George Edmundson

Ipswich Town 1 OGC Nice 0

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As far as I can recall, the last time Ipswich Town played French opposition was forty-three years ago when ‘Les Verts’ of St Etienne visited Portman Road in the second leg of a Uefa Cup quarter final tie.  For me, as someone who feels certain the world would be a better place if only Napoleon had won the battle of Waterloo, this is nothing short of a personal tragedy, but one I’ve tried to make up for by watching French football whenever possible.  I can now boast (and I do) having been to every stadium in Ligue 1 except Stade Meinau in Strasbourg and Stade Raymond Kopa in Angers, having seen more than half of the teams in  Ligue 2 and scores of those in Ligue National and the regional leagues below, and I’ve been to the final of the Coupe de France at the Stade de France.  When I heard therefore that Ipswich would be playing Olimpique Gymnast Club Nice (known as Le Gym or Les Aiglons – The Eaglets) in a pre-season friendly I was as happy as a Frenchman with a fresh baguette and a 2 litre bottle of Pastis. But, as someone who thinks access to pre-season friendlies should ideally be free, I also immediately regretted having already forked out a stonking twenty quid for a ticket for the pre-season friendly versus German second division club Fortuna Dusseldorf, and with good cause as it turned out, because that match was a stinker.

After ten days or more of mounting anticipation, today is the day of the match.  Resisting all temptations to have croissants and champagne for breakfast, it’s not long before I’m on the train to Ipswich with my wife Paulene and friend Gary looking out for polar bears as we descend past Wherstead, the A1214 and into town; we see three, two of whom are stretched out on the ground like a big game hunter’s fireside rug.  Arriving at Ipswich station there are the inevitable queues at the gates as two trains disgorge in quick succession and people struggle with QR codes on phones before eventually, a wise ticket collector simply opens the ‘sluice’ gates to prevent the human tide backing up into Greggs, a brand which I imagine any French person on the station concourse would instinctively keep a safe distance from.

Gary and I cross the road to the Station Hotel whilst Paulene makes straight for Portman Road because she wants to watch the players of OGC Nice warm up before the game; she has a particular interest in the forty-year old Brazilian colossus Dante, former Olympique Marseille players Morgan Sanson and Jonathan Clauss and the attractively monikered Gaetan Laborde. Unfortunately for Paulene, Nigerian forward Terem Moffi isn’t in the squad today because of a cruciate ligament injury.  Meanwhile, back in the Station Hotel, Gary buys me a pint of Abbot Ale and some heavily advertised lager or other for himself.  As we sit down, Mick arrives , and once he has a pint of Abbot Ale too, we talk of the Olympic games, the complicated cycling events such as the Madison and Omnium, how Gary might buy programmes for the home matches this season and the local Nicois or Nicard language or dialext of Nice as we struggle to hear ourselves talk above the noisy family who are enjoying a pre-match drink on the other side of the room.  They annoy me a bit, but Mick thinks it’s good to see families out enjoying time together.  Mick is very resaonable man. Mick also has plans to be in Nice (Nissa in Nicois) for a jazz festival a fortnight today and I quickly interrogate the interweb to discover that OGC Nice will be at home to Toulouse that weekend too.  I advise him that the Ligne 3 tram will take him to the magnificent Stade de Nice or Allianz Riviera as it is also known.

Resisting temptation for a second time today, I don’t have another pint of Abbot Ale; the first one wasn’t that great, and it also seems that today in the Station Hotel is a dress rehearsal for hosting the supporters of Liverpool next week because we are having to drink from plastic glasses.  Liverpudlians are also only allowed to use scissors if supervised by a responsible adult. Mick and I briefly discuss oxymorons before heading off for Portman Road; Gary has left already because he is making a visit to the club shop to collect one of the bright pink third choice shirts which went on sale recently and when worn will cause many a Town supporter to look like a raspberry blancmange.  Weirdly, the club has allowed Ed Sheeran to advertise one of his many bland tunes on the shirt by scrawling an impression of Framlingham Castle across the front. It would make sense on a Framlingham Town shirt, but with its high-Victorian Town Hall, Italianate Customs House, brutalist St Francis Tower, Orwell bridge, Meccano-like dockside cranes and a Corn Exchange which wouldn’t look out of place in any French city, Ipswich has more than enough interesting architecture to conjure up a skyline of its own for a Town shirt. 

Mick and I don’t quite get as far as Portman Road itself because we end up approaching the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand across the site of the former Staples store in Ruseell Road and I remark that the wide tarmac approach to the stand would be a tree-lined avenue in France; both Mick and I buy programmes (£2.50) from the ice cream booth which is situated where the first London Plane would be.

Once onto the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand it seems odd not to be greeted by Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket and most strangely of all ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  I’m not sure if ever-present Phil counts pre-season friendlies in his long back catalogue of games he has not missed, but if he’s not here today I for one think he risks losing his epithet, and no one wants to see that.  I am however re-united with Paulene and together we ‘go down the front’ to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison.  Paulene asks Ray about his solar panels, and he tells us that they are very successful although British Gas don’t seem to be paying him the money for the electricity his system puts into the grid. We tell him to dump British Gas and sign up with Octopus.  

Back in our seats, the Town line-up is announced, I think, but I’m not sure because the public address system is completely unintelligible, which is shame on today of all days when I imagine everyone will want to pretend to be French and call out the surnames of the players after the announcer reads out their first names.  The stadium announcer seems not to read out the names of the Nice team at all, perhaps for fear of embarrassing himself with poor pronunciation, not that it would matter when no one can understand a word he says anyway.  Eventually, the teams appear and I recall how for home games in Nice, the pre-match ritual includes ‘Mefi’ the eagle flying around the stadium; perhaps Town should have a Suffolk Punch rolling the pitch. When the game begins it is Town that get first go with the ball and aim it mostly in the direction of the goal almost in front of me, Paulene, Mick and Gary in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  Town wear their signature blue and white kit today, whilst Nice wear an unnecessary away kit of all-white, which is huge shame because their red and black home shirts and black shorts are a visual treat.

After almost eighteen minutes I glance up at the scoreboard and say “Is that all? It feels like we’ve been here far longer.” The game has so far displayed a dullness to rival the thoughts of Michael Owen or that of the Dusseldorf game.  But after an impromptu drinks break, when a Nice player receives treatment for acute boredom, the game miraculously perks up and both teams venture forward by means of neat passing and winning corners.  “Allez les Bleus, Allez les Bleus” I chant at an appropriate moment, and Paulene tells me later that people gave me funny looks as a result.  Liam Delap runs through on goal for Town and has a shot saved by the Nice goalkeeper and everyone starts to think that may be the new season might be ok after all, except for Paulene who supports Portsmouth and so doesn’t really care.  Then, with half-time approaching like a motorway service station on a not overly long journey but one where it’s probably as well to stop, it looks like George Edmundson and Axel Tuanzebe both make a bit of a lunge on Evan Guessand, a player with whom incidentally, Debbie Harry,  Alan Sunderland and I share a birthday, albeit not in the same year. Presumably unaware of Guessand’s star sign, not that it makes any difference, referee Mr James Bell awards Nice a penalty.  Mohamed-Ali Cho takes the penalty kick for Nice, but unusually the laws of physics are defied in Town’s favour for once and the ball strikes the inside of Muric’s right-hand post and deflects out of rather than into the Town goal.  It’s a lucky escape for Town and after only literally seconds of added-on time Mr Bell says it’s time for a cuppa and the opportunity to reflect. 

