football

Little Oakley 1 Barking 1

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The village of Little Oakley in Essex, Wikipedia tells us, had a population in 2011 of 1,171 and is on the outskirts of Harwich.  More precisely, Google maps tells us that Little Oakley is a four kilometre, fifty-eight minute walk from Harwich International railway station.  Now, I reckon I could walk 4 kilometres in less than 58 minutes, but I am nevertheless of a lazy disposition and therefore, today I have opted to drive the thirty-six kilometres from my house to the Memorial Ground, home of Little Oakley FC in my planet saving Citroen e-C4,  rather than enjoy a travel melange of rail, bus and walking, which would take me between one and  half and two and a half hours depending on connections.  Today at the Memorial Ground, Little Oakley FC are playing Barking in the Essex Senior League, the ninth level of English league football.

It’s a beautiful, bright, clear, winter’s day and but for a Luton van pulling out in front of me from a lay-by on the A120, I have a relaxed, trouble-free journey, played out to a soundtrack of the Saturday afternoon pre-match football coverage on BBC Radio Essex, featuring amongst others, the dulcet tones of Glenn Pennyfather and Danny Cowley.  My Citroen’s SatNav doesn’t seem to know about the Memorial Ground, so my journey ends with an abrupt left hand turn when suddenly from the B1414 I see the street sign for Lodge Road, which I remember from looking at a map is adjacent to the Memorial Ground.  I park up at the side of the narrow approach road, beneath an avenue of trees with a deep ditch on one side and wooden fence on the other on which several signs plead with drivers not to park too close to it.  I make the short walk to the clubhouse enjoying the sound of birdsong whilst inhaling the smell of hot cooking oil, probably chip fat.

The clubhouse is welcoming and populated with happy pre-match drinkers.  I buy a bottle of Adnams’ almost non-alcoholic ‘Ghostship’ (£3.20) and the bar maid asks if I’d like a glass, I would. I stand and look up at one of three TV screens showing Sky TV.  From a hatch, behind which is the clubhouse kitchen, a middle-aged woman looks out glumly. “Fed up?” I ask her.  “Bored” she says “It was busy, and now it’s quiet”.  This lady seems responsible for fulfilling the whole crowd’s need for food and hot drink on her own but it will soon be kick-off, so for now she’s not needed.

I sink my low alcohol beer as quickly as I can without burping and head outdoors where a man with a loud, deep voice directs me to turn left beyond the shipping container at the far end of the car park.  A short, friendly man emerges from a hut, a bit like municipal car park attendants used to in the far off days before ‘Pay and Display’, and asks if I’m a concession.  I ask how old you have to be to be a concession; it turns out it’s sixty-five and he apologises when I tell him I’m only sixty-four. But it does mean I’m about six months further from the grave than I would have been if I’d been a concession, even if I will be three quid poorer for it.  Having handed over my £8.00 in cash, I ask if there is a programme and am surprised to find that there is. “Here you are, if you’d like something to read” says the man, handing me six colourful sheets of A4 paper stapled together in the top left-hand corner.  Best of all the programme is free, as if a little bit of France has been re-located to the top right-hand corner of rural Essex.

Pap-rock plays over the public address system as I take stock of the ground, which has two small pre-fabricated metal terraces behind one goal and another pre-fabricated metal stand with seats overlooking the far half of the pitch; it looks as if there wasn’t room behind the dugouts for the stand to be level with the half way line.  The ground backs onto a hedge and a couple of Oak trees on one side and onto the gardens of a row of semi-detached houses on the other.  At the far end there is just a playing field and a trio of teenagers have leaned their bikes against the rail around the pitch. I can also see from here that the clubhouse appears to have a partly corrugated metal roof; I bet it rattles when it rains.

The pap-rock gives way to Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’ and the two teams amble onto the pitch; if there is any shaking of hands or other gestures of sportsmanship I miss them. I stand close to the home team dugout and next to me a man talking into his mobile phone says “We got two meal deals at the Co-op before we came out, so we ‘ad them”.  In the ‘technical area’ in front of the dugout, a track-suited man calls out to the home players “Ave a look, ‘ave a look, just be aware of the fuckin’ double bluff”.  I have no idea what he means, and decide not to ask him.

The match begins, and Barking get first go with the ball, their second touch being a hefty hoof out to the left wing.  Little Oakley, known as ‘The Acorns’ are wearing blue and black striped shirts with black shorts, a bit like a destitute man’s Inter Milan and are defending the empty, featureless end of the ground with marshes, Hamford Water and the North Sea a kilometre or two beyond.  Barking are all in yellow, with black sleeves, and they defend the clubhouse and Ramsey end of the ground, with the River Stour and Suffolk beyond that.   Barking win an early corner with some clever play by their number seven Michele Maccari. “Why’s that big guy on the edge? ‘e’s got a massive head on him” asks a lad sat behind me of his two friends, who I think could all be Little Oakley players who are not playing today. The ‘guy on the edge’ is stood at the edge of the penalty box and whilst he is quite tall, I must admit I can’t really see that his head is any bigger than anyone else’s.

