football

Ipswich Town 3 Queens Park Rangers 0

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I was awake before my alarm went off this morning, which was a good thing because being awoken by an alarm clock on a Saturday morning is plainly wrong.  What was not a good thing however was that I had thought it necessary to set my alarm because the evil media moguls of Sky tv had decreed that Ipswich Town will begin their last match of the season, against Queens Park Rangers at just half an hour past noon and I am therefore having to catch a train to Ipswich before the clocks have struck ten o’clock.   Having noted that the weather forecast from the met office predicted temperatures of almost 20 degrees centigrade today I decided to wear a lighter pair of trousers.   Feeling in the pocket of these “cargo pants”, which I probably hadn’t warn since late last summer, I discover the receipt for a cheap bottle of champagne.  I take it as a portent of celebrations yet to come.

At the railway station I wait with a man called Gareth who introduces me to Sally who is also going to the match.  “How do you feel about the match?” asks Gareth. “Relaxed” I reply.  Gareth and Sally laugh as if that can’t possibly be so.  But it is. I always want Town to win, but if they don’t, then they don’t. I don’t want to get ill over it.   I have no idea if the train arrives on time but I’m soon talking to Gary as we speed towards the promised land, Ipswich.  Our only disappointment is that as we descend the hill through Wherstead a train passes in the opposite direction obscuring our potential view of the polar bears, but I still manage to see one.  In Ipswich, the sun is shining as we walk to the Arb stopping only to purchase a programme from one of the kiosks that look like they should also sell ice creams.  I explain to Gary that I am exceptionally buying a programme (£4.00) today because it will potentially be an auspicious occasion, although if Town don’t win I will likely be left with a programme I don’t really want, although the front cover does feature a picture in profile of Darnell Furlong staring moodily off into the distance.

Inside the Arb there is a queue for the bar and not wishing to cause a scene I reluctantly join it. Queues at the bar in pubs? The world has gone mad.  Happily, the queue moves quickly, and I am soon looking for Gary in the beer garden whilst holding a tray on which sit a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, one for me and one for Mick, who has texted me to say he will be arriving late.  Our conversation today soon establishes that our lives are currently quite boring and uneventful although Mick is considering going to Venice by rail and is exploring the possibility of getting a ferry to Bilbao and then a train across southern France into Italy, perhaps stopping in Marseille to take in a match at the Velodrome.  Two more pints of Suffolk Pride, a pint and half of Estrella and two whiskies later we are alone in the beer garden because all the other drinkers left a good ten minutes ago or more and we are ready to depart for Portman Road too.

There are no queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand when I arrive and I even manage to use the side access normally reserved for people with disabilities, before accessing the stand through the illustrious turnstile sixty-two. I am venting spent Suffolk Pride when the excitable young stadium announcer announces the team and imagining I am in a pissoir, like a Frenchman at the Stade Jean Bouin or Stade Abbe des Champs I bawl the surnames of the few players whose squad numbers I can remember, or whose first names are long enough for me to work out which surname they belong to before the announcer finishes saying them.  Up in the stand Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are of course already here.

Eventually, with huddles having huddled, bursts of flame having died down and plumes of smoke having settled, the game begins with the Park Rangers of the Queen getting first go with the ball in their strikingly metrosexual livery of black and pinked halved shirts and black shorts.  The Rangers try to point the ball in the direction of Norwich Road and local twentieth century public housing landmark Cumberland Towers.  The Town are as ever in our signature blue shirts and white shorts and the teams wear Halos on their shirt fronts, instead of above their heads.

Inside two minutes Leif Davis is bearing down on Joe Walsh in the Rangers goal, but his low shot is saved by the former Eagles guitarist at the expense of a corner and an early rendition from me and as many as half a dozen others of  ‘Come on You Blues’.  As usual our shouts fall on stoney ground and the ball is cleared. But the Town are relentless, assaulting the Rangers goal with wave after wave of running at them with the ball down both flanks and through the middle. Within another two minutes Town lead, George Hirst kicking the ball over the goal line from improbably close range after slick passing finds Leif Davis crossing the ball low into the deepest recesses of the goal mouth. “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go!” fills the void, although in truth we can’t actually go any further up the Football league because Coventry have already bagged first position.

Behind me a bloke sings loudly and out of tune, like an international footballer rendering his national anthem as a tv camera looks up his nostrils.  “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” we bellow with tearful sincerity to the tune of The Wild Rover.  This is how the match was meant to begin; it was how it began in Town supporters’ dreams and those dreams are becoming a reality.  The onslaught continues with what seems like a season’s worth of attacking intent and desire rolled into one as if making up for lost time. It’s the tenth minute when more joyful running and passing leaves Jaden Philogene in front of goal and a jink and a twist later to avoid a Park Ranger he’s rolling the ball into the Rangers’ goal from about six metres away. Two-nil to Ipswich Town and that’s it; I reckon we’ve won.

With the game won, the excitement subsides a little and Town allow the Rangers a little more of the ball.   Up in the Cobbold Stand, the Rangers’ supporters make the attacks that their team is unable to conjure by chanting “Football in a library, do-do-do”.  I cope with the insult by thinking of tv’s Crossroads and inwardly laughing to myself that their number twenty-three is called Bennie, even if the spelling is wrong. The Rangers fans respond with “Two-nil and you still don’t sing”.  The first half is half over and the bloke next to me says “It’s all about game management now”.  I think to myself that our game management in the first ten minutes was pretty flippin’ good.  Back on the pitch George Hirst goes to stamp on a balloon but it escapes from beneath his boot and he stamps on fresh air, which looks decidedly uncool.  To escape further embarrassment and to punish the balloon George proceeds to pick it up and crushes it with his bare hands.

Town are managing the game well enough now that with six minutes to go until half-time the blokes behind me and a few from further along the row feel confident enough to repair to the bar for an early half-time beer.  Within two minutes the Rangers win their first corner, but the ball is easily gathered by Christian Walton because generally, as Fiona remarks, corners are equally ineffectual for all teams.   The words “Hot Sausage Company” scroll across the face of the Sir Bobby Robson stand in yellow on a vivid red background and we learn that five minutes of time are to be taken from our futures to make up for players lying prone on the turf during the previous forty-five minutes.

Unusually, the stolen five minutes provide some excitement as Town are awarded a free-kick just outside the Rangers’ penalty area and referee Mr Gavin Ward gets carried away marking out a line ten yards from the ball, applying his white spray with aplomb like a cross between Banksy and Jackson Pollock.  From the free-kick a corner ensues, presenting the last time this season in which the Churchman’s ultras will chant “Come on You Blues” and share the disappointment of not scoring again.

With the half-time whistle I go for the final time, until August that is, to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison and in passing to Dave the steward before venting more spent Suffolk Pride and returning to my seat in time for the re-start of the football at twenty-three minutes to two.