Half-time permits a thorough read of the match programme, because we don’t get much for £2.50, and for some unfathomable reason the text incorrectly, but consistently, refers to OGC Nice as OGM Nice.  I wonder what the half a dozen Nice supporters up in the Cobbold stand think of this poor journalism, particularly given that they are used to match programmes being free. 

Beneath oppressive grey skies the second half begins and carries on where the first half left off.  Both teams pass the ball tidily, but Nice possibly have a bit more flair, and in keeping with both teams’ respective country’s geographies, Nice’s passing is more expansive whilst Town’s is tighter; l’hexagone against Little England.  Napoleon would have understood.

Early second half action sees George Edmundson clear a shot from Jonathan Clauss off the Town goal line, but then the thirteenth minute of the half proves unlucky for Nice as a goalmouth melee is abruptly ended by Axel Tuanzebe lashing the by now disorientated ball into the net from inside the six-yard box. Town lead, but less pleasantly four minutes later Omari Hutchinson suffers the ignominy of being booked for a foul in a friendly match, although to his credit he does look sorry.  A minute later and mass substitutions are made, and the hopeless PA system sounds off to full effect, like a malfunctioning foghorn.  The Town players who are replaced gather in the corner by the Cobbold and Sir Alf stands presumably to warm down, causing us to speculate on whether the gym is full of building materials or whether this is just a PR exercise and the players are merely getting close to their public.  I suggest that they are going to form a cheerleading troop, but no one is overly surprised although they may be disappointed when events prove me wrong.

The highlight of the final seventeen minutes is a low shot from substitute Freddie Ladapo which strikes the inside of the far post and predictably deflects out of the goal, not into it, and Marcus Harness is arguably a little too careful with his follow up shot, which consequently is booted clear by a retreating defender. When the time comes, the final whistle is blown promptly by Mr Bell (Monsieur Cloche in French) with no un-necessary added-on time, and we all agree that it has been an enjoyable game full of free-flowing football.  Paulene and I bid farewell to Gary and Mick at the railway station as Gary catches an earlier train and Mick collects his bicycle.  We look forward to seeing the Polar bears again on our journey home and I reflect on how if only Town were in Ligue 1 we might be playing Olympique Marseille next week, not Liverpool.

Ipswich Town 0 Watford 0

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As the football season begins to draw to its close, I sometimes start to look ahead and see what few fixtures are left, conscious that all of this will soon be over and when it returns summer will be almost gone too.  Since last weekend I have therefore occasionally thought of Watford,

As far as I can remember, I have only ever known three Watford FC supporters.  The first one I knew for just a fortnight back in 1982, when I worked for the Department of Health and Social Security  and was sent on a course to distant Stockton-On -Tees.  He was what might commonly be called a bit of a ‘Jack the lad’ and he had driven up north in a small saloon car with go faster stripes and a tinted windscreen, which might even have had his name printed on a sun strip across the top.  He was the sort of bloke who wore white socks and loafers and had a small moustache.  I worked with and occasionally played five a-side football with the other two, both of whom I would describe as suburban; they both had neat hair and doubtless still have.  That’s how I think of Watford, suburban.

I first saw Ipswich play Watford in a League Cup quarter final tie in January of 1982. It was the first time the two clubs had met since Boxing Day 1956, and a factor in this is that it had taken Watford from 1920 until 1969 to even get into the Second Division.  The Observer’s book of Association Football describes how in 1969 Watford were promoted as Champions and simultaneously earned a reputation as a Cup team, by drawing at Old Trafford and then the following season beating Bolton, Stoke and Liverpool. “But…” says the pocket-sized book “…second division life was hard”, which I think is a veiled reference to two seasons in the bottom five followed by relegation in 1972.   But that was over fifty years ago and a club that once fielded players called Roy Sinclair, Ray Lugg and  Barry Endean is now home to Edo Kayembe, Mileta Rjovic and and Vakoun Bayo.

When I talk of Watford to my wife Paulene she recalls what, judging by the pained expression on her face, was one of the worst nights of her life, when in about 1977 she was taken to a nightclub called Bailey’s.   It was full of Stag and Hen parties she recalls, and the headline act for the night was ‘comedian’ and children’s TV presenter (Runaround) Mike Reid, who picked on her because she wasn’t laughing.  She’s not been laughing ever since, except when I fell in the garden pond a few summers ago.

It’s now a cool, drafty, grey evening. After fulfilling my filial duty and visiting my surviving aged parent, I am now as ever in ‘the Arb’, stood amongst a knot of people at the bar , some of whom seem to be trying to form a queue.  When did people start queueing at bars in pubs?   As I say to the bloke next to me “It’s a free for all”, policed only by the bartender’s uncanny and yet unerring ability to know who’s next.  Eventually,  with a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.78 with Camra discount) in hand, I repair to the beer garden and wait for a bowl of “Very French, French Fries” for which, now looking back, I think was ludicrously overcharged,   because I paid about £13.00 for the chips and the beer.  Perhaps it’s Karma for jumping the imaginary queue.

I sit and flick through the match programme (£3.50) that I bought earlier.  I only paid £3.10 for the programme today because I had an impressive 40 pence worth of loyalty points amassed from previous purchases from the club shop, which I am now beginning to think of as being a bit like the Co-op.  After drinking my pint and eating my chips I buy a second pint and listen to the conversation on the next table, where three old blokes denigrate the oeuvre of Taylor Swift, questioning whether her work will in fifty years’ time compare to that of The Eagles, Paul Simon and Elton John, all of whom are heard travelling through time via the speakers above our heads. 

By and by I am the only person left in the garden who is going to the match, and so in order not to miss kick off I leave too.  Portman Road and the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are busy with queues for the turnstiles and by the time I reach my seat the teams are already on the pitch and Murphy the stadium announcer is beginning to announce the teams as I say good evening to Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and check on the presence of ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  Murphy completes his hat-trick by synchronising for the third match in succession his reading out of the Town team with their names appearing on the scoreboard, allowing at least Phil and myself to behave like Frenchmen and bawl out their surnames as he announces them.

Predictably, kick-off soon follows a stirring rendition of Hey Jude and Town, in traditional blue and white, get first go with the ball, sending it hopefully towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras. Watford meanwhile are in yellow shirts and black shorts, although their shirts appear to have been daubed with black paint across the front or dragged across a tray of soot. It’s one of those kits that exposes the folly of having a new kit every season because after not very long the good people of Puma, Hummel, Juma and Kelme clearly ran out of ideas and possibly motivation;  and who wouldn’t, a polyester shirt is after all just a polyester shirt.

“Blue Army, Blue Army” chant the militaristic Sir Bobby Robson standers and I am struck by how few Watford supporters are here given that it’s only 150 kilometres away.  “Wo-oh…” sing the Watfordians that are here, followed by something unintelligible  before chanting what sounds like  “Oh when the horns go marching in” . Above us the sky turns bluey grey as darkness descends.  In front of us I notice the Watford goalkeeper has the name Bachmann across his shoulders and I wonder if in fifty-years’ time the live performances of Taylor Swift will be remembered like those of Bachman Turner Overdrive.