“Barking, Barking give us a song” chants a bloke tamely, somewhere off to my right.  “If you all ‘ate Dagenham clap your ‘ands” comes the response from three or four other voices.  Unfortunately, Little Oakley has no such choir. It’s just gone a quarter past three and despite Barking probably playing, or at least attempting to play the more attractive and neater football, it is Little Oakley who have the first decent shot on goal, as number ten, Daniel Rowe spectacularly volleys the ball against the foot of a goalpost creating a pleasing metallic pinging sound. Recovering from the momentary excitement, I notice that between the semi-detached houses on the far side of the ground and across the water inbetween, I can see two dockside cranes at the Port of Felixstowe, beyond which and unbeknown to me, Felixstowe & Walton Football Club are on their way to drawing nil-nil with Haringey Borough in the Isthmian League.

Barking make claims for a penalty as one of their number tumbles between two Oakley defenders and at this point the referee seems to lose any affection the visitors might have once had for him. “You’re a joke ref” calls a man from behind a camera with a tele-photo lens, “Absolute clown ref”.  It’s nearly twenty-five past three and all of a sudden Barking take the lead; a clever, arcing cross being headed in at the near post by number six and captain Fahad Nyanja.

As the game is about to resume, an Acorns’ player calls out “We keep going, we fucking keep going”.  It is stating the obvious and I for one would feel a bit short-changed if this early in the game they’d all along been secretly playing ‘next goal wins’ .  As unnecessary as it should be, these apparent words of encouragement nevertheless almost work but in an unexpected way, as a low cross from the Oakley number seven, Idris Namisi is diverted against a goal post by Barking number four Sam Edwards.  Idris Namisi seems a popular player amongst the home crowd, and I can’t help but like him too, even if it’s probably because his first name is the same as that of the dragon who lived in the firebox of Ivor the Engine.

Oakley’s number ten, Rowe claims the honour of being the first player to be booked as he pulls back a Barking player and I agree with the old boy stood next to me, whose grandson is the Oakley number eleven, Luke Hipkin, when he says it was a needless, stupid foul.   The old boy asks me if I’m from Harwich and I tell him I grew up in Shotley just over the river from here. “Not far away, then “. He says. ”Not if you’ve got a boat” I reply.  Back on the pitch, the Oakley players are arguing amongst themselves. 

The half ends with Rowe being put through on goal for Oakley with just the Barking keeper to beat, but his shot is saved and Idris the popular dragon blazes the rebound high and wide.   I check my phone and Ipswich are losing 0-3 at Liverpool, which makes me glad I’m here and not on Merseyside.   With the half-time whistle I make for the club house to drain off excess low alcohol Ghostship and invest in one pound fifty’s worth of tea, because under a clear sky it’s beginning to get cold as the sun sinks in the west.  The middle-aged woman in the kitchen is being cheerfully rushed off her feet serving tea, frying chips, griddling burgers and taking cash and card payments. I can’t help but think it’s a pity the players and managers of both teams can’t just get on with what they’re meant to be doing with as little complaint. I haven’t heard her say ‘fuck’ once.

I take my tea outside into the softening, late, winter afternoon sunlight and the match resumes at two minutes past four; I stand by the Barking dugout. “Get ‘old of the fucker” barks the Barking manager  a seemingly irascible  man sporting a stylish grey cap and white goatee beard, who sounds like Ray Winstone and mostly never says ‘fuck’ or ‘fuckin’ in a sentence unless he can say it half a dozen times.  Mostly, his exasperation seems to be directed at his own Barking team who, I can only guess, aren’t playing so much like the Spanish national team, as may be he told them to.

Time goes on and Barking’s number eleven Ugonna Emineke is booked for time wasting as he delays taking a throw-in because there is a rumpus happening in the penalty area and he’s waiting for it to subside.  Unfortunately for Emineke, the referee only had eyes for him and hadn’t noticed the pushing and shoving in the penalty  area, although before the throw is eventually taken he has to go and sort it out and speak to his assistant about it. Then, with twenty minutes of the half gone Oakley equalise, Idris Namisi nipping in to poke a cross over the goal line from close range.

As it has progressed, the game has become increasingly fractious, with a number of Acorns players being quite aggressive, whilst Barking players have acted out fouls where none has been made, sometimes squealing and moaning for additional effect.  All this has been against a  background of some of the most  liberal use of the word ‘fuck’ I have ever heard and I wonder what people do during the week to make them so angry on a Saturday.

Things don’t improve when at twenty-seven minutes to five Emineke is sent off for a ‘professional’ (or, as this is only the Essex Senior League perhaps ‘semi-professional’) foul, and The Acorns are awarded a penalty, which the balding and bearded Darren Mills takes and Daniel Purdue saves, diving excellently to his right.  “How many more fucking chances do we get?” moans The Acorns’ number three Adie Cant.  “Calm the fuck down” shouts the coach “Fuckin’ ‘ell”. It’s as if Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s Derek and Clive had had an afternoon out at the football.

With the aftermath of the penalty, the worst of the afternoon’s fractiousness is over and much  of the final twenty minutes plays out against the back-drop of a glorious, blood red sunset,   A friendly man wearing a day-glo gilet bearing the words ‘LO Media Officer’ on the back, talks to me briefly and asks if I’m a ground hopper, “Not really” I tell him, “ I usually watch Ipswich”,  although I don’t let on that for forty years I’ve kept a list of every game I’ve ever been to.  He’s soon photographing the main stand against the sunset however, and the match plays out shifting freely from end to end,  but with neither side looking much like scoring the winning goal. Meanwhile, I wonder at the name of a local fish and chip shop, Pieseas Chippy, which is advertised at the pitch side.