The second half is not unexpectedly different to the first, football mostly being a game of two halves.  Rangers have made two substitutions, one having the unusual first name of Tylon to rhyme with Skylon and Nylon, and the players have evidently received a reminder from their French coach Monsieur Stephan about the need to try and score les buts. As a result, an early Town shot at Walsh becomes an isolated incident as Rangers proceed to soon win a corner and a free-kick and their supporters become optimistic enough to chant “Come on you R’s” with genuine enthusiasm.  It seems that Monsieur Stephan has successfully injected a bit of va-va-voom and even “Je ne sais quoi” into his players.   I am particularly impressed by Ranger’s number ten Ilias Chair, although he is quite small, more of a footstool or a pouffe than a chair really.  

Despite the Rangers’ improved showing I don’t get the impression anyone is getting over-anxious.  “Another goal would knock the stuffing out of them” says Fiona, and I agree with her, my only quibble with her analysis being that it makes QPR sound a bit too much like cuddly toys and I wouldn’t want to see the Portman Road pitch festooned with kapok. 

With an hour gone the Rangers’ fans launch a final attempt to goad the home supporters with a chant of “Football in a library”. But their efforts fall on deaf ears, which is hardly surprising given the age of some of us in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  Two minutes later and the traditional ‘half an hour left’ substitutions are made by a thoughtful looking Keiran McKenna as Philogene and Burns are replaced by Clarke and McAteer.  Almost instantly, Town win a couple of predictably disappointing corners but it’s enough to re- invigorate the home crowd,  who are soon back to chanting “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go” in the simple style of a class of primary school children.  Twenty-one minutes of normal time remain when Jack Clarke shoots wide of the goal. A minute later and Nunez and Hirst depart for the bench to be replaced by Azon and Mehmeti in the well-rehearsed fashion.  Across the illuminated centre of the Sir Bobby Robson stand the spirit of optimism is echoed in the words “The future of flat roofing today”.

Another goal would be good, and I sense some frustration that it hasn’t been scored yet as everyone yearns to see the game ‘put to bed’, perhaps with a milky cup of Horlicks or Cocoa.  Leif Davis getting booked barely registers in the scheme of things now and the longed-for goal almost comes as Jack Clarke is fouled and from the free-kick the ball is headed across the face of the Rangers’ goal.  Eleven minutes of normal time remain, and Rangers’ Smyth makes his mark on the game by having his name taken by Mr Ward for a foul on Darnell Furlong.  Eight minutes of normal time remain, and the Sir Bobby Robson standers are now confident enough to test out a chant of “We are going up, We are going up”, which almost seems to be the signal for a parade of stewards and police in what look like uniforms that can easily be wiped clean to surround the pitch.

Seven minutes remain, and Christian Walton is forced into a flying save to keep out a shot from one or other of the Park Rangers and it’s as if the surrounding of the pitch by people dressed in black and day-glo orange might have been distracting.  But three minutes later play is at the desired end of the ground again as Jack Taylor storms towards goal, the ball is blocked but runs to Kasey McAteer who guides it into the net and Town lead three-nil. 

Now the game is truly over and promotion is secured, again. It doesn’t really matter that Dan Neil replaces Jack Taylor, that we number 29,636 today or that four minutes of added on time will be added on.  With the final whistle, within seconds a swarm of supporters cover the pitch and Town are definitively promoted to what is called the Premier League.  The last time I saw this many people on the pitch at a match versus QPR they were fighting each other.

Very few people leave to catch trains or buses today.  I was going to, but against my better judgement I hang about pointlessly looking on at people milling about the pitch whilst the excitable young stadium announcer tells them that there will be no presentation of the runners-up trophy until the pitch is completely cleared. I am wasting my life away here.   The game ended at twenty past two and its three o’clock by the time the presentation of the trophy is made but there are too many other people on the pitch to see that and then the team don’t parade it around the pitch, they just hang about near the halfway line enduring very loud music. A blast of Status Quo at getting on for two-thirty is the final straw and I head for the railway station and home to find that I must have already drunk that bottle of champagne for which I found the receipt.   

Ipswich Town 2 Middlesbrough 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a difficult week of a shingles vaccination, which made me feel so ill I was only capable of falling asleep watching the telly,  a televised away defeat at Portsmouth, through much of which I wish I had slept, and a Saturday in which I was tasked with wrestling artificial stone paving slabs  into some sort of path around a recently refurbished garden pond.  Now, to cap it all the Town are having to perform at midday on the Sunday at the behest of some evil, global media empire, and I am having to forego every person’s human right to a lie-in on their actual or nominal sabbath before enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

More cheerfully, it is a bright sunny morning, albeit tempered by a chilly breeze, as I make my way to the railway station where, arriving on the ‘Ipswich bound’ platform I engage in conversation with the man who very often stands here with me on match days.  Today, we continue our conversation on the train and not only does he meet Gary, who as ever boards at the next station stop, but he reveals that his name is Gareth, his grandfather was chairman of Braintree Town Football Club back in the 1970’s and 1980’s when they were in the Eastern Counties League, and one of his earliest football related memories is of his grandmother running the players’ baths at Cressing Road just as the game was about to end, because presumably at that time in Braintree the brand names Mira, Triton and Aqualisa were still unknown.

Being Sunday, the train is busy with faithful pilgrims, all bound for Portman Road, who regrettably seem largely unable to talk quietly, making it difficult for considerate people like Gary, Gareth and me to hold a conversation without raising our voices too.  In Wherstead we lean towards the train window, searching the landscape beyond for polar bears; a grubby looking one close to the tracks glances up trying to spot any Middlesbrough fans who she might recognise from the frozen wastelands of the North or from episodes of Noggin the Nog.

Arriving in Ipswich, Gary and I bid adieu to Gareth and make for the Arb as fast as Gary’s dawdling gait will allow. Impatient for beer, despite it not yet being eleven o’clock, I am first through the door, but Gary offers to buy the drinks and I let him.  The pub is pleasingly not as heaving as it usually is before a match, although a man tries to form a queue behind us at the bar and I have to tell him that queuing is not required in pubs, it’s why they have bars and not hatches, and bar staff not tellers.

Pint glasses of Lager and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride in our respective hands Gary and I proceed to the beer garden where Mick is already ensconced with a pint of Blackberry Porter and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.  Our conversation begins like an episode of Rumpole at the Bailey; but it’s Gary at Crown Court, as he proceeds to tell us a story of every day criminal folk beating each other up on the mean streets of an Essex town beneath the gaze of CCTV cameras.  Gary’s stint as a juror ended this week but the denouement is that all the accused were found guilty of a range of offences and await sentencing. 