Ten minutes pass and Keiffer Moore heads a Kayden Jackson cross disappointingly high and wide.  AT the far end of the ground “Ole, Ole, Ole” is the refrain after the bit that goes “We support the Ipswich, and that’s the way we like it…”. I don’t know the tune but don’t think it’s by Taylor Swift. Another five minutes pass and after the evening’s first particularly good outbreak of passing Town sadly earn no more than a throw in. From the top tier of the  Cobbold Stand it sounds like the Watford fans are singing “Alternate Steve, Alternate Steve”  which makes very little sense but sounds like a plausible nickname for that Watford fan I met in Stockton On Tees in 1982.   My reverie is broken by a Nathan Broadhead shot which Bachmann must dive on to deny us the pleasure of a goal.

Nearly twenty minutes pass and Watford win the game’s first corner, but thereafter it is Town who  begin to dominate. Omari Hutchinson makes a fabulous jinking run in to the penalty area before squaring the ball to a Watford defender and Kayden Jackson darts down the wing, crosses the ball and Keiffer Moore imperiously side foots it into an empty space on the un-netted side of Bachmann’s left goal post. “We forgot that you were ear” sing the Watford fans puzzlingly, but  to the tune of Cwm Rhondda, which is nice if you’re Welsh.  Watford’s number four Wesley Hoedt then kicks his own goalkeeper and referee Mr Barrot (like Carrot or Parrot but with a ‘B’) gives them a free-kick.  I count eleven seagulls stood on the girder above the Sir Bobby Robson stand.

There are only ten minutes until half-time now and Nathan Broadhead turns neatly, glides towards goal and shoots,  at Bachmann, but the way he moved across the turf was a beautiful sight. A minute later Broadhead shoots again. This time, his shot goes beyond a diving Bachmann and I begin to rise from my seat to celebrate the inevitable goal, but for a moment the laws of physics are seemingly suspended and the angle of incidence no longer equals the angle of reflection as the shot hits the inside of the goal post,  but then curls out across the face of the goal instead of deflecting into the net as  science and natural justice insists it should have.

The last five minutes of the half witness Sam Morsy shooting at Bachman and then a Harry Clarke cross is headed powerfully down into the net by Keiffer Moore but Bachmann’s reactions go into overdrive and he pushes the ball away hurriedly for a corner before ball and net can be united.  Two minutes of added on time follow repeated chants of “Come On You Blues “ from me and ever-present Phil before the corner as like the chorus in a Greek play Pat from Clacton repeats her mantra of “two of us singing, there’s only two of use singing”.  Drums beat in the far end of the Cobbold Stand and I’m struck by how smart Mr Barrot and his assistants look in their orange shirts with black shorts; if I were a Watford player I think I might see if he’d be willing to swap at the end of the game.

With the half-time break I chat to the man from Stowmarket before speaking briefly with Dave the steward, Ray, and his grandson Harrison. At nine minutes to nine the game resumes with prophetic chants of “Come on Watford, Come on Watford, Come on Watford” , and they do as they begin to dominate possession and run around like someone’s cracked open the anti-depressants and they’ve all been slipped a few ‘bennies’ with the half-time tea.  On the hour almost, and Vaclav Hladky makes his first save of the night as a fierce snap shot hits him in the chest and goes off for a corner, and then they get another.

It feels like we’ve just been waiting for a respectable amount of time to elapse before making substitutions and so it proves as in the sixty-third minute Luongo, Chaplin and Sarmiento  move in at the expense of Taylor, Jackson and Broadhead. “Jeremy Sarmiento, he’s magic you know” sing the Sir Bobby standers to a tune I don’t know, but which could be by Taylor Swift.

Twenty minutes remain of normal time remain. “Over and in” says Pat from Clacton quietly coaching the team before rooting through her purse for a lucky charm that will work some magic. She picks out Ganesh with his elephant head and four arms, who could be useful at corners, although he’d probably like to see a few Hindus in the team before he promises too much.  There are currently no seagulls on the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  Pat’s prospects of winning the ‘predict the score’ draw on the Clacton supporters bus seems slim, she’s drawn two-all. But as Fiona says, with Ipswich this season you never know.  Murphy announces the attendance as  being 28,589, but mysteriously doesn’t tell us how many are from Watford as if perhaps we wouldn’t believe him.  He nevertheless thanks us for our ”continued support”, although I’m getting bored with him saying that every single week and think he should just tell us how really lovely it is to see us all again.

The final twenty minutes don’t see Town really come close to scoring, despite Ganesh, and Watford win a couple of corners as I wonder about Mr Q, which is the sponsor’s name on the front of the Watford shirts. I think of Mr Plow (Plough in English), in series four of The Simpsons  and Mr Potato Head in Toy Story,  but hope Mr Q is a second hand car dealer or industrial cleaner somewhere on a Watford industrial estate; he sounds like one.  Then George Edmundson is kicked on the ankle and has to be replaced by Luke Woolfenden and our chances of bringing on a late attacking substitute who would be bound to score are dashed.  Despite two corners, chants of “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” , and four minutes of added time Town fail to score at home for just the second time this season and for the first time in 2024.  But just to remind us how lucky we really are a freakish punt at goal from the half way line has to be batted away by a desperately back-peddling Vaclav Hladky in the dying seconds. There were days when that would have gone in.

Just like when we played  Grimsby on an April night in 1992  on the way to winning the Second Division Championship, the game has finished goalless.   It’s not what we wanted,  but at least it’ll stop me thinking about Watford. 

Ipswich Town 2 Sunderland 1

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I don’t know much about Slumberland mattresses and it’s surprisingly difficult to find much out about them on the interweb, there isn’t even anything about them on the fount of all knowledge that is Wikipedia.  What I do know however, is that Slumberland sounds a lot like Sunderland,  the town (probably now a city) at the mouth of the River Wear whose football team won the FA Cup in 1937 and 1973, lost a Milk Cup final to Norwich City in 1985 and are forever sleeping giants, having seemingly worn themselves out by winning what people now call the Premier League, six times between 1892 and 1936.  Today, Ipswich Town play slumbering Sunderland in the Second Division and I will be at Portman Road to witness this fixture for the 19th time since 1976.

When I woke up this morning and drew back the curtains on another day, my wife suggested I close them again because outside was grey and miserable. I didn’t however, but instead put my mind to how I was going to fill the additional two and a half hours before kick-off this evening, the match having been chosen for broadcast by loathsome Sky TV with a ridiculous kick-off time of 5.30pm.  If the modern football-watching equivalent of the proletariat could be bothered to draw up a Charter for the running of football, it would surely demand that all games only kick-off at 3pm on Saturdays or between 7.30 and 8pm on weekdays. Come the revolution.

I spend a morning replacing an outside light, failing to find a bulb that fits an indoor light and filling-in a hole in my garden that looks like it was dug by a rat.  Fortunately, I am pretty sure a combination of some peppermint oil and the local cats has now sent the rat packing, or to an early grave.  After a lunch of baked Coley and chips and an espresso coffee I set off for the match.  Engineering works on the railway mean that trains have been replaced by buses today, and refusing to pay a train fare to travel by bus (why are they allowed to charge the same?) I take the wheel of my planet-saving Citroen e-C4 and agree to give Gary a lift too, in order to keep his petrol-burning, carbon monoxide emitting Suzuki Swift off the road.  Our journey is a smooth one, punctuated on arrival in the outskirts of Ipswich by a stop to lend two season tickets to Aimee, an attractive mother of two whose daughter is in a girl’s football team, which has won its way through to a national competition.  The promise is that the team will get to wave to the crowd from the pitch at half-time, but Aimee now tells me that because the game is on Sky TV this may not happen, which seems like a good reason to smash-up your satellite dish, or perhaps your neighbours’, and post it back to Rupert Murdoch with no postage.