The final whistle blows at eight minutes to five and an appreciative crowd applaud the efforts of both teams in a match which whilst mostly not a thing of beauty, apart from the sunset, has been entertaining and hard fought.  I think a draw is a fair result although home fans might not agree, and as I head for my car I hear a man muttering to himself about the ‘village team’ holding the team from the city (Wikipedia tells us that in 2011 Barking had a population of 59,011) as if the moral victory belongs to Little Oakley.  Perhaps it does, but even if it doesn’t it’s been a lovely afternoon out.

Ipswich Town 0 Manchester City 6

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This morning, I read that Pierre de Coubertain, the Frenchman who founded the modern Olympic Games had said, in French “The important thing in life is not the triumph but the fight.  The essential thing is not to have won but to have fought well”.  Such a view seems rather out of date nowadays, but to his credit he was born in 1863 and when he was a lad the high ideals of amateurism and the Corinthian spirit still flourished.  I have a lot of sympathy for such views because if winning is important then some people will cheat, and when that happens we might as well pack up our goal nets, deflate our footballs, give the referee his bus fare and just go down the pub.

To save time, I haven’t put up nets or inflated any footballs today but I will soon be in ‘the Arb’ with Gary and Mick.  Although beneath cold, grey skies, Gary and I had a largely enjoyable train journey to Ipswich, talking humourously, I think, about Memorial Matchdays, last wills and testaments, and postmen working in the afternoons as pall bearers.  But best of all, we saw two polar bears, one of which was almost pulling the classic Fox’s Glacier Mints pose, even if it did look like it had also been rolling in his own excrement.   On Princes Street bridge a middle-aged Manchester City supporter asked us (Ipswich Town) to go easy on them (Manchester City) today and I felt somewhat resentful of his probable sarcasm.  “Are you being sarcastic?” I enquired, unable to think of anything in the least bit clever to say, and I still haven’t.   In Portman Road we each buy programmes (£3.50) in the modern cashless manner from a bloke with a little blue trolley, and to make up for my electronic ticket having worked first time at the railway station, the technology fails and I have to type in my PIN number.  Leaving the programme seller to his trolley, we speak of how dull and uninspiring the front covers of the programme is compared to the poster design inside the back page.  Town’s kit manufacturer Umbro reportedly objected to the posters because they don’t flaunt the Umbro logo,  and I tell Gary I dream of a fans’ rebellion a bit like Mai ’68 in Paris, but with a boycott of replica kits under the slogan of “You can stick your Umbro up your bum Bro”.

The Arb is predictably busy when we get there and it takes a short while for Gary to kindly buy me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride whilst treating himself to a pint of Lager 43 too.  Mick is already in the beer garden, sat alone at the sort if wooden table Yogi Bear might have known, but he’s soon released from his isolation as we arrive to talk about the new Bob Dylan film, which Gary has seen and Mick and I haven’t and whether Mick has drunk the Calvados I gave him before Christmas (he has).  More conversation, Suffolk Pride, Lager 43 and a Jamieson Whisky for Mick follow (£13 something for the three), before most if not all of the other drinkers have departed for Portman Road and then we do the same, parting ways within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, if only Sir Alf’s bronze effigy could hear.

The queues for the turnstiles are much shorter today than they were on Thursday evening, and seemingly cured of my need to always use turnstile 62, I enter by turnstile 59, that number corresponding to the year I was conceived.  As ever, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here before me, lapping up the loud music and pyrotechnics that crowds of 29,000 people demand.  I smile broadly as Pat from Clacton takes my photograph before the excitable young stadium announcer tells us today’s team and I attempt to bawl out their surnames in the manner of a Frenchman in the tribunes of  Stade de la Mosson or Stade Geoffrey Guichard.

Death however, stalks every football match nowadays like the smell of frying onions used to, and after Thursday’s Memorial Matchday, today we have a minute’s silence for the very recently deceased Denis Law.  But there is no silence, as the Manchester City fans , musical and loud as they are, like the ugly Gallagher brothers, won’t stop singing some song or other to which the words are completely unintelligible, and so the silence isn’t a silence, it becomes an  applause, and it doesn’t seem like it lasts a minute either, but I don’t suppose Denis is bothered.

Finally, after the na-na-nas of  The Beatles’ “Hey Jude”, the match begins and Manchester City get first go with the ball, which they mostly pass in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  The Town are of course in their signature blue and white kit, and therefore Manchester City are in a change kit of all burgundy or claret, like eleven fine wines but minus the bouquet of damson, truffle, chalk and damp fur.  These footballers probably smell of eau de parfum by Chanel or Guerlain.