Another pint of lager, a pint of porter and a double-whisky later Gary, Mick and I are victoriously the last drinkers in the pub when we head downhill to Portman Road where there are queues for the Cobbold Stand. We go our separate ways somewhere close to the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey uncertain whether the final home match of the season is on a Saturday or a Sunday but relatively confident that it will again be stupidly early in the day.

At the back of the Sir  Alf Ramsey stand the queues to be checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal are blissfully short and although the sacred turnstile 62 is temporarily afflicted by a man trying to gain entry using petrol coupons and a Tesco club card,  I am soon stood next to Pat from Clacton waiting for her to finish photographing the flames leaping into the midday air in  front of the Cobbold Stand so that I can sit down next to Fiona, next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  I think to myself that it’s nice that everyone is present after a few absences for the previous match. Today, I have mysteriously arrived in time to hear the excitable young stadium announcer (EYSA) announce the whole team and I do my best to be like a Frenchman at Le Stadium in Toulouse or the Stade Raymond Kopa in Angers by bawling out the players surnames as EYSA reads them out , but with variable success because he is a beat or two ahead of the scoreboard

Eventually, through an atmosphere of dissipating smoke and fumes the game begins, with today’s guests Middlesbrough, known as The Boro’ to their friends getting first go with the ball, which they are mostly kicking in the direction of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the Smokehouse live music venue in South Street. Very agreeably, both teams sport their proper kits, with the Town of course in their signature blue and white and The Boro’ in all red with a white band across their chests making them look unmistakeably like Middlesbrough.  The only pity is that The Boro’s white band is besmirched with the name of an on-line betting company when it should read ‘Geordie Jeans’.  

Early exchanges are fast and erratic as if the game was being played by startled spiders.  Waiting for the game to ‘settle down’ I ask Pat from Clacton how her knee is and she tells me it still hurts but nothing like it did and of course she can now walk on it and didn’t, as I suggest therefore, need to be lowered into her seat from a helicopter.  “I wouldn’t mind, but I was only getting in my car to go and play whist” moans Pat.

Back on the pitch, the first seven minutes have evaporated like the paraffin fumes, and Town are already starting to dominate to the extent that the smog monsters up in the Cobbold Stand (for that is what people from Teesside are called), are plaintively chanting “Come on Boro, Come on Boro”.  The atmosphere is tense.  “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?”  enquire the Smoggies (short for Smog-monsters) through the medium of song, but happily the half-expected medley of works by Chris Rea doesn’t materialise.  Looking up into the gap between the roofs of the stands billowing white clouds tower above us in an otherwise clear blue sky.   The seventeenth minute heralds Town’s first corner, as the result of a shot from Ivan Azon, but it is all too easily dealt with by the Boro players despite mine, Fionas and ever-present Phil’s chants of “Come on you Blues”.  Four minutes on and again our chants are as ineffectual as Nunez’s next corner kick.

With a quarter of the game having faded away into our pasts Town almost score as a low McAteer cross is sent wide of the goal by an unexpectedly far forward Darnell Furlong, who I don’t think I had ever seen have a shot before.  Somewhat typically, within a minute Middlesbrough take the lead, predictably perhaps from the Town left where the improbably plainly monikered Alan Browne appears unmarked to cross low for David Strelec to tap the ball in from close range.  “Tingly Teds hot sauce by Ed Sheeran” read the neon lights of the Sir Bobby Robson stand not making matters any better.

 A deathly silent pall of gloom, which the home crowd always keeps close at hand for such occasions hangs over the stands and consumes all hope for a full five minutes.  But then, a bit of space in front of the Boro back four, a pass, a dinky back heel from Ivan Azon, and the re-born Kasey McAteer is drilling the ball into the corner of the Boro net from outside the penalty area and twenty-seven thousand odd people believe again.  “By far the greatest team the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers. “Well may be not the World, perhaps Suffolk” says Fiona, and Norfolk of course.  Town win a third corner and again at least three of us bellow “Come on you Blues”.  As the ball is again cleared, I wonder to Fiona whether our chants put the players off rather than encourage them.  Meanwhile up in the Cobbold Stand the Smoggies are chanting “You don’t know what you’re doing” to referee Mr Jarred Gillett, who has made or not made some or other decision to annoy them, even though he appears to have also awarded their team a free kick; you just can’t please some people.  Boro’ goalkeeper Sol Brynn takes the free-kick and I momentarily think of Uncle Bryn in tv’s Gavin and Stacey.

Half-time is only about seven minutes away and Jaden Philogene has a rare shot on goal which gives Town a fourth corner and a handful of us another opportunity to encourage the team vocally.  Town have been the better team this first half, but the Smoggies are blaming Mr Gillett. “You’re not fit to referee” they sing, like chapel-going Welshman and then more experimentally, and as Brynn takes the inevitable goal-kick following Town’s corner, “Shit referee, Ole, Ole, Ole”.  The goal-kick skews out into touch and I tell Fiona “I don’t know about the referee, but the goalkeeper’s not that good either”.

After Middlesbrough win their only corner of the half, which they don’t seem very keen to take, a minute of added on time is added on and then it’s time to applaud the team off before going to the front of the stand to chat to Dave the steward, Ray and his grandson Harrison and son Michael.  Today Ray tells me how he used to get free tickets for both home and away games when his father drove the team bus in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s.  On my way back to my seat ever-present Phil who never misses a game tells me how yesterday he went to watch Kings Park Rangers at Cornard and how this very blog came in useful, fore warning him that Cornard United’s Backhouse Lane ground is a real ale desert, so he drank elsewhere.

The football resumes at two minutes past one and soon it becomes evident that this is going to be a ‘game of two halves’ and it seems that it is Middlesbrough’s turn to dominate.   Like some meteorological portent of doom, the sky has clouded over, and the breeze seems even cooler than before. Middlesbrough win a corner.  Three minutes later a state of confusion in the Town box has the ball rebounding off a post and Christian Walton saving the ball from crossing the goal line.  Things are looking a bit grim and as a diversion I look for poetry in the Boro team names, but Ayling, Browne, Fry, Gilbert and Morris can’t compare to Boam, Brine, Craggs, Spraggon and Woof from the Boro team of the 1970’s.

Brief respite and enjoyment arrive on fifty-three minutes as the afternoon’s first booking goes to Boro’s Matt Targett who has fouled Jack Taylor.  I speculate that a matt target is easier to hit than a glossy one which might produce awkward reflections and that he perhaps has a sister who is formally known as Miss Targett.  As the game descends into its final half an hour the first substitutions see former Town loanee Jeremy Sarmiento applauded by the home supporters who may never forget his last-minute goal versus Southampton in 2024, before Ivan Azon hurriedly shoots over the Boro cross bar.