Having parked up the trusty, clean-air loving Citroen, Gary and I wander across Gippeswyk Park towards Portman Road and ‘the Arb’ beyond, pausing only for Gary to kindly buy me a programme by way of ‘payment in kind’ for his lift.  Uniquely, the front cover of the programme looks like an advert for hair shampoo featuring Nathan Broadhead. At ‘the Arb’ I order a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself, whilst a loud man sat at a table with other drinkers complains at length that Gary has not closed the door, although oddly, at no time does he say “Please would you close the door”. Gary has a hearing aid,  doesn’t hear the man and didn’t realise the door hadn’t shut.

In the beer garden, we join Mick who is already half-way through a pint of Suffolk Pride. We talk of the African Cup of Nations, how Gary knows someone whose nephew plays for Tanzania (and Wealdstone), and how it is a busy time of year for undertakers. Mick gives me a belated Christmas present, an Ipswich Town hat bearing the logo of TXU Energy, the club sponsors during the glorious relegation season of 2001-2002.  It’s not even two o’clock and many drinkers are already leaving for Portman Road. We collectively scoff at such behaviour and Gary boldly buys another round of drinks, the same as before, but Mick has a Jameson’s whisky. We discuss how my pint of Suffolk Pride is a bit of a short measure, but like people not prepared to stand up to the way televised football invariably inconveniences the people who actually go to football matches, we decide to let it pass this time.

At around 5:15 we leave for Portman Road, we are the last football supporters to leave the pub and can’t stop being surprised at how the throng of people treading the well worn path is much reduced today.  Perhaps supporters have had enough having spent all afternoon in the pub, or maybe they are in the thrall of Sky TV and the leaping flames that will greet the players as they parade onto the pitch. We part ways near the statue of Sir Alf; at the back of his stand there are no queues and as I enter the meaning-laden turnstile 62 I ask the steward “Have you been waiting for me?”, I’m not sure why.

Up in the stand, Pat from Clacton, Fiona and ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood are all here, but the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is missing; I’m surprised (again).  I have missed the leaping flames that now seem to be de rigeur before televised games, but I’m in time for Murphy the stadium announcer’s reading out of the teams.  Wondrously, his performance is much better today and he gets through the first seven or eight names pretty much in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard, but he can’t help gabbling Conor Chaplin far too quickly and all is suddenly lost and my bawling of players names as if I’m French becomes a hopeless, pointless struggle like trying to look cool in a Norwich City shirt.

Before kick-off there is a minutes applause for all the Ipswich Town supporters and a former player who have died in the last year, because apparently this fixture is the club’s dedicated ‘Memorial Match Day’ for the season.  It’s an odd idea and I don’t like it very much; it strikes me as mawkish. Sadly, people die but life, and that includes football, is for the living. Also, if people didn’t die we would need much bigger football stadiums, but I suppose they could always watch on Sky TV.

At last, after a decent burst of The Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’,  the game begins, and Sunderland get first go with the ball, aiming it more or less in the direction of the hospice on Anglesea Road.  Pleasingly, Sunderland are sporting their handsome signature kit of red and white striped shirts with black shorts, and look like Exeter City, which I‘m hoping is a portent for another six-nil home victory; we haven’t had one for a while now.  Town are also in their natural habitat of blue shirts and white shorts.  Portman Road is full of noise today and I suspect an afternoon in the pub is something to do with it.  “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” sing the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  Sunderland win the games’ first free-kick to groans from the home crowd and their number 21, Alex Pritchard, who is allegedly 3cm taller than Conor Chaplin, but doesn’t look it, has the first shot on goal; it goes over the cross-bar.  I’m finding it difficult to read the black squad numbers of the Sunderland players against the red and white stripes of their shirts.  Harry Clarke loses the ball by the corner flag and some Sunderland player or other advances towards the goal unopposed. “Firkin ‘ell” I mutter to myself under my breath so that Pat from Clacton won’t hear, but fortunately the ball is soon cleared. 

Only seven minutes have passed and the Sunderland fans sing “Doo Doo Doo, football in a library”.  A low Wes Burns cross skids across the face of the  goal but Kayden Jackson cannot quite get to it to apply the merest ⁹⁸touch needed to direct it into the goal.  Eleven minutes have gone and the Sunderland fans sing “Doo doo doo, Football in a library” and then “Shall we sing, shall we sing , shall we sing a song for you”.  Nobody responds, but I am tempted to ask if they know ‘I had too much to dream last night’ by the Electric Prunes, but I’m not sure that vocally they could re-create the reverb on the electric guitars which is an essential part of the record.   The seat on my left is vacant and so is the one next to that.

Darkness encloses the ground like a shroud.  Pat from Clacton asks the bloke behind her not to swear. “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” sing the Sunderland fans,  perhaps because it doesn’t  contain enough swear words.  “Football in a library, doo- doo-doo” continue the Sunderlandites, clearly now attempting a world record for the number of times they can diss another club’s support in the first half of a televised match.  It’s the nineteenth minute and a succession of short passes finally play Kayden Jackson into a position where he rolls the ball past a post.  The Sunderland number five Dan Ballard falls extravagantly under a challenge from Kayden Jackson.  Ballard is an outside toilet of a man, Jackson a waif by comparison. Referee Mr Allison awards a free-kick to Sunderland. “Weed” I bawl at Ballard, “Pathetic man”. He scuffs the ball into touch, no doubt unsettled by my calling him out.   Five minutes later and Harry Clarke is the first player to see Mr Allsion’s yellow card; the match is pretty good,  but home fans agree that the refereeing isn’t.  A minute passes and Vaclav Hladky makes a fine save at the expense of a corner to Sunderland and then they score as a large gap appears to one side of the goal and Jack Clark has too much to aim at to miss.  “Clarke, Clarke will tear you apart again” Sing the Sunderland fans to the dreary, similarly titled 1980 tune by the ironically named Joy Division.

The Sunderland supporters are very loud indeed, perhaps because shipyards of old were noisy places, although I don’t suppose the Datsun car factory and call centres compare.  Harry Clarke gets forward and a low hard cross earns a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow to a background of abject silence from all around me.  The corner comes to nought.  A third of the match has gone forever. “Football in a library, doo-doo-doo” sing the Sunderland fans now completely at ease with the complicated lyrics. Two minutes later and more Town passing involving Conor Chaplin peaks with a through ball for Kayden Jackson, which he sweeps past the Sunderland goalkeeper into the corner of the goal net and the score is one -all.  “I didn’t even expect that” says the bloke behind me as if at other times he always knows what is about to happen. “When the Blues go marching in” sings the Sir Bobby Robson stand at a funereal pace, perhaps because it’s the Memorial Match Day.

