bed. It was damp and dreary outside when I drew back the bedroom curtains. Feeling inspired, I thought I’d check to see when I had last seen Ipswich Town play Blackburn Rovers, and I was surprised to learn that it was in August of 2018; it was the first game at Portman Road under the pitiful and thankfully brief leadership of the diminutive Paul Hurst. In case you’re wondering, I missed Blackburn’s last visit to Ipswich in September 2023 because I was in Brest, where I witnessed Stade Brestois beat Olympique Lyonnais one-nil to go top of Ligue1.

Times change, but Ipswich Town are playing Blackburn Rovers again today (Brest are away to Lyon tomorrow) and today’s match kicks-off at the silly time of 12:30pm, when civilised people should be eating lunch, in the pub, or still in bed. I catch the train to Ipswich, looking up I notice it isn’t late, and I have a carriage to myself until Gary joins me at the first station stop in his brightly coloured anorak. The train speeds on through a damp and dismal winter wonderland of bare trees and decaying vegetation, brightened only by the sighting of two very off-white polar bears that live by a lake in Wherstead. Arriving in Ipswich, pale sunshine is straining its way through the cloud because the sun always shines in Ipswich or tries to. As we cross Princes Street bridge there are just two people sat in the beer garden of the Station Hotel and they look very young; they’re probably drinking Vimto.

In Portman Road, a crowd of people loiter, waiting for the turnstiles to open. Gary and I speculate as to the attractions that Portman Road holds ninety minutes before kick-off but can’t think of any. I am first through the door at the Arb and with no other punters at the bar I am soon paying for a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint each of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for Mick and myself (£14.90 with Camra discount). We repair to the beer garden to sit in the shelter that backs on to High Street, joining a solitary man with glasses and tied back hair at the end table having first asked if we may; we may. Mick is late, but it’s not long before he arrives. We talk of the African Cup of Nations, how Mick will miss Tuesday’s match because he must go to Scotland for a funeral, of the Tory councillor from Lymington in Hampshire sent to prison for twenty weeks for stalking former Tory MP Penny Mordaunt, and jury service. Gary buys more drinks and we leave for Portman Road at about ten past twelve once we’re happy that we are the last to leave.

We part ways near Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue; Mick and Gary heading for the west stand whilst I make for turnstile sixty-two and the cheap seats of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, where a smiling man first scans me for concealed weapons and scrap metal. From outside, I have already heard the excitable young stadium announcer reading out the names of the teams and I didn’t join in. After disposing of spent Suffolk Pride in the proper manner, I make for the stand, pausing only to allow the minute’s applause for all deceased Ipswich Town fans to end. I’m not a fan of the mawkish, public sentimentality of the ‘Memorial Day’. Grief is private, life is for the living and we’re all going to die.

Kick-off is moments away as I shuffle past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat a row or two behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood, and two along from the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who today is making his return to Portman Road after missing several matches. When the game begins, it’s Blackburn who get first go with the ball, which they launch in the general direction of the Vets for Pets premises on Handford Road and the Co-op next door. Blackburn are wearing an unpleasant looking yellow kit, which from where I am sitting looks as if it is covered in brown smudges, ‘skid marks’ perhaps. According to the Lancashire Telegraph however, the shirt is gold in colour and is a ‘love letter to Blackburn’ featuring several of the town’s landmarks throughout the design. I squint and think I might just be able to make out the four thousand holes, give or take three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. Aside from the shirts, the first two minutes of the game are ‘all Blackburn’ and in the third minute their number 20, Erain Cashin scores a spectacular goal, albeit in his own net. Nunez and Philogene exchange passes before Nunez delivers a low, hard cross, which Cashin belts into the top corner of the goal from a seated position, thereby promoting himself as the possible answer to Town’s perceived need for a ‘top striker’. Town lead one-nil.

The goal results in Ipswich gaining the confidence for Eggy to have a volley tipped over the crossbar by Blackburn goalkeeper and ancient Egyptian deity Toth. The Blackburn number 10 is jeered by home supporters. “That’s Cantwell” says the fella in front of me. “Whoever he is” I respond, genuinely not knowing who he is although I’d seen his face before. “He used to play for Norwich” says the fella. “Like Nunez” says Fiona. Ipswich have a corner “Come on You Blues” chant at least five of us. A far post header sends the ball into the six-yard box, Toth smothers the ball but then doesn’t and Jack Taylor belts it into the roof of the goal net from less than a metre out. It’s a goal ugly enough to have travelled through time from the days of Mick McCarthy. Town lead 2-0, although I had expected the goal to be disallowed, but that was before I remembered we’re not in the Premier League anymore.