As in the first half, Town’s  spurning of an opportunity is soon punished and two minutes later the Town defence is as ever penetrated on its left hand side and again a low cross is pulled back allowing  little Tommy Conway to score from close range with the Town defence well and truly dissected and pinned out like a frog in a school biology lab. Boro lead 2-1 and substitutions for Town are immediate but not necessarily related, with Mehmeti and Clarke usurping Nunez and Philogene.  But Town’s defence doesn’t improve much as Sarmiento’s shot is saved and then another three are blocked in quick succession before Middlesbrough have a corner.

Eighteen minutes of normal time remain when Eggy replaces McAteer, fourteen when Mehmeti shoots straight at Brynn, and Town begin to claw their way back into the contest with a corner seven minutes later and then two more substitutions with George Hirst and Dan Neil saying ‘hello’ and Ivan Azon and Azor Matusiwa saying ‘goodbye’.  Six minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our ‘incredible’ support, which numerically speaking today amounts to 29,684. Incredible.  Two more minutes have elapsed when a low cross from the right looks to be too far ahead of George Hirst for him to threaten the Boro goal but Adilson Malanda doesn’t make the same judgement and with the sort of slightly violent, gung-ho spirit he might have been infected with whilst playing in the USA, he pulls Hirst back and gifts Jack Clarke a shot at goal from the penalty spot.  Clarke scores the penalty and despite another eight minutes of added on time being added on, and two more players for each team being booked, the game is drawn.

The final whistle sees Pat from Clacton departing as quickly as she can and Fiona leaves too for her train.  My train leaves in not much more than ten minutes time too, so I don’t linger either.  But this has been a good match, not very much use as a result to either team really, but not a disaster either and worth the entry money as a spectator.  The Smoggies up in Cobbold stand seem bitter however, and Mr Gillett is the target of their ire as they advise him that he is not fit to referee nor perform other tasks requiring snap decisions and good eyesight presumably, like racing driver and fighter-pilot.  It makes a welcome change though for opposition supporters to be singing this particular song, long may it continue.

Ipswich Town 1 Leicester 1

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It has been a gloriously dank, miserable, grey, Spring  morning in which I have put some vegetable peelings, apple cores and fruit skins in the wormery at the end of the garden, re-filled the bird feeders in the front garden and annoyed my wife Paulene by somehow implying that I didn’t want her in the kitchen watching Aussie Rules footie whilst I was making breakfast.  It is now still gloriously dank, miserable, and grey as I walk to the railway station and my thoughts turn to Ipswich Town versus Leicester City and by association King Richard the third, Joe Orton, the Engineering Faculty building at Leicester university and the popular beat combo Kasabian.

The railway station is busy with wannabe travellers, and a London bound train squeaks to a halt by the opposite platform pretty much as I reach the anointed spot on the Ipswich bound platform where I will wait.  I don’t squeak like the London bound train but instead speak to a fellow Town supporter who I regularly see near this point on the platform and who has made it into this blog before.  The train is three minutes late and when it arrives the carriage I board is populated at one end by loud, lairy youths unable to converse without shouting at each other; they need to discover narcotics.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and is with a man called Chris, who I used to travel to away matches with about twenty-five years ago and who also used to watch Wivenhoe Town.  Chris is a laughing, smiling, happy man and he is keen to look out for polar bears as we near Ipswich.  We see one which is swimming in one of the pools, although we don’t see a towel laid out at the poolside. Arriving in Ipswich, the town is like a black and white postcard of itself, Leicester City fans are singing in the beer garden of the Station Hotel and we head for the Arb up Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street. Seizing hold of the narrative Gary tells me that he is going to be first through the door of the Arb today and indeed he is as I stand back and accede to his wish.  Gary’s progress to the bar is unhindered and he buys a pint Lager 43 for himself and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and is about to pay when Mick arrives and so Gary buys him a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride too.  We repair to the beer garden where many of the seats are unpleasantly damp, so fearful of the seats of our trousers becoming moist we stand and drink and talk.

Our conversation today lurches between the ownership of the Estrella brewery, my boycotting of American products, today’s team, what food Mick has ordered (Falafel Scotch egg), the lunacy of Christian nationalists, and religion.  Luckily, the arrival of Mick’s food coincides with a table with dry seating becoming available in the shelter that backs onto High Street and we move there as I fetch another pint of Suffolk Pride and another pint of Lager 43 plus a single Jameson whisky for Mick (£14 something with Camra discount).  We are of course the last to leave when we depart for Portman Road shortly before twenty to three.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand the queues to be searched for weaponry and scrap metal vary between short and non-existent today and I am soon through the checkpoint and waiting behind three people at illustrious  turnstile 62, but the person at the head of the queue is either incompetent or trying to use a library card to gain access, and being impatient I switch to turnstile 61, which is almost as illustrious as its neighbour, but not quite.  I am comfortably minus some spent Suffolk Pride by the time I take my seat next to Fiona, next but one to Pat from Clacton, and a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood. The man from Stowmarket (Paul) is still convalescing after the operation on his left eye.   I must have arrived early to day because I am here in time to bellow the surnames of players like a Frenchman at the Stade de Francis Le Ble in Brest as the excitable young announcer reads out Town team.

After the usual rendition of a verse of Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown the game begins and Ipswich get first go with the ball, which they generally aim towards the goal nearest me and my fellow ultras.  Town are of course in our signature blue and white whilst Leicester wear somewhat effete away strip of pale pink shirts with black shorts.

After a few all too brief moments of Town possession, Leicester take over rather and after only five minutes have won a corner.  Happily, the Leicester corner is as useless as most corners are, but Town keep giving the ball away in our own half and it’s fortunate that Leicester’s players seem a bit short-sighted and haven’t quite worked out where the goal is. Leicester’s early dominance has Town supporters in an even more introspective, withdrawn mood than usual and only seven minutes are lost to history before the visiting supporters are chanting “Football in a library, du-du-du”.  Meanwhile, I can’t help thinking that the Leicester players names Winks and Skipp sound like they’re made-up or are just nicknames and not real names at all.   “Winks, didn’t he used to play for Tottenham?” asks Pat from Clacton.  Fiona and I don’t know but I add that he can’t be much good if even Tottenham didn’t want him.

As a result of a catalogue of dubious free-kicks our conversation turns to the referee, the diminutive Mr John Busby, who we all agree is awful.  “We’ve had him before, do you remember?” asks Pat from Clacton.  The bloke next to me tells me that Mr Busby was referee for the Preston North End game, which ended in a frustrating one-all draw, although he did award Town a very late penalty.  But then Mr Busby books Leicester’s Luke Thomas and I suggest to Fiona that perhaps Mr Busby isn’t so bad after all – but of course he is.