There are five minutes until half-time and more passes culminate in a Kayden Jackson shot wide of the goal.  “Football in  a library, doo-doo-doo” sing the Sunderland fans showing signs of addiction before the ball bounces about alarmingly in the Town penalty area and Murphy announces two minutes of additional time, which pass without incident. Half-time is spent at the front of the stand with Ray his grandson Harrison and son Michael. We agree it’s been a good half, but we appear to lack the confidence of previous games and Kayden Jackson would have done better in the days of two up front and needs Trevor Whymark to play off.

The football resumes at twenty-three minutes to seven and within a minute a Leif Davis shot forces a not very elegant save from the Sunderland keeper.   Sunderland win a free-kick from which they thoughtfully shoot directly over the bar and then Town work the ball from one end to the other with a succession of short passes. “Champagne football” says the bloke behind me, although really it’s Suffolk football.  George Edmundson puts his hand on the shoulder of Sunderland’s number seventeen who collapses in a heap and Mr Allison brandishes his yellow card, before celebrating the passing of an hour by doing the same at Wes Burns.  “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here” chant the Sunderland fans, but I’ve forgotten why.

“Handball” calls the home crowd as one at the north end of the ground, making that glorious unified sound of appeal, but of course Mr Allison’s ears are closed to it.   On sixty-five minutes Sunderland make a substitution with Adil Aouchiche replacing Abdoullah Ba, I recall seeing Aouchiche playing in French Ligue 1 for both St Etienne, where I thought he was quite good, and Lorient and can’t imagine why a player would leave such lovely places for Sunderland.  Within a minute Sunderland force a defensive howler as Town’s neat passing at the back goes awry and Aouchiche is presented with an open goal which thankfully he screws wide of the goal with a shot off the outside edge of his right foot. He follows this up by being nutmegged by George Edmundson .

It’s time for Town to make mass substitutions and Wes Burns, Kayden Jackson and new loan signing Lewis Travis whose name makes me think of Malcolm McDowell in ‘If’, depart to be replaced by Omari Hutchison, Dominic Ball and on-loan Jeremy Sarmiento from Ecuador via Brighton and Hove.  Town have started to dominate the game now and we even win a free-kick to ironic cheers from the crowd. “You go to a football match, you gotta expect to hear foul language.  It’s fucking ignorant, that’s what it is” blurts the bloke behind me philosophically.

There are less than twenty minutes to play; Town win a corner.  It’s too late to get ‘monkey’ out says Pat from Clacton referring to her lucky masturbating monkey charm from Cambodia.  “When does he he usually appear” I ask her. “Sixty-nine minutes” she tells me. “He’s obsessed” I tell her.  A low cross and a shot for Town follows as pressure builds on Sunderland.  Another corner follows for Town and a free- kick.  Leif Davis crosses the ball, Conor Chaplin finds space, runs towards more and heads the ball firmly into the Sunderland goal and Town lead two-one before an exultant home crowd.  After not scoring against QPR and Stoke some had doubts, but not anymore. “Ralph Woodhouse contact the nearest steward” announces Murphy over the PA system.  “Conor Chaplin Baby, Conor Chaplin O-o-oh” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of the Christmas number one record from 1981.  “About fucking time” says the bloke behind me.

Not long to go now. Murphy announces the crowd as 29,291 with 1,965 away supporters. “Thank you for your continued support” says Murphy, perhaps worried that we might all stop coming to games at a moment’s notice.  If I do, it’ll be his fault. “One Bobby Robson, there’s only one Bobby Robson” sing some home supporters confusingly, seemingly unaware Bobby died in 2009.  Town are still dominating and appear to almost score again, but instead it looks like Luke Woolfenden misses an open goal.  “We want a striker” chant the Sunderland fans, when from where I’m sitting a couple defenders and a midfielder wouldn’t go amiss either, although handily they already have a referee.

At last additional time turns up and after five minutes of it the game ends and Town win.  It’s been an excellent match with the added joy of coming back from a goal down and returning to second place in the league table having been temporarily usurped before kick-off.  With no trains running, a road closure on my usual route out of town and having to drop Gary off, it will be nine o’clock before I get home. I shall sleep well tonight with or without a Slumberland mattress.

Ipswich Town 3 Plymouth Argyle 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

All of a sudden, summer turns to winter overnight, and it happens today, well tomorrow morning at 2 am to be precise, but as Brexit proved facts aren’t really important anymore.   Looking forward to another hour in bed or staying up late without really staying up late, I kiss my wife goodbye, step out of my front door and head for the railway station. The pale autumn sun shines down upon me.  As I cross the bridge over the railways tracks a man in pale grey trackie bottoms, pale grey sweatshirt and pale grey adidas baseball hat engages me in conversation about Ipswich Town’s remarkable start to the football season. Damn, he must have noticed my blue and white scarf, which I donned thinking the weather is cooler than it is.  I don’t really know what to say to him, I don’t talk about football if I can help it, but nothing surprises me in football anymore. After fifty-two years watching mostly  Ipswich Town, but with sizeable dollops of Colchester United, Brighton and Hove Albion and Wivenhoe Town, I’ve seen it all, haven’t I?

As I sit and wait for the train, which is a minute late, two ladybirds are also seemingly attracted by my blue and white scarf, but thankfully they don’t ask me any questions, they just settle on it until I blow them away and tell them their houses are on fire.   The train arrives, I get on and am unfortunate enough to sit where I can only see out of half a window, whilst on the other side of the gangway three men, a woman and two children discuss blood pressure, although to be honest the children don’t have an opinion, they just witter and gurgle as children do.  I move to a seat that is situated with a full window view. The carriage smells of whatever it’s been cleaned with and I’m feeling very warm indeed. Behind me a man says “Is it a glamorous building?”  The woman with him replies “Well, it’s nice”. I remove my jacket, scarf and jumper and reflect on what has gone right and what has gone wrong with my day so far.

The train arrives in Ipswich and I make swift progress down Princes St into Portman Road, where I purchase a programme (£3.50) at one of the blue booths that looks to me like they should also sell ice creams.  The programme today has a picture of the excellent Massimo Luongo on its cover, he is clenching his fists and thrusting forward his groin whilst lifting one foot off the ground as if he might be ostentatiously breaking wind. Middle-aged men and older sit on the rail fence to the nearby car park and eat packed lunches. It’s one of those days when people catch my eye and half smile as if they know me.  I check to see if the zip on my trousers is undone, it’s not, but it was on Thursday morning when I took in a parcel for my neighbour from the DHL delivery man.

In time I inevitably reach ‘The Arb’, which is very busy, and I join a queue at the bar.  An obese man with shiny pink lips and waxy complexion annoys me a little by “cutting the line”, as Americans say, and getting served before me.  Behind the bar the one female member of staff has brightly coloured hair, and for one fleeting, fanciful, enjoyable moment I imagine it’s TV’s favourite physical anthropologist professor Alice Roberts, but of course it’s not. When it’s my turn, I order a pint of Wolf Brewery Werewolf (£3.87 with Camra discount) before retiring to the beer garden where I look at my mobile phone and notice that Mick has tried to call me, twice.  I call him back and he explains that he is late because he has been called out to Felixstowe to collect a dead person. He’ll be with me later.  I have drunk my first pint of Werewolf and started a second when Mick arrives at about a quarter past two with his own pint of Werewolf.  We talk of the bottles of Lancelot organic beer I brought Mick back from Britanny, of Lorient and Brest and bowels, prescriptions and mutual friends. At about twenty to three we leave for Portman Road, exiting through the back gate.