Excitement reigns in the opening minutes as the home fans chant “Addy-Addy, Addy O “ and City fans chant “City, City, City, City” as if  people have become incapable of singing verses, being  mesmerized by the incantation of endless choruses.  It works for Town, who inside three minutes win a corner when Omari Hutchinson shoots goalwards, and then win another. “Come On You Blues” is my mantra.  “Good start” says the bloke beside me appreciatively and perhaps with a hint of surprise.  “Who the fook are Man Uni-ited”  sing the City fans to the tune of “Glory ,Glory, Allelujah” and Erling Haaland the Norwegian sky-blue shoots over the Town cross-bar and then the City number eight does so too before City win a corner as they dominate possession, but don’t  seriously look any more likely to score than the Town do, and fifteen minutes have already disappeared for ever.

O’Shea heads at the City goalkeeper from a free-kick after  a rampaging Liam Delap is fouled, and I realise I’m not noticing the adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, I’m watching the match.  “At least we’ve had a shot on target” says Fiona.  But then something goes wrong on the Town right, de Bruyne is behind the Town defence, he passes and Foden scores, hovering in mid-air to control the ball before flicking it into the Town net.  It feels a bit like our best chance of not losing has just gone. Confirmation comes three minutes later as short, quick passing ends with a low hard shot into the corner of the Town goal from the edge of the penalty area, and we’re losing 2-0.

“Down with United, you’re going down with United” chant the City fans to the Cuban folk tune Guantanamera, as if our losing brings more joy to them than their winning.  I suspect it’s a result of low self-esteem, like a lot of things in England; and they are from ‘Up North’.   Half-time is approaching and de Bruyne and Foden do pretty much what they did for the first goal and the score is three – nil.   Usually, with Town losing like this I would have been distracted by player’s with funny names or what the team managers are wearing, but despite the pain tonight I’m strangely absorbed by the football.

I speak to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and then Dave the steward and Ray and his grandson Harrison.  The mood is one of cheery resignation; everyone thinks we’ve played quite well, it’s just that Manchester City are out of our league; they’re backed by the 34th richest nation on the planet, while we’re backed by a firemen’s retirement fund. They have players worth as much as our entire squad, and to think I can remember when City were like a northern Tottenham Hotspur or West Ham United , clubs with a decent history but now seemingly playing mostly for laughs.  Despite his status as  a convicted sex offender, former radio summarizer Stuart Hall accurately referred to Old Trafford as the Theatre of Dreams and Maine Road as the Theatre of Base Comedy.

At twenty-five to six, as much of the  nation sits by roaring log fires tucking into toasted crumpets and Battenburg cake as they watch Country File, the second half begins. Almost immediately, and I think four minutes later can probably be called ‘immediately’ in the context of a lifetime, Town almost score, as a flowing move ends with a shot from Ben Johnson being saved by the City goalkeeper Ederson,  Moments later however, Doku who hopefully has a sister called Sue, runs down the Town right hand side into the penalty area and scores with a lucky deflection.   Nine minutes later, with Pat from Clacton quietly singing “We’re gonna win 5-4” to the tune of Rodgers’ and Hart’s “Blue Moon”, Erlong Haaland scores a fifth goal after Jack Clarke spoils an otherwise tidy performance by passing directly to the player he should have probably taken most care not to pass to, Jeremy Doku.

Town do win a corner,  and make lots of substitutions, but then so do City.  Kevin de Bruyne, whose haircut is clearly an homage to that of former Town legend Ted Phillips is replaced by Jack Grealish, a man whose transfer fee was at least as much as the entire Town team added together and whose large calf muscles seem to have piqued the interest of Pat from Clacton.  I resist telling her that I think I’ve got quite an impressive set of calves myself, and shapely with it.

Just beyond the hour both Town players with the initial JC ( Jack Clarke and Jens Cajuste) are substituted, and perhaps because this is some sort of blasphemy, it’s only seven minutes later that a sixth goal is conceded as two of City’s players move on a different plane to everyone else with a high diagonal pass being met with a looping header as everyone else looks on.

There are twenty minutes still to go and the home crowd is subdued, but still happy in their resignation.  Some leave, perhaps because they think they’re too good for this, but they’re really not, and many who remain sing, not defiantly or sarcastically but appreciatively, because as the bloke next to me says, two years ago we were losing at Oxford United but now we’re losing to that season’s European Cup winners.  Ever since relegation to the third division in 2019, Town fans seem to have understood about supporting a losing team.

I can’t pretend I’m not happy as the final whistle blows, not with result of course, but because the ordeal is over and at least Pierre de Coubertin would have been impressed.

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol Rovers 0

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It’s been cold lately, which is reassuring because it is January, and low air temperatures at this time of year are part of the recurring pattern of life that means the FA Cup third round is upon us, albeit a week later than it was when I were a lad.  Neolithic farmers had stone circles and henges aligned to the  stars to mark the changing seasons, we have football fixtures.

Feeling at one with Mother Earth, I walk beneath a pale blue, winter afternoon sky to the railway station, where I meet Roly, who will be attending his first  game of the current season after three failed attempts to score a ticket for a league match, which has left him bitter and disconsolate; this is what being in the Premier League does to people.  A young girl stood next to us on the platform with what are possibly an older brother and her mother, remarks that I am wearing odd gloves (a blue and red one and a black and orange one) and so I explain to her that the other halves of the pairs of gloves had holes in them, although I don’t tell her that one of the gloves is a “Marcus Stewart” glove, because I guess that she wouldn’t know who Marcus Stewart is. Her brother supports West Ham, and her mother seems to be ignoring them both, and I sense the children are pleased that someone is talking to them, even if it’s Roly who is now feeling left out.