It has taken until the twenty-first minute for Town to win a corner, and eight minutes later they win another, but not before Leicester win one too.  From the second Town corner Dara O’Shea heads narrowly wide at the far post when it looked as simple to score.  “Come On You Blues” a few of us chanted, and it nearly worked.   The thirty second minute is now here, O’Shea shoots over the Leicester cross bar and I notice that the seat in front of Fiona is occupied today by a man with no hair and the floodlights are reflecting off his shiny bald pate; visually he reminds me of the Catherine Tate character Derek, who would exclaim “How very dare you” whenever anyone inferred from his extreme campness that he was gay.   “Blue Army, Blue Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers as Town begin to dominate.

Perhaps sensing Town’s improvement Mr Busby books Wes Burns before Christian Walton easily gathers a shot aimed straight at him.  On the touchline Kieran McKenna looks a little more tense than usual and his clothes look a bit crumpled too, like he might have slept in his car.  Kieran might dress all in black, but Diego Simeone at Atletico Madrid and Habib Beye at Marseille have the edge on him sartorially.

Back on the pitch Mr Busby just can’t help awarding free kicks whenever anyone falls over and from the latest injustice a deep cross is diverted into the Town goal net courtesy of a bloke from Zambia called Patson Daka.  “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers.  “How shit must you be, we’re winning away” chant the Leicester fans and it’s not clear if their chant is directed at Ipswich or Mr Busby.   Their claim to be the EFL’s most confused fans is quickly confirmed as they chant “Who are ya? Who are ya?” when only ten minutes earlier they had been chanting “Small club in Norwich, You’re just a small club in Norwich”.  They need to make their minds up about what they think they know.

The half ends with Mr Busby once again placing himself centre stage as he penalises the Leicester goalkeeper for holding onto the ball for too long, something for which I don’t’ think I’ve seen a free kick awarded this century.  Fiona has to explain to me that the punishment for this is now a corner kick and by the time she’s done this I’ve missed the chance to bawl “Come On You Blues” and as a result of this Town don’t score, again. A minute of added time is taken from all our futures to make up for the inadequacy of the past, but it makes no difference and with half-time Mr Busby is deservedly booed into the tunnel by those who haven’t already made a dash for the khazi.

I spend my half-time as usual in conversation with Dave the steward and Ray, but either time passes quickly, or half-time is briefer than usual as I don’t get time to vent more obsolete Suffolk Pride and I worry slightly that this could make the end of the game more tense than usual, especially if there is much added-on time.  On the way back to my seat, I speak with ever-present Phil who never misses a game. Phil it seems is full of woe and lists several portents of doom such as his not having stood up until the game kicked-off, Elwood having never seen Leicester City lose and Town not yet having won a match this season having gone a goal behind. I tell him it’ll be alright because I’m wearing a new T-shirt today, but he interprets that as a portent of doom too. 

The football resumes at three minutes past four and from the start Town are on top, never again do they allow Leicester to dominate possession or look in any way like the better team, which of course they’re not.  Within two minutes it looks from where I’m sat that Town have missed an open goal and Leicester will from now on live very dangerously until nearly five minutes to five.  Four minutes later and Mr Busby takes the name of Leicester’s number fourteen, which turns out to be Bobby Decordova-Reid.  I notice and remark to Fiona that the little bald bloke who was sat in front of her hasn’t returned for the second half, how very dare he?

Fifty-seven minutes have been spent watching football and Town win another corner. Nunez is yet another player to have his name collected by little Mr Busby.  An hour has passed and although Town are playing well just as they are, Keiran McKenna replaces Dan Neil with Jack Clarke because he cannot not make a substitution with an hour gone.  Best of all however, the excitable young stadium announcer barks out the name “Jack Clarke” in the way that Duff-Man announces his own name in The Simpsons, and merely says Dan Neil like he might say “yes please” if asked if he wants milk in his tea.

The second half has now developed into a litany of Town crosses, Town corners, occasional Town penalty appeals, far post headers from Dara O’Shea, blocked and missed shots and hurried Leicester clearances.  The home crowd are unusually supportive of the team, the inept decision-making of Mr Busby helping us all unite against a common enemy. As the sixty-ninth minute edges closer Pat from Clacton ponders whether to release “Monkey” the lucky charm from her handbag.  She doesn’t and as it turns out she doesn’t need to as in the seventy sixth minutes Eggy lashes the ball into the Leicester net with aplomb at the end of a bout of bagatelle in which Ipswich get the hi-score.    “Oooh, I feel ill now” says Pat from Clacton as the pressure of wanting to win usurps that of obtaining a mere equaliser.

Ten minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young announcer thanks us for our “incredible support” which today amounts to 28,704 of us.  The Leicester fans had been impressively if not incredibly noisy until Ipswich scored, but now they probably feel a bit sick like Pat from Clacton.  The home support has not been as impressive, but has had a better game than usual, mainly thanks to Mr Busby who now has one final trick up his sleeve, a piece of showboating and his equivalent of a couple of stepovers, a scorpion kick or a drag-back. With the game well into five minutes of added on time, a cross from the right sees Cedric Kipre moving towards its trajectory at the far post only to go sprawling in a way that is the very definition of sprawling and looking very much like he had been floored by Leicester’s Hamza Choudhury.

Within a short space of time the game is over amidst much wailing and gnashing of teeth and singing to the tune of the 1934 Rogers and Hart tune Blue Moon, “Short refs, we only get short refs”.  At least I think that’s what people were singing.   Mr Busby is surrounded at the final whistle by Leicester players and coaches wanting to congratulate him on how spectacularly bad he has been.  When Mr Busby eventually leaves the field of play, he is invisible in the middle of a protective shield of stewards, all of whom are inevitably much taller than he is.

An inglorious end to a glorious, dank, miserable, grey Spring day.

Ipswich Town 1 Hull City 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

When did football matches become like buses? None for a month and then three all at once.  Although in rural Suffolk the pattern is slightly different being one of no buses since 1985 except for the occasional rail replacement that takes a wrong turn off the A140.  But if it’s Tuesday it must be Hull City and after a day’s quiet toil in front of a couple of computer screens, and then a late afternoon plate of left over and re-heated cottage pie, I find my self once again walking along my local railway station platform to catch the train to Ipswich.

Evening sunlight abounds, illuminating faces and fascias. A boy with big ears looks up from his phone and smiles and a man in his thirties who is showing early signs of balding carries his grandmother’s handbag, although I suppose she could be his aunt, or even his wife or lover, I don’t ask.  The train arrives and I sit opposite a woman who easily looks sixty and whose blond hair simply has to be dyed, like the grandmother’s was, although she had chosen an improbable ginger  or auburn with grey streaks.  Gary joins me at the first station stop and has been thinking, seemingly at length, about when Ipswich Town’s twice postponed game at Portsmouth will eventually be played.  I tell him I had heard someone say that there is a scenario where it would be on Good Friday although we’re already scheduled to play at Southampton that day.  I guess the idea is that the EFL will say “well, whilst you’re in area, you know, two birds with one stone and all that”.  Gary favours Portsmouth having to waive the fixture and Ipswich being awarded a 6-0 win. Gary, sixty-seven and still a dreamer.