Portman Road is clogged with queues for the Cobbold Stand and there are queues at the turnstiles for the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand too.  Happily, the queue at turnstile 62, my favourite turnstile because 1962 was when Ipswich won what is now called the Premier League, is a bit shorter than most.  I wave my season ticket vaguely in front of the screen-thing, unable to remember which bit makes it work.  The bloke behind me says it’s the bit on the left, or he may have said it’s the bit on the right, I can’t remember now and will do the same thing again when I come to the next game.  Either way, I pass through the turnstile and having vented some surplus Werewolf, join Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood, who are as ever already in their seats and applauding the teams as they process onto the pitch.  Pat from Clacton is absent today, she’s playing whist in Mauritius.  Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the names of the teams, but he is no Stephen Foster and hopelessly fails to synchronise himself with the scoreboard as it displays the names of the Town players, which he garbles leaving insufficient space between first and second names to facilitate the bellowing of the players surnames by the crowd as if we were French.

The game begins with today’s opponents Plymouth Argyle getting first go with the ball, which they aim mostly in the direction of me, the river and railway station.  Town are inevitably in their signature kit of blue shirts and socks with white shorts.  At first, I think Plymouth are wearing white shirts and black shorts, but a less cursory glance reveals that their shorts are a deep grey, and their shirts are a very pale, washed-out pink.  I can’t decide if this is a tribute to prog rockers Caravan’s 1971 album ‘In the Land of Grey and Pink’ or if Plymouth had accidentally put their shirts in the wash with Exeter City’s.  There could of course be a sensible explanation like the kit being dedicated to breast cancer awareness month, and for readers who like ‘boob jokes’, the city of Plymouth is coincidentally twinned with Brest in France.

With tickets sold out, Portman Road is loud just from people talking, but there is singing too and Christmas soon arrives with a burst of “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” quickly followed by a rendition of “ We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, He knows exactly what we need…” and it’s just as well he does because the match is not seven minutes old and Plymouth’s Morgan Whittaker plants a curling shot into the top right hand corner of Vaclav Hladky’s goal and Town are trailing one-nil.  It’s a goal that inspires mass gloating from the Devonians up in the top tier of the Cobbold stand as the Argyle fans go inexplicably Spanish and start to sing “Championes, Championes, Ole, Ole, Ole” as if trying to convince us that they’re all linguists as well supporting the team that somehow pipped Town to the third division title a few months back.  My inner superstitious pessimist is unexpectedly awoken by the noise, and I start to think to myself “Oh no, it’s game thirteen and we’re going to lose”.  But I soon snap out of it and as Town respond with a corner, I repeatedly sing “Come on You Blues”, although solo.  “No noise from the Tractor Boys” chant the Argyle fans, which, as I tell Fiona, is harsh on me, but not untruthful otherwise.  Fully in character as vainglorious bastards, the Argyle fans proceed to sing “One-nil to the Champions”, and plagiarise the Pet Shop Boys in the process.

Town win a second corner and a third and Conor Chaplin has a shot blocked. A Plymouth man goes down and whilst he receives succour, everyone else has a drinks break and catches up on the coaching  they’ve forgotten since walking onto the pitch twenty minutes ago.  Meanwhile the away fans deliver a strangely muffled chant of “Small club in Norwich, you’re just a small club in Norwich” displaying a lack of wit normally only associated with supporters of small clubs genuinely in Norwich.  Plymouth make the first substitution of the afternoon as Ryan Hardie quits when his team is ahead to be replaced with Mustapha Bundu.  “Substitution for Leeds United” announces Murphy over the PA, crowning his inept performance so far this afternoon, before just announcing “Plymouth Argyle” with no accompanying word of apology or explanation for those who hadn’t heard his gaff.  Bring back Stephen Foster and his best man’s suit and poorly matched shoes I say.

Nearly a quarter of the match is gone for ever and the home crowd is beginning to sound and feel fractious, like toddlers who have been up too long and need a nap. “A bit sloppy there” says the bloke behind me as Plymouth busy themselves around the Town penalty area. “Unlucky” says the bloke continuing his commentary as Omari Hutchison makes a not very good cross.  Town win a fourth corner and a fifth.  “Come On You Blues” I chant again, and again, and miraculously the rest of the stadium join in.  “Fuckin’ ‘ell, he’s phenomenal today, he is” says the bloke behind me of Brandon Williams as the on loan full-back performs a ‘full-blooded tackle’.  “He’s on another level”.

Nearly a third of the way through the game and the first airing of referee Gavin Ward’s yellow card is in the direction of Plymouth’s Mikel Miller, whose name reminds me of probably the most famous racing greyhound of all time.  “Diana Nicholson, report to the nearest steward” announces Murphy putting on the sort of serious voice that might get used when talking about Jimmy Savile or Rolf Harris.  Town win another corner, our seventh? I think I might have lost count. The name of Massimo Luongo joins that of the famous racing greyhound in Mr Ward’s black book.  “You don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Sir Boby Robson stand predictably.   Town win an eighth corner and a Nathan Broadhead header over the cross bar elicits polite applause.  Town win a ninth corner before, with five minutes to go until half-time Plymouth win their first and the away support debuts their rendition of “Argyle, Argyle” a soulless dirge in which the syllables in the word Argyle are elongated to depressing lengths.  A minute late the blokes behind me head for the bar.

Two minutes remain before the tea break and Whittaker breaks forward for Argyle and falls to the ground as George Edmundson makes a lunging challenge from behind. Whittaker claims a penalty, well he would, wouldn’t he, but Mr Ward is watching a different match, the same one I’m watching, and whilst it looked like a penalty perhaps, I don’t think Edmundson touched Whittaker at all.  It’s soon forgotten as Town claim yet another corner and four minutes of added on time appear before us.  From the corner I can’t see what happens as it’s up the other end of the pitch and I’m in the cheap seats.  But then a roar goes up and it seems we’ve scored, I’ll take everyone’s word for it I tell Fiona.  Massimo Luongo is given the credit and half-time soon follows.

With the break I talk to the man from Stowmarket, and he tells me how his son-in-law is a Norwich City supporter and how he went to a Norwich match with him and was lucky enough to see Norwich lose 6-1 at home to Manchester City.  Having syphoned off more spent Werewolf and stared blankly up at the half-time scores on the TV in the concourse below the stand I talk to Dave the steward.  We agree that we can’t quite decide what Town need to do to win the match other than score some more goals.

The football resumes at, I think, six minutes past four and Vaclav Hladky is soon saving at the feet of Plymouth’s Finn Aziz, whilst the blue skies above begin to turn more grey with gathering cloud. But then Town win yet another corner and it seems there has been a change in tactics with the ball being dropped behind the Plymouth defence as well as passed through and around it, but I could be wrong. A meagre fifth of the half has trotted off into he mists of time when Leif Davis sends a through ball for George Hirst and his accompanying marker to chase. Hirst wins and curls the ball beautifully beyond the despairing dive of the Plymouth ‘keeper and perfectly inside the far post.  Although I’m in the cheap seats, I doubt my view of the goal could be bettered on this occasion.  It’s a goal to prove that going two one up having been a goal down is worth the initial suffering, and the sense of relief is palpable. “Ei-Ei-Eio, Up the Football League We Go” chants the Sir Bobby Robson Stand cheerfully to prove the point.