“All games should start like this” I think to myself and then tell Fiona. Seventeen minutes have left us, Town still lead two-nil, Blackburn win a corner. Eight further minutes pass into history and Blackburn’s Atcheson claims the day’s first booking after fouling Jaden Philogene. I had been wondering how many goals we might score but things have quietened down. A long throw from Darnell Furling momentarily excites. “A helluva throw” says the bloke beside me, “Like a bullet”, and it was. Then Blackburn win another corner. “Wanker, wanker, wanker” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers, and “He’s only a poor little budgie” to the tune of ’The Sparrow’, a Christmas 1979 hit for The Ramblers, a choir from the Abbey Hey Junior School, Manchester, and along with Brian and Michael and St Winifred’s School Choir, a rarely celebrated part of the ‘Madchester scene’. I assume the target for the abuse is Cantwell, a man who sports a mullet, which makes him resemble a cross between Jerry Seinfeld and Mickey from the Job Centre in the BBC tv series ‘The League of Gentlemen’.

There are twelve minutes remaining until half-time and as we wait for Leif Davis to take a corner having chanted “Come on You Blues” a few times for luck, Fiona comments on the grubby appearance of Blackburn’s yellow shirts that look like they’re covered in brown marks of unknown provenance. An injured Jaden Philogene is replaced by Jack Clarke, Blackburn win another corner and two minutes of added on time are stolen from our futures before half-time arrives.

During half time, I talk to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who has been in hospital. He tells me all about it and I can only marvel again at the NHS and the beautiful idea of distributing resources amongst the population for the common good and according to people’s needs. I vent more spent Suffolk Pride and at twenty-six minutes to two the football resumes beneath a hint of winter sunshine. Five minutes in and Ipswich have a corner. The crowd is mostly quiet today because Blackburn have had a lot of the ball, albeit without doing much with it. But Ipswich are dominating now and the Sir Bobby Robson standers sing “When the Town go marching in” at a depressingly funereal pace appropriate for ‘Memorial Day’. Five minutes later however they feeling are more up-beat as they chant ‘Blue and White Army’ and it works as Town win another corner.

But Ipswich’s domination is fleeting as a Blackburn shot is blocked and another goes tamely wide. When Blackburn win another corner, I see just how bad Cantwell’s mullet is and so advise him to “get your ‘air cut, Cantwell” as any responsible citizen would. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” pleads the home crowd and as if in response Eggy and Hirst are replaced by Ivan Azom and Wes Burns who draws a cheer for just trotting onto the pitch. “I don’t need to get Monkey out, do I?” asks Pat from Clacton, and Fiona and I agree we don’t need any lucky charms yet, because we’re still two-nil up.

In the final twenty minutes of normal time three more Blackburn players, Trondstad, Cantwell and Cashin are booked by referee Mr Kitchen, all for fouls on Jack Clarke who has become Blackburn’s target man since Philogene had to go off. Mr Kitchen meanwhile sports an impossibly neat but receding hairline as if like a 1960’s Action Man his hair has been painted on to his scalp. More substitutions are made, Pat from Clacton tells me about the pantomime she saw, the dame was called Belle Ringer, and for a short while my mind wanders off, I’m not sure where but I’m back in time for the eighty-eighth minute when Jens Cajuste surges forward, slips a through ball to Wes Burns and his square pass is swept into the Blackburn goal by Sammy Szmodics. Town lead three-nil and five minutes of added on time make no difference, although it sounds like Cedric Kipre has been chosen as man of the match by something called Holiday Testing Concrete Limited; I expect it’s something to do with Brutalist architecture.

The final whistle sounds and people stay and leave in equal measure to cheer the victors or catch buses and trains or queue in car parks. or just walk home. It’s been a slightly odd game, good in parts, very good in flashes. Ipswich have been too good for Blackburn whose greatest contribution to the spectacle has been providing a pantomime villain in Cantwell. Most significantly however, for the first time this season the visiting supporters have failed to sing “Football in a library, do-do-do”. Having had to get up in the middle of the night to travel over 400 kilometres for a 12:30 kick-off I don’t suppose they could be bothered.