At the first station stop, Gary boards the train and soon joins us on our journey having made his way down the carriage.  Like the three witches in Macbeth in reverse, we discuss when we all last met and decide that like so much, it was ‘before lockdown’.  But then, if you’re no longer at primary school most things were before lockdown.  We continue to talk aimlessly until like pensioners on a sightseeing trip we all peer out of the window to catch a glimpse of the polar bears that mark the approach to Ipswich.  I think I see one lying on its back as if sunbathing, but it might just be my excitement playing tricks on me.

Once in Ipswich, I struggle at the platform barrier with my electronic ticket as Gary and Roly, who relied on cardboard but had to kill a tree in the process, wait patiently on the other side.  We amble up Princes Street and Portman Road and take turns to buy programmes from one of the ice cream kiosks, and then complain that there is no groovy design on the cover, (damn you Umbro) or anywhere come to that, and the programme is a bit thin for £2.50. “Less of the usual rubbish to read though “I say cheerfully as we walk on up to the Arb, and occasionally I steer Roly in the right direction, as he seems to have forgotten the way; he’s only forty-seven.

On High Street, Roly reaches the front door of the Arb first, but ushers me through before him like a man much practiced in avoiding buying the first round, or any round. But then, he does have a wife and child to support, and he clearly gets his haircut more often than me too, although he doesn’t buy many razor blades.  We are soon clutching pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, Nethergate Venture and Lager 43 (£13 something for the three with Camra discount) and greeting Mick, who is already sat in the shelter in the beer garden with a pint of Suffolk Pride of his own.  We talk of this and that and sometimes we laugh.  Gary buys another round of drinks after a while, but this time he and Roly only have halves and Mick has a whisky.  By twenty-five to three our glasses are once again empty and so with at least one other Town supporter still in the bar, if his shirt is to be believed, we leave for Portman Road.

In Portman Road the queues at the turnstiles are impressive in their length and the variety of speeds at which they move.  We join the queue for turnstile 62, but as ever it seems slower than the others and so we slip across towards turnstile sixty as two young women wave illuminated scanners at us. I tell them I can save them some effort if they let me know what they are looking for; apparently it’s weapons.  We hand over our assault rifles and grenades and move on up the queue.

Once in my seat, I find I have missed the excitable young stadium announcer’s reading out of the team, which is mildly disappointing, but more so is the absence of Pat from Clacton, although Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here, even if many other regulars aren’t.  Fiona tells me that Pat had said she wasn’t going to come to this game, sadly it seems she’s no longer turned on by the FA Cup like we all are.

It’s the Town who get first go with the ball, which they pass around in the general direction of me and my fellow ultras; Town wear blue and white of course, whilst Bristol Rovers sport a change kit of plastic green shirts decorated with areas of black check, like a small geometric rash; their shorts are black like the rash.  The words “External Render” flash across the illuminated strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the Bristol Rovers supporters mournfully sing of when the Gas go marching in, and how they want to be in that number, or pipe, when it happens.  It’s the sixth minute and Ipswich have a free kick from which they win a corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues”.  Fiona gamely joins in, but we are lone voices in a sea of silence.  A second corner follows but things don’t improve chorally. “You’re supposed to be at home” sing the Bristolians to the tune of Cwm Rhondda and then they shout a short chant of “Football In a Library“, which quickly fades away into a stifled mumble as if someone had disapprovingly raised their finger to their lips and pointed to a sign that says “Silence”.

It’s the twelfth minute of the game now and Jack Clarke falls to the turf in the Rovers penalty area, raising his head and looking pleadingly at the referee as he does so.  He should probably be booked for such a poor attempt at scamming a penalty but isn’t.  Meanwhile, the Rovers supporters start singing “Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be, We’re going to Wemb-er-ley, Que sera, sera” revealing an unexpected love of the hits of Doris Day, a healthy optimism and a sense of the ridiculous all at once. Town have a corner, and a game of head tennis follows before the ball is claimed by the Bristol goalkeeper Josh Griffiths, and the Rovers fans begin to goad the pensioners and small children in the adjacent Sir Alf Ramsey stand by singing “Small club in Norwich, You’re just a small club in Norwich”.  The Rovers fans will later realise their mistake as they begin their drives home by looking for the A11.

Town are dominating the game, which is taking place mostly around the Bristol Rovers penalty area and with seventeen minutes lost to the history of the world’s oldest cup competition, it is from just outside that penalty area that Kalvin Phillips strikes an exquisitely placed shot into the left-hand corner of Griffiths’ goal, and Town lead one-nil.  For a while, Phillips’s name and image do not appear on the scoreboard, almost as if they can’t be found because he hadn’t been expected to score, but eventually we get to see him, and his haircut.  “Sing when you’re winning” chant the Rovers fans and they’re not far wrong, except today most of us aren’t even doing that.

Town’s one-nil lead lasts just six minutes and then makes way for a two-nil lead as Jack Clarke is suddenly left with the simple task of passing the ball into an unguarded net after a shot by Ali-Al-Hamadi is blocked.  “Fawlty Towers Dinner Show” announces the illuminated advert strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand before the game descends towards half-time, and as Griffiths receives treatment, everyone else receives fluids, succour or remedial coaching on the touchline as required.