The home crowd had been quiet and a bit miserable for most of the first half, but we really do only sing when we’re winning. Plymouth win a second corner, but Town win a twelfth or thirteenth; I’m no longer counting.  Omari Hutchison has a shot deflected wide when I was convinced the ball was in the net and Conor Chaplin heads over the Plymouth cross bar. Mr Ward the referee does something which inspires the lad who sits in front of me to say “The referee’s a talking point”, previously I’ve mostly heard referees described as bastards.  

Three-quarters of the match is now historical fact and I turn to Fiona to tell her it’s about now when Pat from Clacton usually tells us what she’s having for tea.  I ask Fiona what she’s having; she’s having fish and chips.  I tell her I’m having left over curry.  On the pitch, Town make substitutions and Mr Ward produces a rash of yellow cards, mostly directed at Town players, just to confirm his status as a talking point. Conor Chaplin and Omari Hutchison continuously almost link up well down the right, but frustratingly never quite manage it until Kayden Jackson replaces Hutchison with less than fifteen minutes left of normal time.  After the substitution, Hladky makes a superb flying save following a meagre third Plymouth corner, and Murphy announces this afternoon’s attendance as 29,028; “Thank you for your continued support” he says obsequiously, sounding like Uriah Heep would have if Charles Dickens had made him a stadium announcer at the weekends.

Into the last ten minutes and Hladky makes another stupendous save, perhaps the most stupendous yet; this time from a close range shot by Joe Edwards.  So perfect is Hladky’s performance in the second half that I am beginning to fear he might have sold his soul to the devil during the half-time break. “That’s better than a goal, that is” says the bloke behind me, getting a bit carried away. 

Four minutes of normal time remain and Town are looking leggy whilst Plymouth still look fresh; Town are hanging on but somehow retain an attacking threat because of the nature of our players, we simply have a team designed to create and score goals, apart from Vaclav Hladky that is. Sam Morsy sends Leif Davis down the left, he crosses the ball to Marcus Harness who shoots from perhaps ten metres out, but his shot strikes a defender, only for the ball to rebound to him and allow him a second chance, which he takes.  These things didn’t used to happen, but now they do, and Town lead 3-1.

There will be at least six minutes of added on time.  Hardly a minute of that time expires and Plymouth score again, a low cross knocked in from close range after Hladky apparently renounces Satan, and we’re back where we were.  Plymouth won all the points they needed to pip Town to the third division title and more in the closing minutes of games last season, but not today, and Town succeed in closing the game down by passing the ball amongst themselves and thereby draining the hope and possibly the will to live from the Argyle players.  Mr Ward is keen to remain a talking point and adds a bit more time onto the six minutes but it doesn’t matter and Town win again.

With the final whistle Fiona departs and so does the man from Stowmarket, but I stay a few minutes to applaud, whilst others seem keen to jeer the Plymouth players, I’m not sure why.  It has been a very close game, but Town have won yet again, and without having to rely on penalties or offside goals, or flukes.  Summer and now British summer time might have gone,  but since Kieran Mckenna arrived it’s been perpetual Springtime in Ipswich.

Ipswich Town 4 Rotherham United 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The year of our Lord 2023 has not started well. I have been suffering with diarrhoea all week and on Friday evening the teams I was rooting for in their respective ties in the ‘round of thirty-two’ in the Coupe de France (Montpellier HSC, Nimes Olympique, RC Strasbourg and LB de Chateauroux) all lost.  Today began as dull and grey and has progressed to become both wet and miserable, but my gloom and despondency have lifted as today is also the third round of the FA Cup and mighty Ipswich Town have a home tie against mighty Rotherham United. 

When I saw my first FA Cup third round tie back on 5th January 1974 (Town v Sheffield United) it would have been inconceivable to think of first division Town beating fourth division Rotherham as ever being a giant killing, but forty-nine years on the tables have turned a bit.  With Rotherham now in the second division and Town in the third, if Town win today I shall be claiming this as a ‘giant killing’, albeit one akin to a school child who is rather big for their age thumping one who is small for theirs but in the year above.

Ipswich is grey, Gippeswyk Park is wet underfoot and traffic is queuing to get over the bridge opposite the railway station, but Portman Road is quiet as I step up to the first booth I come to to purchase a copy of today’s programme. “Let me guess, £2.00 today” I say to the young woman in the booth.  She smiles perhaps through pity but I like to think she almost appears impressed as I hand her a single coin and tell her it wasn’t that big a deal, I’ve been to Cup matches before. 

By and by I cross the threshold of ‘The Arb’ and at the bar tell the barman that I ought to have something non-alcoholic; he directs me to the third shelf from the bottom of a tall fridge with a glass door which is packed with cans of ‘craft’ beer.  I pick a can of Big Drop Galactic Milk Stout and returning to the bar the I hear the voice of Mick saying “I’ll get that” which is characteristically good of him.  Mick has a glass of an anonymous amber bitter and packet of Fairfield’s Farms cheese and onion flavour crisps.  We repair to the garden where we meet Gary coming in the opposite direction who texted me early this morning, but I didn’t reply because I hadn’t noticed.  Gary is on his way to buy himself a beer and returns with a pint of unidentified lager; Gary is from Essex.

The three of us talk a little of football, the tv series ‘detectorists’, but also of death, as ever.  Mick’s daughter’s neighbour died this week from cardiac arrest and Gary tells of a man whose birthday coincided with his wife being admitted to hospital and her father dying. Aside from the big things like wars, famine and climate change life can be pretty miserable on a micro-level, which puts football into perfect perspective, so we really should try and enjoy it whatever the result.

Not much after twenty-five to three we head for Portman Road, returning our glasses to the bar on the way and noting that ‘The Arb’ now has a menu for dogs; I make a silly comment about restaurants in Malaysia. Sir Alf Ramsey Way is thick with people queuing to get into Sir Alf’s eponymous stand and the Magnus west stand, but we carry on towards the Corporation bus depot and find no queue at all at the end turnstile, where for the first time in my life I gain entry by my wife having downloaded my ticket on my mobile phone and having it scanned.  Mick and I were both nervous that this would work but it did.  I find myself marvelling at the wonder of modern technology in the manner of uncle Bryn in tv’s ‘Gavin and Stacey’.

Having syphoned off some beer, Mick and I find our way to the ‘posh’ padded seats in Block Y from where will be watching this afternoon’s game.  Gary only bought his ticket last night and so is away in the humbler surroundings of F Block.  Courtesy of his season ticket, Gary normally sits in J Block which Mick tells me is also the name of an Ipswich drugs gang from the mean streets between Bramford Road and London Road.  In the oppressive dim light of the upper tier of the Magnus west stand, we edge ourselves past an unsmiling man and his unsmiling wife, although she could be his floozie, and we find our seats.  A little weirdly to my cold, unfeeling mind, today’s game is, according to page 23 of the programme, the Club’s annual Memorial Matchday in which members of the Blue Army who died in 2022, or ‘passed away’ as the programme calls it, can be remembered.   Before the game can begin the names of the deceased appear on the scoreboard and they receive a minute’s applause. “There are an awful lot of names” says Mick, who for a moment thinks these are all former players.  I’m not sentimental and find this Memorial Match idea a bit odd, but I am reminded nevertheless of former manager John Duncan and the excellent, original David Johnson,  John Jackson and, although I saw none of his thirty-four games for Town, Aled Owen. I recall seeing Jackson’s only game for Town, a 2-1 win over Manchester United and that Aled Owen played a single league game in the Championship winning season of 1961/62.  I think of fellow fan Andi Button with whom I saw many an away game in the 1980’s and 1990’s and even travelled with him by car to see Doncaster Rovers v Colchester United for what was the last game at Belle Vue before Doncaster were relegated from the Football League in 1998.