Ipswich Town 2 Blackpool 1

January 11, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The first week in January is upon us; the dark, cold days after Christmas when the phoney, made-up joy of a fresh new year has been replaced with the stark realisation that we have to take the festive decorations down, put the empties out and return to work. But it’s not all bad because come the weekend it’s the third round of the FA Cup, an event guaranteed to chase your troubles away at least until tea-time or whatever silly time of day your team’s fixture is over. This year, Ipswich Town have pulled the plum in the draw with a home game against Blackpool, winners of the FA Cup in 1953 in a near legendary final tie, which jostles in the national psyche with the festival of Britain, the Suez crisis, the coronation and the start of ITV as the defining moment of the decade. Fortunately, the idiots that decide what games go on the telly have failed to spot the star quality of this fixture and have therefore left it to run free on a Saturday afternoon at 3 o’clock like all weekend football fixtures should.

It’s been a bright but cold and still morning, although in doors my wife Paulene is suffering from her first bout of Covid and the central heating is turned up to eleven as her temperature oscillates wildly, and so I can’t help feeling I’d be more comfortable in just a pair of swimming trunks. Having left Paulene with a supply of pre-prepared hot and cold drinks to hopefully ensures she lasts the afternoon I make for the railway station and an equally sweltering railway carriage. Gary joins me at the first station stop, but by way of a change today he is accompanied by his nephew and his nephew’s wife who have been drawn in by the magic of the FA Cup. Gary’s nephew is a hospital porter, but I don’t think his wife said what she did, although along with me she was the only other one of the four of us to spot a polar bear as the train descended through Wherstead towards Ipswich. It was the grubby bear again, which today was prowling the side of one of the ponds whilst looking up at the train, perhaps trying to spot humans; I hope she saw us.

In Ipswich we soon make our way down Princes Street to Portman Road, where I purchase a programme from the first vendor we come to, who is stood at a small, blue-painted table with wheels, which doesn’t look like the sort of outlet where it’s also possible to buy an ice cream, unlike the larger booths further down the road. Like an adult who still believes in Father Christmas, I still believe in the magic of the FA Cup. This is one reason why I have bought a programme today, but the other is that they’re only charging £3.00, and that seems like better value, even if the cost per page is higher than for the usual 84-page edition costing £4.00. What Ipswich Town has failed to understand is that 44 pages of trite nonsense is actually a better deal than 84 pages of it, especially if it costs a quid less too.

Gary’s nephew and his wife leave us somewhere near the club shop, but as ever we proceed on towards the Arb’ where I am first to the bar and invest in a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride each for me and Mick, who I am guessing isn’t here yet, but soon will be. We repair to the largely drinker-free beer garden and the shelter that backs onto High Street to await Mick (he soon arrives), to talk of interesting things that never appear in the print of football programmes and to laugh at the world and each other. Mick eats a felafel Scotch egg, comments on how much he likes the easy manner of the bar staff at the Arb and fetches more drinks when we need them. At about twenty to three we leave for Portman Road having flagrantly ignored Ipswich Town’s advice on our tickets to be seated at least 30 minutes before kick-off; life is much too short for that, especially when like us you’ve already lived the majority of it.

Another wonderful thing about the FA Cup, and along with Professor Alice Roberts on the telly and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride one of the good things about being alive in 2026 is that tickets to third round matches at Portman Road are cheap when Town are drawn against lower league opposition, which we always seem to be. Today, Gary, Mick and I are each paying just £5.00, probably no more than we would to watch Ipswich Wanderers play Woodbridge Town in the Eastern Counties League, but I haven’t been to “the ‘doucy” since 2018, so I don’t really know. What is more, our seats are in Block N of what any compass rose will tell us is the West Stand, and therefore the best in the house, where we will not get the sun in our eyes unless it is being reflected in the windows of the former GRE office blocks across the Portman Road car park.

At the turnstiles a pretty young woman of Asian heritage smiles and giggles a bit as I provide commentary on adopting the aeroplane position and she scans me for explosives, weapons and assorted scrap metal components of which luckily, she finds none. I wait inside the ground for Mick and Gary who seem to take a while to appear leaving me to speculate as to whether they have foolishly worn their PLO underpants today or are trying to smuggle in a packet of sparklers. But they soon appear to confirm their innocence and almost as soon again we have drained off spent Suffolk Pride and Spanish lager and are in our cramped seats beneath the dingy, steeply shelving roof ready for kick off, having completely missed the rabble-rousing efforts of the excitable young stadium announcer.