With eight minutes of the first half remaining, Town score again as Jack Taylor is suddenly stood before Griffiths with no one else near, and confidently strokes the ball past him, almost as if taking a penalty.  The excitable young stadium announcer weirdly tells us that the goal is scored by “our Jack Taylor” and we wonder if Bristol Rovers score will he say the goal is scored by  “their” whoever.  We very nearly find out in the forty-third minute as Aro Muric passes straight to a Bristol player, but Muric then saves the resulting shot with his feet.  He hasn’t had much to do in the first half, so perhaps it was just Muric’s way of keeping his eye in.  The half ends with another Town corner courtesy of Wes Burns, and two minutes of additional time, but no more goals are scored and with the half-time whistle it’s time to quickly visit the facilities, because it’s a cold day and those two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride were seemingly only on hire.

Three-nil up with not much effort and the second half is anticipated eagerly, pregnant as it is with the possibility that ex-Town players Grant Ward or James Wilson might score own goals, and the excitable young stadium announcer will say that the goals are scored by “formerly our” Grant Ward or James Wilson.  Half-time passes with me turning round and recognising the man sat behind me; we both used to drink before matches in St Jude’s Tavern; apparently, he doesn’t anymore because his knees mean he no longer rides his bike.

The football resumes at four minutes past four and our Ben Johnson, as opposed to the seventeenth century playwright and poet, replaces our Wes Burns, as opposed to just any Wes Burns.  Mick is eating a vegan pie, which he says is very good.  After five minutes Town earn another corner and then a minute later are awarded a penalty as Grant Ward (not to be confused with Grant Wood, painter of ‘American Gothic’) does his former team a favour by handling the ball.  Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to fool Griffiths by shooting hopelessly wide of his right-hand post with one of the worst penalty kicks ever seen at Portman Road.

The embarrassment of the penalty miss seems to put a damper on the whole match now, which like me never seems to recapture its initial zest for life.   At half-time the names of two-hundred people (mostly children by the look of their fashionable 21st century names) attending their first game appeared on the electronic scoreboard and I’ve now come to notice several people in pristine examples of what can only be described as ‘this season’s blue and white knitwear’.  My reverie is broken by a rare Rovers corner. “Come on Rovers, Come on Rovers” chant the Bristolians, and I enjoy the burr of their west country accents, which can plainly be heard in the word ‘rovers’.  Bristol’s brief brush with attacking football ends with a free-kick to Town, which displeases the travelling supporters.  “Wankerr, Wankerr” they chant at the referee Mr Langford, and then, strangely obsessed with masturbation “He wanks off the ref, He wanks off the ref, Ed Sheeran, he wanks off the ref” to the tune of Sloop John B, something that Brian Wilson probably never foresaw, despite tripping on LSD, when the Beach Boys popularised the Bahamian folk song back in 1966.

The match drifts on towards the inevitable final whistle; I tell Mick that I saw some of the ‘new’ film version of ‘West Side Story’ on tv the other night and liked it, a bloke somewhere behind me believes Al-Hamadi is trying too hard and Mick and I agree that a city the size of Bristol should really have a team in the first division, “Like Lincoln” says Mick, misguidedly. 

There are still more than twenty minutes left as Bristol bring on the clunky sounding Gatlin O’Donkor in place of Chris Martin, who in another world would have been made to play alongside Michael Jackson (Preston & Bury) and Paul Weller (Burnley & Rochdale).  I tell Mick that I think we’ve reached the stage where someone now needs to release a dog onto the pitch.  More substitutions ensue for both teams, but they don’t compare to bringing on a dog, and then the excitable young announcer thanks all 27,678 of us (541 from Bristol) for our ‘incredible’ support.

A seventy-eighth minute corner for Town raises a spark of interest and mysteriously several people all around the stadium illuminate the torches on their mobile phones; Aro Muric is swapped for Cieran Slicker, who Gary is convinced is no longer an Ipswich Town player. Not ‘our’ Cieran Slicker at all then, according to Gary.  A final hurrah sees George Hirst lob the ball over both Griffiths and the Bristol cross bar, and some late enthusiasm amongst the crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand has some gobby pre-pubescent chanting “Blue Army” and a lot of people echoing his chant; it sounds dreadful, and I imagine the participants all with drippy grins on their faces thinking how cute it is.

Just a minute of added on time is to be played, which is unbelievably brief given the number of substitutions made, but I guess the fourth official is as keen for this all to end as I am.  Town have won, and won easily, and it’s not what we’re used to anymore.  As the man from Stowmarket (Paul) said at half-time, it’s bit of a Sunday afternoon game, one put on for the children.  Gary and Mick are quickly off into the night after the final whistle and I soon follow, for what else is there to do but await the fourth round draw.

Ipswich Town 2 Chelsea 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

An evening match in late December means it is already dark as I board the train for Ipswich and because I won’t be able to see anything out of the window, such as polar bears, for a change I opt to sit on the left hand side of the carriage; perhaps it will bring luck, if it does, it will of course mean I will have to sit on the left-hand side when traveling to all games from now on. “Because of football taking place this evening we do have penalty fare inspections taking place”  says the guard over the train’s public address system, because obviously anyone who goes to a football match is going to be the type of person who will dodge paying their fare. The threatened ticket inspector fails to appear however, and at Ipswich station the ticket barriers are open. Nevertheless, by way of a protest against Greater Anglia’s clearly discriminatory attitude towards football spectators, I walk through one of the barriers marked with a red ‘x’ as I leave the station.