Ipswich is busy with buses and cars filled with people going home from work as we head up Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street to the Arb. As ever, I’m first through the door and soon invest in a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10 something with Camra discount) before we repair to the beer garden, where we sit in the dimly lit and echoey shelter backing onto High Street.  Mick soon arrives, goes to fetch a pint of Suffolk Pride for himself and returns before being served “mini fish and chips”, which we know he ordered when buying his beer.   I ask if it’s the fish that is mini, a Stickleback perhaps, or the portion.  Strangely, the mini fish and chips is served in a ceramic cup of chips with the piece of fish balanced on top, which Mick then has to tip out onto the plate to eat.  Mick explains that this sort of presentation is ‘a thing’ with chefs; “de-constructed” is the word apparently. “Daft” and “poncey” are other words that spring to mind.  I laughingly tell him he should have said “what am I supposed to do with this, drink it?” to the unfortunate fellow who brought it from the kitchen.

Gary reprises his concerns about the re-scheduling of the Portsmouth match, presumably just for Mick’s benefit, before we look at the changes to tonight’s team compared to Saturday’s, and I point out that tonight is our second in three consecutive games against teams from cities which were home to notable British literary figures,  namely Dylan Thomas, Philip Larkin and Joe Orton.  We go on to think of people with the first name Winston but can only come up with author Winston Graham and the fictional Winston Smith, although much later at home I will recall Winston White who played for Colchester United. Gary and Mick both return to the bar for more beer and whisky and once everyone else has left for Portman Road, we do too.

On arrival at Portman Road, I am disappointed to find queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand as everyone is checked for weaponry and scrap metal.  When I get to the front of the queue I am asked by the man wielding the scanner if I have something in my pocket, I reply that I don’t know and I don’t, because I don’t know which pocket he means; I have several in my large black coat.  I am let through without further questions and proceed to the famous turnstile 62.  By the time I’ve vented some spent Suffolk Pride and arrived at my seat the excitable young stadium announcer has already read out the team names, un-necessarily bellowed ‘Blue Army’ a couple of times and weirdly asked us all to be loud and proud.  Naturally, ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here along with Pat from Clacton and Fiona but tonight we are missing ever-present Phil’s son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who has had an operation on his left eye.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they mostly aim in the direction of the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras, and of course Town are in our signature kit of blue and white.  Hull City meanwhile are appropriately kicking in the direction of Wilberforce Street, named after William Wilberforce, who was born and grew up in Hull, and wear their signature gold shirts and black shorts.  Doubtless because Hull City are known as the Tigers, the sleeves on their shirts rather unpleasantly feature a sort of tiger-skin print of the sort you might normally expect to see on a dress worn by the fictional Bet Lynch of Coronation Street fame, or perhaps Eartha Kitt.

The game starts slowly with Town striving to gain an early advantage but becoming mired in Hull’s dense defensive formation. “Windows”, “Doors”, “Conservatories” announce the illuminated advertisement hoardings on the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and confusing which electronic displays are meant to encourage our support for our team, and which are there to just flog us stuff I get the urge to shout the words out. Fortunately, the urge is resisted.  On the pitch meanwhile, several free kicks have already been awarded causing Fiona to remark in a tone of deep resignation “Seems the referee’s not going to let anything go”.

With the tenth minute Town win a corner to please fans of decimals, and Fiona and I are a little shocked to hear a surging chant of “Come On You Blues” emanating from the far end of the ground.  Naturally, we join in and for a few moments Town lay siege to the Hull penalty area until Marcelino Nunez puts a lid on our excitement as he ill-advisedly shoots high and wide of the Tigers’ goal.  Five minutes elapse and Town win another corner and then another, and a more normal, somewhat weedy chant of “Come On You Blues” comes from the usual half a dozen suspects.  With the eighteenth minute Jack Taylor shoots thunderously but narrowly wide eliciting an “Ooooh!” if not from everyone, then from me at least, before Fiona shudders slightly as if someone had “…walked over her grave”, the scientific explanation for which is apparently that it is a release of adrenaline, which is understandable when watching Ipswich Town.

Twenty minutes have now left us and Hull City manage a shot, but typically for a team who seldom venture outside the safety of the area just in front of their own penalty box, it is from distance.  Normal service is soon resumed however as Town win a fourth corner and once again half a dozen of us do what football supporters are supposed to do on such occasions and shout encouragement to our team.  The visitors in the Cobbold stand have by now noticed the reticence of the home supporters to sing and shout much, and respond with an ironic chant of  “Ipswich, Ipswich, give us a song” which isn’t one I’ve heard for several years and  possibly reveals either  imagination or what an out of the way place Hull really is. But moments  later   the Hullensians are singing about football in a library, which I don’t suppose was something Philip Larkin ever considered.

The first half enters its final third and Hull City have become a fraction sharper it seems, with a few awkward looking breakaways but then Jack Taylor has another shot and quickly George Hirst has a header but they are both straight at the Hull goalkeeper Ivor Pander, whose name sounds like an admission that somewhere he keeps a black and white, bamboo-eating bear . Hull then have the cheek to win a corner before Mr Lewis gets to air his yellow card for the first time this evening when some bloke fouls young Eggy.  As if sulking over mean Mr Lewis’s treatment of his team mate, another Hull player goes down injured and as a result we all lose four minutes of our lives waiting a bit longer for half-time.  Pat from Clacton makes use of the time however by finding her friend John in the west stand using the zoom lens of her camera, and Fiona, Pat and I discover that we all know John and we all get texts from him every morning.  The half almost ends with another corner and renewed chants of “Come On You Blues”, but then it does.

Half-time is a whirlwind of talking to Dave the steward, from whom I learn that another Dave with whom we both once worked has been dead for a couple of years, talking to Ray, bumping fists with Harrison, feeling spots of water on my face from the sprinklers on the pitch, and decanting more spent Suffolk Pride. When the football kicks off again it is ten minutes to nine.

The second half begins with Hull looking like they’ve decided they should occupy a little more of their time with the ball at their feet. Within two minutes Hull have a corner, but when Town get the  ball back, it’s as if the home crowd had felt affronted and they react supportively with repeated surging chants of “Blue Army, Blue Army”, which personally speaking is my least favourite chant of all. With the half now ten minutes old, Dara O’Shea surprises everyone by striding forward and having a shot at goal; it’s much less of a surprise when the ball travels over the cross bar.