It’s Blackpool that get first go with the ball which they send in the general direction of the telephone exchange and Coes of Ipswich, the independent department store offering contemporary and classic styles from leading brands in menswear and womenswear. Blackpool sport their signature tangerine shirts and tangerine shorts and socks like a poor man’s Netherlands international eleven or a much better-off man’s Holland FC. Naturally, Town are in blue and white. The Blackpool fans are immediately singing “Sloop John B” and telling us how Ipswich is a “shit hole” and they want to go home, which so early in the game suggests they only came in the first place because the coach travel was free. To their credit however, some of them do seem to know all the words through to the last verse and the bit that says “This is the worst trip I’ve ever been on”, and we hope they are proved right.

Town are soon dominating possession and Wes Burns has won Town a corner by the fourth minute, from which Cedric Kipre heads over the Blackpool crossbar. The Blackpool support is already reduced to cheering enthusiastically when their team wins a throw-in, and then a row of small sausages laced with mustard appear on the illuminated sign between the tiers of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. But after this initial excitement the game drifts into aimless Ipswich possession with the Blackpool supporters left to provide the only vocal commentary, predictably chanting about football in libraries and being a small town in Norwich, which makes you wonder how they ever got here on time and raises concerns that they’ll never find their way home. Fourteen minutes have gone forever and from well over 20 metres out Jack Taylor shoots at the Blackpool goalkeeper Bailey Peacock-Farrell, a man seemingly with three surnames and no first name. Two minutes more elapse and Chuba Akpom heads over the crossbar. Seven more elapse and Ashley Young is booked in a trade-off for a lack of pace; another two minutes disappear from our lives, and some poor Town defensive play gives Blackpool a corner.

With the twenty fifth minute, Town’s dominance brings a corner and then another and the mysterious acronym “COYB” appears on the scoreboard in the corner of the ground. “Come On You Blues” I bawl, wildly guessing that our blue and white American overlords are dropping hints as to the expected behaviour of supporters in moments of mounting attacking momentum. Sadly, no one else joins in, merely looking on dispassionately and aloof like serried ranks of Sphinxes dressed in woolly hats and winter coats. Greaves heads on, Jack Taylor heads over the crossbar.

The game is a third over and Blackpool have a second corner; I remark to Mick that it’s like a training game, but I had hoped they trained a bit harder than this. Greaves’ tackling has been good, but that’s been the highpoint so far. “Summer Soul Vibes” announce the Ipswich illuminations on the Sir Bobby Robson stand; then they lure us in with the promise of reduced admission prices, but “Summer Soul Vibes” is not an easy concept to grasp at any time in the West Stand, let alone at half past three on a freezing January afternoon.

All afternoon, Town have to some extent been indulging in the tactic of “give it to Jaden”, a bit like the England players of the 1960’s were probably instructed to just “give it to Bobby (Charlton)”. Jaden has had a couple of shots this afternoon but with ten minutes until half time a far more incisive collection of passes than seen hitherto eventually find Town’s number eleven, and after the usual shimmy he curls the ball inside Freeman Hardy Willis’s far post and Town lead 1-0. “A thing of beauty is a joy forever” I think to myself, “He only scores good goals doan ‘e?” says the bloke behind me. Disappointingly no one sings “Wemberley! Wemberley!”, not even me.

The remainder of the first half and the two minutes of additional time stolen from our futures yields two more Town corners and one to Blackpool, a fine shot from Chuba Akpom and an equally fine save from Willis Faber Dumas. Up in the Cobbold Stand the Blackpool fans have turned spiteful. ” Sit down if you shag your mum” they sing, to the tune of Village Peoples’ “Go West”, probably another favourite of the odious Donald Trump. “You wouldn’t think that the Blackpool supporters are mostly made up of B and B landladies killing time in the off-season, would you?” I remark to Mick, and indeed he wouldn’t. Meanwhile the setting sun reflects just a little in the windows of the former GRE building.

Half-time brings a need to escape the dark, gloomy, oppressive top tier of the stand, vent more spent Suffolk Pride and then run free on the artificial turf downstairs, but we lose Mick somehow and Gary and I just stand about until we think it would be a good idea to go back to our seats. The football resumes at four minutes past four and Blackpool’s number two, Andy Lyons is soon booked for a foul. Before the match enters its final third Town win four more corners and Mick and I speculate that somewhere someone must have at some time written an academic thesis on the songs and chants of football supporters. Former Town player Lee Evans is substituted to applause from those home supporters sufficiently awake and alert to know who the Blackpool player now going off is. Others just clap anyway.