Outside the station, there are police judiciously spaced across the plaza so as to make everyone have to check their stride and walk around them.  A police car sits in the middle of the signal-controlled junction holding up the traffic to allow two dark grey coaches through and down Princes Street behind a police escort of blue flashing lights. In the further distance, the blue light of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand shines like a beacon. “Cor, look at that “ says a young boy to his father, whilst others seem excited by the sight of the dull looking, grey coaches, which  people are assuming contain the Chelsea team; there must be a lot of them to need two buses, unless perhaps the second one is just carrying their wallets, or their stylists.

In Portman Road, I stop at one of the ice cream kiosks to buy a programme (£3.50) before carrying on up to ‘the Arb’, where there isn’t quite enough Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride to pour me a pint and so I have a pint of a winter warmer, the name of which I quickly but unintentionally  forget (£4.51 with Camra discount).  Mick has texted to say he is ‘on the drag’ because he forgot his season ticket and has to go back for it, but as walk into the beer garden  I meet him coming in the opposite direction walking to the bar having come in through the back gate.  Mick returns with a pint of Lacons’ Encore and we talk of the 1-0 defeat at Arsenal having been quite a good result,  our respective Christmases, Pat from Clacton’s masturbating monkey charm, my collection of football programmes, how the last time Town played Chelsea on 30th December (in 1978) Town won 5-1, the general right-wing bias in the press, Peter Osgood, the poor quality of TV news programmes and how serious, conservative and somewhat dull the younger generation seems to be, or at least the ones we know.  Another pint of anonymous winter warmer, and a whisky for Mick later, we find ourselves alone in the beer garden with everyone else having prematurely eschewed the bacchanalian delights of the pub in favour of sensibly getting to the ground in good time.  With our glasses empty, we decide we might as well depart too.

Mick and I part ways somewhere near Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue and I head for turnstile 62, where I join an unusually long queue.  A man in his twenties works the queue scanning us with what looks like a sort of bat (sporting not mammalian) decorated with red and green lights. I hold out my arms and ask him what it is he hopes to find. I don’t fully catch his reply, but I think he says “Nothing, we’re just doing it for show”. The queue isn’t moving and when another steward ushers people towards turnstile 59, I go too, whilst thinking that if we win tonight, how will I know if it’s sitting on the left hand side of the train or using this turnstile that is responsible.

By the time I reach my seat next to Fiona, next but one to Pat from Clacton and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, the excitable young stadium announcer is almost half way through reading out tonight’s team, but I still manage to bawl out Burns, Cajuste, O’Shea, Hutchinson, Delap and Broadhead as if this was Parc Roazhon or Stade Felix Bollaert, not Portman Road. Moments later, as the lingering strains of The Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’ fade away into the late December night air, it is Town that get first go with the ball aiming it mostly in the direction of me and my fellow ultras. Town of course wear blue shirts and white shorts, but I had been wondering what oddly coloured couture Chelsea would be modelling and am in no way surprised to see them lining up dressed all in cream, as if about to play cricket or may be bowls. On their shirts, the Chelsea club badge appears red and shiny as it catches the glare of the floodlights and looks like a Christmas tree decoration.

Buoyed by the sight of their team all in cream, the Chelsea supporters sing “Carefree wherever we may be, we are he famous CFC” to the tune of the nineteenth century American Shaker song ‘Simple Gifts’.  CFC in this case being shorthand for Chelsea Football Club not Chloroflourocarbon, with the football club having never knowingly been used as a refrigerant or aerosol propellant, although the excessive media coverage they receive may be responsible for ozone depletion in the upper atmosphere. Just four minutes pass and Nathan Broadhead has a shot on goal before Chelsea win a corner, but it’s Ipswich who look more purposeful when they have the ball, and six minutes later Leif Davis plays a through ball which Liam Delap chases, and as the ball runs out for an expected goal-kick he falls over the outstretched leg of the Chelsea goalkeeper Jorgensen.  After a moment’s thought, referee John Brooks points to the penalty spot, or VAR spot as it will be known from next season, and after some deliberation, the penalty kick is then confirmed. Liam Delap scores, Town lead 1-0, and things don’t quite seem real, but they are.

Town continue to look intent on scoring goals and just two minutes later Laim Delap is stinging Jorgensen’s hands with a first time shot and the home crowd is singing “Liam Delap, Ole, Ole” as if he’s wasn’t born in Winchester at all, but in San Martin del Rey Aurelio. “Here for the Chelsea, You’re only here for the Chelsea” sing the Chelsea supporters trying to convince themselves that it’s worth watching a team that dresses all in cream.  Two minutes later and their desperation shows as they plead “Come on Chelsea, Come on Chelsea” and their team passes the ball about a lot, but without seemingly knowing why.