Town are sometimes criticised by their own supporters for a perceived lack of urgency, but giving the lie to that today Keiran McKenna makes his first two substitutions in the fifty-seventh minute, at least three minutes before he usually does; Wes Burns and Leif Davis replace Eggy and Jacob Greaves. By the time the substitutes would normally be coming on, Town have another corner and George Hirst is directing the ball at Ivor Pander again.  A second Hull player, a huge, bearded bloke called Matt Crooks is booked for a foul on Jack Taylor, but Nunez boots the resulting free kick over Ivor Pander’s bar.  Pander is then booked for time wasting and with only five minutes until the witching hour that is the sixty-ninth minute, Pat from Clacton mentions that she might have to get lucky charm ‘Monkey’ out of her handbag despite the chill in the air.  Anis Mehmeti replaces Jack Taylor with twenty-two minutes of normal time remaining.

Twenty minutes now remain, Hull’s Egan fouls George Hirst and is booked, both Egan and Crooks are quickly substituted, presumably so that someone who won’t be sent off for his next bookable offence can come on and commit any ‘necessary’ fouls with impunity, or at least until he gets booked too.  The excitable young stadium announcer now tells us with uncharacteristic calmness that tonight there are 26,103 of us here and he thanks us for our support but for once does not claim that it is incredible, perhaps because it is not.

A minute later no one cares what the crowd is or who’s been booked as the ball is dribbled in from the left, Leif Davis runs across the edge of the penalty area, squares the ball back to Azor Matusiwa and he gives Town the lead by what can only be described as “twatting” the ball into the top right hand corner of the Hull goal from just outside the penalty area. The relief in the home crowd is palpable, and I can only think the funereally paced rendition of “When the Town go marching in” that follows is an attempt to slow down everyone’s heart rates.

Unfortunately, the final nineteen minutes of normal time and five minutes of added on time do not see Town extend their lead to make the game safe, but nor do Hull succeed in seriously threatening to equalize. Hull nevertheless increasingly find their way into the previously mostly unchartered territory of the Town half; the Town defence however stands firm and Hull never quite manage to locate the goal.  Pat from Clacton helps ease the tension by looking in her purse for the piece of paper that records her entry in the ’draw the correct score’ draw on the Clacton supporters’ bus.  Pat has drawn ‘3-2’; it makes us all laugh.

Added on time melts away without much delay and with the final whistle we do the same to catch our buses and trains.  It’s been a game that‘s made a virtue of patience but now somehow, I can’t wait to get home.  After  Ipswich lost heavily at home to Hull City back in March 2018 I concluded in this very blog that I couldn’t begrudge  any city associated with William Wilberforce, Philip Larkin and Mick Ronson the odd three-nil away win. Tonight however Hull City have failed to live up to the qualities of that illustrious threesome. Ipswich Town on  the other hand have comfortably beaten off all comparisons with the work of Brian Cant, June Brown and Nik Kershaw.

Ipswich Town 3 Swansea City 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It has been four weeks since I last travelled to Portman Road to watch Ipswich Town.  Strangely forgetting about the away matches in between, I had started to wonder if the football season hadn’t already ended or somehow been cancelled amid claims from Reform UK Limited that the English Football League had been taken over by followers of Islam.

In keeping with my expectations of the end of February and life in general it’s been a drizzly, grey Saturday morning.  But now as I step out for the railway station, leaving my Pompey supporting wife Paulene to watch her team head for defeat on the telly to visiting Hull City, the rain has stopped and I become aware of rooks building nests high up in the trees and buds beginning to flower.  As I stand on the station platform a single blue tit chirrups every now and then.  The train is on time and whilst it’s not full, the carriage I sit in is full enough to mean I can’t get far enough away from a loud group of men and boys. “We’d better eat this food then” says one of the men who has a particularly penetrating, rasping voice.  My nostrils are assaulted by a terrible smell; God only knows what’s in their sandwiches, I don’t want to.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and we talk of Trump’s bombing of Iran, his blockading of Cuba, his Board of “Peace” and how Gianni Infantino will react to one of the host nations of the World Cup finals effectively declaring war on another before the competition has even begun.  Hopefully, we can look forward to the USA being thrown out, like Russia; but awarding of another medal is probably more likely.  So engrossed are we in our politically charged conversation that we almost forget to look for polar bears as the train passes through Wherstead, and when we do, we don’t see any.

Unusually, upon leaving the railway station we take the less convoluted Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street route to the Arb’, but this is because we are talking to Carole and her husband who are heading for something to eat in the town centre. Arriving at the Arb, we can barely get in the door, so crammed is our favourite hostelry with men queuing at the bar. Eventually however, and after Mick joins us, I obtain two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (one for me, one for Mick) and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary (£14 something with Camra discount) and we repair to the beer garden where there is now a heavy drizzle, although it soon stops.  We talk further of Trump, Mick’s perfect hearing, the Housing Act in relation to private renting and tenant’s rights, today’s team, films Mick has recently seen at the cinema, the 1960’s and 1980’s BBC films/plays ‘Wargames’ and ‘Threads’ about nuclear attacks, and how Gary knows someone who always wants people to try some of her food when eating out.  Mick returns to the bar to buy more Lager and Suffolk Pride for Gary and me, and a whisky for himself.  At about twenty to three we set off for Portman Road, inevitably being the last Town supporters to leave the building.

There are no queues for the turnstiles at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand when I arrive and I stretch out my arms as I approach the bearded, middle-aged man who is going to see if I’m concealing any weapons or scrap metal about my person.   “Scarecrow” he says.  “Where?” I answer, looking around.  It’s only when writing this now, that I realise he probably means I look like a scarecrow with my arms outstretched.  I’m cleared for take-off (I was actually playing aeroplanes) and pulling the straw out from the sleeves of my coat I make for the hallowed turnstile 62, the stainless steel urinals, and then my seat in the lower tier of the stand, where naturally ever-present Phil who never misses a game, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and his grandson are already awaiting kick-off.  Only ever-present Phil’s son Elwood is missing today, but I am here in time to join in with the announcement of the Town team. “He hasn’t announced the team yet” says Pat from Clacton almost as excitedly as the excitable young stadium announcer, who proceeds to tell us the Town team and I do my best to bawl their surnames as if I was awaiting the coup d’envoi at Stade Bonal in Montbeliard or Stade de la Mosson in Montpellier.  After seemingly doubling up in pain as he shouts “Blue Army” into his microphone three times, the excitable young stadium announcer finally entreats us to “Be loud, be proud” as if we’re about to start protesting for gay rights.

Eventually, after a burst of communal singing of ‘Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown’ and another of ‘Hey Jude’ the game begins, and it’s Town who get first go with the ball via the boot of Marcelino Nunez.  Town, in signature blue and white are aiming for the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras. Swansea City meanwhile look demure, all in white like an innocent Leeds United or oddly Cambrian Real Madrid, although there doesn’t seem to be a single Welshman or Spaniard among them.