More corners ensue thanks to blocked and deflected shots, and Jacob Greaves saves us from embarrassment with a block of his own that sends the ball high above the Town crossbar. “Sea, Sea, Seasiders” chant the landladies and “Come On You Somethings”, but I couldn’t make out what the Something was. Another Blackpool substitution brings the introduction of number nineteen, Josh Bowler, who has a headband and I speculate that he is Blackpool’s only ‘surfer-dude’. With less than twenty minutes of the original ninety remaining, Keiran Mckenna unleashes a mass substitution of such proportions (four players all at once) that some potential Reform voters in the home crowd feint due to their fear of seeing anyone who might look a bit different to what they’ve become used to. Happily, to take peoples’ minds off it the excitable young stadium announcer tells us that today we are a crowd of 27,527.

The final five minutes of normal time welcome another booking for Blackpool; this time, number thirty, who from where I am sat looks a bit like a small wolfman, and then two minutes later Town seemingly confirm the result as Jacob Greaves deservedly heads in a second goal from a corner and Town lead two-nil. Effectively the game is now thankfully over, and Town are in to the fourth round once again. But bizarrely, when into the final moments of five minutes of added on time, the referee at first disregards and then a second later decides a stumbling Blackpool player is cause for a penalty. It’s as if he thought he’d just make the final thirty seconds a bit more interesting. A tall bloke steps up to see his firm, well-placed shot palmed into the side of the goal net by goalkeeper Palmer and Blackpool have a largely undeserved consolation goal, which however does make the land ladies day out worthwhile to some degree. “We’ve scored a goal, we’ve scored a goal” they chant both tunelessly and briefly before time is called on another cup tie.

Elated that we don’t have to suffer extra time, the crowd quickly ups and leaves, dispersing into the cold evening. As we descend the staircase from high up in the stand Gary and I question whether we have had value for money from our fivers this afternoon; the simple glory of FA Cup victory against Stanley Matthews’ and Stan Mortensen’s team says we have.

Ipswich Town 3 Sheffield Wednesday 1

December 21, 2025December 21, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The words Sheffield and Wednesday when added together conjure several associations in my mind, from the betting scandal of the early 1960’s when three Wednesday players apparently ‘threw’ the game in a 2-0 defeat to Ipswich at Portman Road, to speeding through the streets of Sheffield on a double-decker bus with police outriders after a match during the miners’ strike in 1984 , to dislike because from May 1986 to May 1995 Town never managed to beat them, to a Sheffield Wednesday supporter I met on a course when I worked for Royal Mail, whose idea of conversation was to speculate on whether the barmaid in the pub we were in at the time was wearing a suspender belt and stockings; for the record, he was convinced she was, but this was never confirmed.

Today, Ipswich Town will play Sheffield Wednesday, and I am cautiously optimistic that some degree of Karma will apply, to balance out all those bad associations from the past. After a dull start to the day, it has brightened up and as I wait for the train to Ipswich, I find myself in one of those clear, cold days that characterise winter in Suffolk. The station platform is well populated and tell-tale club crests on articles of clothing suggest many people are heading for the match just like me. The train is on time and Gary joins me at the first station stop. We talk of the African Cup of Nations and Gary tells me that he was once at a barbecue with a player who is in the Tanzanian squad and who has two aunts with exactly the same names. As ever, our journey is crowned by the sighting of a polar bear as the train descends Wherstead into Ipswich; it’s the slightly grubby looking one and for a few moments we wonder if it’s possible to wash and clean a polar bear

Ipswich is busy with football fans and there’s entertainment too as everyone stops to watch a drunken Sheffield Wednesday fan outside the Station Hotel. Sadly, he’s not a cheery drunk but a stroppy one. When the traffic lights change Gary and I cross the junction outside the station diagonally, pretending we are in Tokyo where such pedestrian crossings are, I believe common. I ask Gary if he’s ever thought of going on holiday to Japan; he has but understands it’s expensive and of course air travel for mere pleasure is to be discouraged because of its impact on the environment. A man walking alongside us asks what we think the score will be today. With reprehensible pessimism Gary predicts a “boring one-all draw” or worse still a “frustrating one-nil defeat”. I have no idea what the score will be but retain my optimism by not giving it any thought. We speed past the programme sellers whose booths look like they might also stock ice creams, and I wonder if the programme price increase to £4 this season has led to much of a reduction in sales. I hope it has because they’re overly glossy and mostly very uninteresting.