With applauses clapped and knees taken the game begins, Rotherham having first go with the ball, hoping to kick mostly towards the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and looking like Derby County or Germany in white shirts with black shorts, despite their proper kit of red shirts with white sleeves and white shorts not clashing at all with Town’s blue and white ensemble.  Perhaps the absence of the red kit is a sign that Rotherham haven’t turned up as themselves today and aren’t much interested in the Cup, but in fact their team shows just one change from that which lost in the league at Millwall last weekend.

The crowd is loud with a good noise from the Sir Bobby Robson stand where the most vocal support, Blue Action, has re-located itself from stuck up the corner to the central section. Despite the impressive support, the game starts slowly, very slowly, with Richard Keogh and George Edmundson frequently standing still with the ball at their feet before merely passing the ball between one another. As I remark to Mick, it’s not exactly a ‘blood and thunder’ cup tie. I spend my time getting used to the unfamiliar surroundings of Block Y with its tight legroom and padded seats and the man behind me with a loud voice who likes to explain things to his children, although to be fair they are asking questions, as children do.  Slowly, Town venture forward and a couple of forays on the flanks nearly produce moves worth applauding and some people do. Both Conor Chaplin and Kayden Jackson have shots on goal, but both are poor efforts.  Then twice the ball is given away cheaply in the Town half and luckily Rotherham fail to take full advantage, Jamie Lindsay trying and failing to pass when he should have shot and then most luckily of all the ball is sent from close range into the Town net only for the ‘scorer’ to be flagged offside.  The home crowd is in good voice with the lower tiers of both the Sir Alf and Sir Bobby stands looking full.

Freddie Ladapo chases a through ball. “Way offside” calls a bloke behind me in a tone of voice that implies that Ladapo being offside is a given.  “Way offside” he says again scornfully and then once more for luck when the assistant referee finally raises his flag.  This bloke behind me would seem to have turned up simply to let the world, or at least an unfortunate part of Block Y know that he doesn’t rate Freddie Ladapo.  The larger part of the first half is marred by such carping “Here we go, what are you gonna do with it? Do something with it” says another know-it-all as the opportunity for a match winning pass once again fails to materialise.   Much more enjoyably, when Kayden Jackson is fouled but gets no free-kick, a high-pitched, pre-pubescent voice from behind calls “Get your bloody glasses out”.

A half an hour has gone and whilst Ipswich have dominated, they have not been incisive, and shooting has been snatched at and inaccurate.  The children behind are eating savoury snacks that smell like a dog has farted.  In the corner between the Cobbold Stand and the Sir Alf Ramsey stand I can see a patch of blue sky above what must be Holywells Park.  A fine rain has started to fall and it’s nearly half-time. Kayden Jackson breaks down the right wing, as the Rotherham defence back pedal, Jackson sends a low cross towards the back of the penalty area, Conor Chaplin can’t reach it, but Cameron Humphreys is running in and strikes the ball smoothly inside the left hand post beyond the diving Viktor Johansson, and Town lead 1-0, it’s a fine, fine  goal.

Half-time follows on quickly and the crowd seems happy, a goal always works wonders. Mick had departed early to siphon more used beer and I meet him in the bar where we watch the half-time results on the tv and play spot the ‘giant-killing’ which leads to a discussion about which league clubs are in and how it was easier when it was divisions one to four. I admit to Mick that I still refer to divisions one to four bloody-mindedly to show my dislike of ‘modern ways’ in the same way that I call the internet the interweb.  Mick says he does the same when he still calls Ipswich’s ‘waterfront’ the docks.

The game resumes at five past four and it’s still raining, just a bit harder.  We’ve barely got comfortable again before Keogh and Leif Davis get in a muddle and allow Conor Washington to slip between them and get beyond Keogh who stretches out a leg or two giving Washington the opportunity to fall over him and win a penalty, which being unfamiliar with the Corinthian Spirit he naturally takes. Washington recovers sufficiently from his ordeal to score the penalty and the hard work of the first half is laid to waste.  Keogh hasn’t had a great match today, he could be the new Luke Chambers although happily he’s no Mark Fish or Ivar Ingimarsson.

The match resumes again and despite no doubt the worst fears of the crowd, Town continue to be the better team and Rotherham don’t look like scoring again.  The rain continues, swirling and drifting through the beams of the floodlights as natural daylight fades from the streets around the ground. Over an hour has passed and Marcus Harness replaces Sone Aluko, Rotherham bring on the only player from their last league match who didn’t begin the game today, Dan Barlaser, who sounds like a character from a sci-fi novel.

Town play a patient game, which is just as well because there are twenty-six minutes to wait until Freddie Ladapo, with his back to goal is wrestled to the ground by Rotherham’s Wes Harding.  Conor Chaplin scores the resulting penalty and the Sir Bobby Robson stand channel the spirit of Doris Day with an essential but tentative chorus of “Que Sera, Que Sera”.  “It wasn’t even a great penalty” says the know-it-all behind me.  Four minutes later Town make mass substitutions, which as often seems to happen bring quick relief to our pain and Freddie Ladapo gets a free run at goal; he rounds the goalkeeper and shoots low and hard to put Town 3-1 up, much to the chagrin no doubt of the know-it-all.

Today’s attendance is announced by the dangerously up-beat Stephen Foster as being 15,728 with 215 of that number being Rotherhamites. It has to be the biggest crowd for an FA Cup match at Portman Road in at least ten years, probably more.  Rotherham continue to flounder.  “Ha-ha” says the child behind me sounding like Nelson Munce from the Simpsons as a rare Rotherham foray forward squirms away over the line for a goal-kick.  All around, except up in the Cobbold stand there is a sense of joy.  Cup fever has broken out at Portman Road and is spreading fast through a crowd previously thought to have been vaccinated against it. The until now totally reserved man beside me begins to mutter “Ole, Ole, Ole” to himself following the lead of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, only they’re not muttering.

Eight minutes of normal time remain and a Kyle Edwards shot hits a post. Gassan Yahyi replaces Freddie Ladapo and then Kane Vincent-Young takes advantage of a shove by Hakeem Odoffin and Wes Burns adds a fourth goal from the penalty spot as a result.  “Championship you’re ‘avin’ a laugh” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers safe in the knowledge that we can’t possibly lose now, and after three minutes of added on time Town’s ball books its place in the velvet bag for the fourth-round draw.

As we descend the stairs and head out into the drizzly darkness Mick and I reflect on our afternoon of FA Cup giant-killing .  I venture that it was pretty good. “After a very slow start” says Mick, tempering my enthusiasm, but I’m sure he’s only trying to keep my feet on the ground.   Wemberlee!