Within ten seconds Town have a corner and at least three of us are chanting “Come On You Blues” for all we’re worth but it comes to nought and I’m merely left to contemplate returning ex-Town player Cameron Burgess’s fashionable but terrible new haircut, a sort of ‘pudding basin’ but using a sprint-cyclist’s helmet not a basin.  My disappointment is thankfully short-lived however as no more than two minutes later Leif Davis proceeds down the left, his low cross is not even a third -cleared and the ball runs to Anis Mehmeti, who rather beautifully arcs the ball into the top far corner of the Swansea goal.  Town lead one-nil. We’ve scored early yet again, and I think I detect a feeling of inner peace.

Eight minutes have now passed and up in the Cobbold Stand those visiting from the lovely, ugly town of Swansea begin to sing of “football in a library” to show solidarity with almost every other set of fans who have ever visited Portman Road. “I was reading this morning on Twitter…” says the bloke beside me about something or other, and I feel an urge to tell him not to read things on what used to be called Twitter if he can help it. On the pitch, Swansea City are having possession of the ball more than Ipswich but don’t seem to be capable of doing anything meaningful with it.  “Hot Sausage Company” announce the electronic displays on the Sir Bobby Robson stand. “One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Welsh in the Cobbold Stand to the tune of Village People’s 1979 hit record “Go West”, which is perhaps ironic because you can’t get much further west than Swansea, unless you’re in Haverfordwest of course.

Thirteen minutes have departed and the match is a little dull. I notice that the Swansea goalkeeper has the surname Vigouroux, which is almost the French word for vigorous (vigoureux), but he’s from Chile. Swansea’s number seven meanwhile is called Melker Widell and I amuse myself by hoping that the other players call him Jimmy in spite of his being Swedish and surely not pronouncing Widell to rhyme with riddle.  Seven minutes later life takes a turn for the better as Town win a second corner.  “Come On You Blues” chant the only five people in the stand who understand that supporters are supposed to encourage their team.  Life fails to improve any more.

The visiting Swansea fans then chant “Sit down if you love Norwich” in what perhaps passes as an attempt at humour on the banks of the River Tawe, but more likely they’re delirious after their long journey.  Above us grey cloud drifts across a sullen sky.  The half is half over and Irishman Ethan Galbraith shoots over the Town cross bar from outside the Town penalty area.  A minute later and Pat from Clacton exclaims that both teams are wearing white shorts; she didn’t think that was allowed.  I almost tell her that both teams in my Subbuteo Continental Club Edition that I got for Christmas in 1970 had white shorts, but I’m not sure it’s strictly relevant.

Town win their third corner in the twenty-ninth minute. Unbowed by the ennui of the rest of the occupants of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand the same four or five of us chant “Come On You Blues” with abandon and then do it all over again as Town win their fourth corner three minutes later.  Our efforts are rewarded by an Ivan Azon header over the cross bar before Pat from Clacton tells us that she’s looking forward to her forthcoming whist playing weekend in Great Yarmouth.  “You go there twice a year, don’t you Pat?” I ask her, thinking it doesn’t seem a year ago that she last went to Great Yarmouth”.  “Yes” says Pat, “Don’t you remember?  Last time I came back with flippin’ Covid” she continues.

Another seven minutes retreat into history and Anis Mehmeti is booked for fouling Ivorian Malick Yalcouye. Two minutes later however Leif Davis is again running down the left. A short pass finds Ivan Azon and he take a touch and very slightly curls the ball inside the far post beyond the vigorous but inadequate dive of the Swansea goalkeeper.  Town lead 2-0. “Ole, Ole, Ole,” chant the home crowd channelling what surely amounts to a racial stereotype.  “Hot Sausage Company” read the illuminated advert hoardings once again and I see that they cater for ‘events’ and weddings which must be a gift to any best man bent on giving a smutty, innuendo laden speech.

After a minute of time is stolen from all our futures to make up for other people wasting it by not playing continuous football, half-time is called.  To fill the gap, I talk to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) about the game and a forthcoming operation on his left eye before Ray appears, back from his cruise in the Caribbean.  Ray tells me that his son Michael and grandson Harrison are not here today because they have gone to see Morrisey at Wembley Arena.  I should have asked “What difference does it make?” but it wouldn’t really have made much sense, and I didn’t think of it anyway.

The football resumes at three minutes past four with ‘Jimmy’ Widell kicking off for Swansea, who continue to have lots of possession of the ball, but rarely do they threaten the Town goal with it.  After ten minutes Swansea make two substitutions, bringing on Franco and Ronald, who sound like a comedy double act evoking memories of the fascist Spanish dictator, the former governor of California and president of the USA, and Ronald McDonald.  The bloke next to me wonders about what substitutions Town will make and I tell him that we’ll find out in two and a half minutes time because invariably Keiran McKenna makes his substitutions after sixty minutes.  Like the trains (reputedly) in Mussolini’s Italy, McKenna is on time and Jack Taylor and Jack Clarke replace Nunez and Neil and the excitable young stadium announcer barks out the oncoming players names in a manner which I would like to hear used in a doctor’s or dentist’s waiting room.

The second half is a relaxed affair.  More substitutions follow for both teams but Town seem happy to allow Swansea to have the ball as much as they want as long as they don’t do anything with it except pass it about.  Cheekily perhaps, Swansea momentarily forget the agreement and Christian Walton has to make a diving save on one occasion, but such is Town’s dominance, even without the ball, that the possible appearance of the masturbating monkey good luck charm from Pat from Clacton’s handbag never even gets a mention.    Barely twenty minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our incredible support ( he must mean the five of us who shouted “Come On You Blues” at corners)and tells us that overall we number 27,594.

Just four minutes later, victory is confirmed in the easily calculated currency of goals as Anis Mehmeti robs some slack Swansea-ite of the ball, runs to the by-line and delivers a low cross which George Hirst meets at the near post and diverts at an oblique angle inside the far post.  It’s a fine, stylish finish from Hurst which belies the appearance of his haircut, which is not really any better than that of Cameron Burgess.   Town lead three-nil and in celebration, “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” is the chant from the oddly festive Sir Bobby Robson standers sung to the tune of ‘Mary’s Boy Child’, a 1956 Christmas hit for Harry Belafonte. 

A final Town substitution is made and four minutes of added-on time are added-on during which time the Sir Bobby Robson standers drearily sing “When the Town go marching in” and Anis Mehmeti is announced as ‘man of the match’ in the opinion of some sponsor or other and indeed he has played well.  With the final whistle, Pat and Fiona are swiftly away to get to their bus and train but I linger to applaud the teams and kill a bit of time because my train isn’t for another twenty-five minutes.  It’s been a comfortable win for Town, one of calm, studied authority decorated with moments of decisive skill.  Swansea for their part have played nicely, but ultimately went gently into the good night, not that Dylan Thomas cares because he plays for Walsall.