I get to the door of ‘the Arb’ first and burst in, eager for a drink. There are people stood two-deep at the bar but one of them is Mick, who says it’s his turn to buy the round, but then he always does. He either has a bad memory or is just naturally generous. But today I convince Mick it’s my turn to buy, although I leave him to order his own felafel Scotch egg. With a pint each of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary (£14 something with Camra discount) we retire to the beer garden and find seats in the shelter that backs onto High Street. Unexpectedly, Mick gives me a Christmas card but explains that he had effectively inherited some, so thought he’d use them. Along with the card Mick gives me a ‘present’ (unwrapped), which is a programme from Ray Crawford’s testimonial featuring games between Ipswich Town ‘past’ and ‘future’ and the then current Ipswich team and Wolverhampton Wanderers. The programme is a reminder of how plain and straightforward, or perhaps boring things used to be, even as recently as 1969.

Gary buys another round of drinks, which this time comprises just a half a pint of Suffolk Pride for Mick, and by way of a change a pint of Mighty Oak Solstice Porter for me, because tomorrow is the Winter Solstice and being a sucker for megaliths and the like I like to remember the true meaning of Christmas. The porter is very tasty indeed but does nothing to take my mind off the rapid emptying out of the beer garden and it’s not yet half past two. It’s gone twenty to three when we leave for Portman Road and after a downhill stroll, we eventually part ways within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, if only its ears worked. We are agreed that the next game is at home to Oxford United on New Year’s Day, and that I shall try and acquire three tickets together for the FA Cup tie versus Blackpool.

As has been the case for the past few games there are no queues at the turnstile to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and after quick scan for weaponry by a smiling, bearded man of probable south Asian heritage I step through turnstile 61; I would have used the noted turnstile 62 but there was a bunch of late middle-aged blokes milling around it who didn’t seem to know what they were doing and I couldn’t be bothered to say “excuse me”. Moments later, standing in front of the stainless steel urinals decanting spent Suffolk Pride ( I don’t think the Solstice Porter can have made its way through yet) I hear the excitable young stadium announcer announcing the teams and by the time I’m shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat I only get to shout “O’Shea” in the manner of a Frenchman at the Stade des Alpes in Grenoble or Stade Saint-Symphorien in Metz. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is of course here too but not his son Elwood or the man from Stowmarket (Paul). The excitable young stadium announcer is today wearing a Santa hat as he presumably gets even more excited at the prospect of Christmas.

When the game begins, it is Sheffield Wednesday who get first go with the ball which they boot in the general direction of St Matthew’s Baths and the Broomhill Lido whilst sporting a necessary change kit of all-white, which presumably to the chagrin of Wednesday supporters makes them look like a bit like Leeds United. It’s no wonder their team is bottom of the league table with minus nine points, although the travelling supporters are making the best of a bad job and chant “Wednesday ‘til I die” impressively, even though these lyrics might tragically imply to some that they haven’t got long left and are going to miss Christmas. Ipswich are naturally wearing our signature blue shirts and white shorts.

Early exchanges are dominated by Fiona’s observation that the Wednesday goalie is very small. “He looks about ten” she says, a little unkindly but it is true he is not the usual giant you expect to see in goal and Wikipedia tells us he is a mere 1.86 metres tall, which is shorter than me. In passing I mention Laurie Sivell, who was probably smaller than most modern 14-year-olds. Ipswich win an early corner, and I notice that the Wednesday shirts carry the words “Mr Vegas” on the front and I assume this is not some sort of self-promotion by comic actor and professional ‘funny person’ Johnny Vegas, but rather an attempt to part people from their money by gambling with it. “Football in a library” chant the Wednesday fans to show that they’re no more original than the fans of all other clubs.