Portman Road is quiet as we await a Chelsea free-kick, which is then taken all of a sudden, the ball hitting a post before the rebound is sportingly aimed at Christian Walton in the Town goal.  Having almost, but not quite seen their team score, the Chelsea fans celebrate, albeit confusingly by singing about keeping a blue flag flying high, but to the tune of ‘The Red Flag’; I’m doubly confused because I never even knew Chelsea had a beach.   But a minute later some bloke called Joao Felix has the ball in the Town net only to be flagged offside. VAR deliberates for a couple of minutes, seemingly looking for a reason to allow it, because TV pictures will later show Felix to have been ‘a kilometre’ offside,

Town are stifling Chelsea, and their number three, Marc Cucurella, a comparatively short man with long brown hair which makes him look like a bearded re-incarnation of the American singer, musician and music archivist Tiny Tim, reacts by feigning injury , rolling over and over and over again after coming into contact with Town’s  general hardman and midfield  ‘enforcer’ Omari Hutchinson.  As a result, Cucarella will be booed by the home crowd for the rest of the game, which is a great shame because he has truly fantastic hair, and it’s a pity more players don’t look like him instead of looking like they’ve just been conscripted.  Cucarella will, however, leave Portman Road tonight wanting to join the ‘Society for the prevention of cruelty to long-haired men’, founded in 1964 by David Bowie.

A general quiet falls on Portman Road once more as with fifteen minutes of the half remaining Chelsea continue to dominate possession, but to little noticeable effect. Ten minutes to go until oranges or tea, and a Chelsea shot flies over the Town cross bar. A minute later, Walton makes a fine flying save at the expense of a corner but then Town break and Delap and Davis leave the ball for one another in the Chelsea penalty area when either one of them might have scored or at least crossed for someone else to.  Then Delap does shoot and Town win their first corner to satisfyingly booming chants of “Come On You Blues”, but Chelsea win a free-kick and once again their fans plead “Come On Chelsea” .  There will be five minutes of added on time, thanks to VAR, although we can’t complain because VAR is our friend tonight and idly I wonder if, in the same way that Town fans type COYB (Come On You Blues) in texts and social media posts, do Chelsea fans type COC in theirs?

Added-on time brings nothing more painful than a Walton save and a Chelsea corner despite anxiety that it might, and it’s time for a Nature Valley Oat and Honey cereal bar and then a trip to syphon off spent Winter Warmer before at eight minutes to nine the football resumes. It’s like the first half, but better, as Town initially sit deep in their own half to ensure Chelsea continue to be stifled, and it seems that despite the individual talents they possess, they have no cunning plan that will allow them to breach the Town’s defence .  “Temporary Boiler hire” flashes up in blue and red on the display between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, Walton saves and Chelsea have a corner which is cleared before Delap robs Disasi of the ball and chases up field, pulls his marker to the left  then lays the ball back for Omari Hutchinson, who also runs left then turns to shoot right inside and just behind the goalpost, out of the reach of Jorgensen. Town lead two-nil and VAR isn’t even needed. Thirty-six minutes remain to hold on or score again. Wow. This is the life.

Chelsea make a substitution first.  “Two-nil to the Tractor Boys” sings the home crowd.  Chelsea win a corner and make another substitution.   Liam Delap is fouled and to ironic cheers the perpetrator, Caicedo is booked by Mr Brooks. I wonder briefly what Pat from Clacton has had for her tea, but as Delap and Davis are booked and Chelsea win two more corners it’s not that important. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, The Norwich ran away” chant the home support in festive and semi-religious mood before Delap embarks on a thrilling stop-start run down the right ending in a sudden shot and another save from Jorgensen who might just be Chelsea’s best player tonight.  Corner follows corner for Town but then Chelsea’s Jackson is through with just Walton to beat, only to shoot wide. I scoff at his effort and tell Fiona, Reverend Jesse Jackson, Michael Jackson or Janet Jackson could have done better; and he was offside anyway. 

Only twelve minutes of normal time remain and with Chelsea having brought on substitutes to no known effect, Town replace Broadhead and Cajuste with Szmodics and Phillips. The excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our ‘amazing’ or is it ‘incredible’ support and tells us we have been and still are 29,968 and to begin with at least 3,000 were here to see Chelsea even if they thought everybody else was, and although some might have left because they expected to be winning and they’re not.  Sam Szmodics I notice incidentally, has his shirt tucked into his shorts and therefore looks a bit like a Subbuteo player, but of course without the base.

Chelsea are a beaten side and as Ben Johnson replaces Wes Burns they begin to break down in tears, or at least the home crowd think they do.  “Cry in a minute, he’s gonna cry in a minute”  we chant, as Gusto tries to wrestle the ball from Leif Davis and both are booked and no one gets a free-kick.  Five minutes of added time are added on, which pass with Town in control and with Al-Hamadi and Taylor replacing Delap and Hutchinson. The final whistle brings joy for Town and much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the visiting team who don’t seem able to get to grips with what has happened. They lost. Pat from Clacton and Fiona depart swiftly, but although a swift departure of my own might get me on a train to deliver me home by 10.30 if I’m lucky, I linger to enjoy the moment and applaud our team who have been bloody brilliant and have at last been rewarded with the result they deserve.  December and 2024 is departing, the light is returning. Everything comes to those who wait apparently, but now I have to risk sitting on the wrong side of the train and not using turnstile fifty-nine. 

Ipswich Town 0 Newcastle United 4

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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