Five minutes wither away and George Hirst heads a Jaden Philogene cross over the top of the Wednesday goal, and I realise that Pat from Clacton is wearing a set of festive antlers whilst Fiona has donned a blue and white Santa hat, as has ever-present Phil. Meanwhile the Wednesday fans sing “I love you Wednesday” to the tune of “Can’t take my eyes off you”, which was originally recorded 1967 by Frankie Valli. Nine minutes have left us forever and George Hirst retires early for Christmas due to a mystery injury, to be replaced by Ivan Azon and that’s as exciting as the first fifteen minutes get. The home crowd is characteristically quiet, taciturn even, waiting to be entertained before deigning to offer vocal encouragement. Wednesday win a corner which is headed very wide. “Dogshit innit?” says the bloke next to me using the kind of symbolism which in the circumstances Charles Beaudelaire himself might have failed not to use. Then Dara O’Shea carelessly loses the ball to the Wednesday number nine who is identified on the scoreboard as J Lowe and therefore not to be confused with either J Lo or as Fiona says, John Lowe the darts player. Lowe’s shot goes past Christian Walton but is spectacularly cleared by a tumbling, falling, reversing Cedric Kipre.

“Shall we sing a song for you?” enquire the Wednesday fans clearly feeling uneasy about the awkward silences but then Ivan Azon stoops to head wide, almost reminding us of what could be before a rare cogent moment has Jens Cajuste breaking forward into the penalty area, shooting at tiny Pierce Charles and Nunez heading unnecessarily wide. A third of the match is consigned to mostly forgettable history but suddenly a less forgettable moment has Philogene kicking overhead against a goal post and Town winning a corner from which Kipre heads against the underside of the cross bar and into the net.

Town lead 1-0 and I’m feeling grateful as Wednesday win a corner and at the front of the stand an obese woman makes her way back to her seat with a bottle of Coke, a packet of crisps and a bar of chocolate. It’s not quite twenty to four in the afternoon. Three minutes of added on time are added on and then it’s time to dispose of the remaining spent Suffolk Pride and the first of the spent Solstice Porter. Relieved, I head to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison and also Dave the steward, who I used to work with at Royal Mail, but who was not on the course with me and the Sheffield Wednesday supporter with the interest in barmaids’ hosiery.

The football resumes at five minutes past four and Pat from Clacton is soon telling me about her new rimless glasses before referee Mr Webb (‘Spider’ to his mates) unveils his yellow card for the first time when Wednesday’s Liam Cooper fouls Ivan Azon. A minute’s applause follows seven minutes into the half in memory of supporter who died this week and two minutes later Cedric Kipre slashes a shot wide when given his earlier success he might have considered a header, even though the ball was on the ground. The sun has now long set and darkness looms behind each stand.

Town look a bit better this half, which shouldn’t be too difficult, and a sweeping move from defence into attack with a striding run from Cajuste and a perfect pass from Nunez allows Philogene to belt the ball past little Pierce Charles who as well as being small for a goalkeeper sounds like his name is back to front. Town lead 2-0 and there are still thirty minutes left to play. “No points today, Ole, Ole, Ole” I think I hear the Wednesday fans sing and a couple of substitutions for Wednesday result in the appearance of one George Brown, a player who I can only hope joins Fulham to play alongside Harry Wilson in a tribute to the Labour governments of the 1960’s.

Today’s attendance is announced as 28,860 and the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for “our incredible support” and I wonder if he’s being sarcastic; personally, I’ve just hollered “Come on you Blues” a few times before two first half corners. A minute later and from a Wednesday corner the ball fortuitously drops to the ground right in front of Cooper, who only has to swing his leg at it to send it low into the far corner of the Town goal and Wednesday have an unexpected goal. Hope appears for Wednesday who chuck in a few awkward crosses and George Brown waves his arms about to encourage the away supporters.

But with fifteen minutes left of normal time Town make three substitutions, replacing Cajuste with Taylor, and Eggy and Philogene with McAteer and Clarke, and Town look likely to score again, which with four minutes left they do as Clarke runs at goal, nips around a bumbling defender and flicks and rolls the ball past little Pierce Charles.

The game looks won and Town nearly score two more but leave them in the pump for when they might really need them. The Wednesday supporters, as supportive as they have been have seemingly run out of tunes and have even bored themselves with talk of football in libraries. A staggering nine minutes of added on time are added on for assorted injuries, and stoppages to give remedial coaching. At last, with the five o’clock chimes of an imaginary clock ringing in my ears the final whistle is blown, and Town are up to third in the league table. There is applause, probably partly out of relief, and much of the crowd quickly melts away into the night exchanging seasonal good wishes as they go and talk of seeing everyone again in the new year. The bloke next to me and the bloke next to him shake my hand; the bloke behind me says he reads this blog and my future memories of Sheffield Wednesday take a turn for the better.