Ipswich Town 3 Swansea City 0

March 1, 2026March 1, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 3 Sheffield Wednesday 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 3 Coventry City 0

December 7, 2025December 7, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a strange week of not feeling great and then feeling better and then not feeling great and then feeling better again combined with seeing the excellent Mark Steel at the Apex Theatre in Bury St Edmunds with my friend and former ‘boss’ Ray, surprising myself by successfully arranging an on-line meeting at work, and then witnessing on tv the most stomach churning World Cup draw in history, in which the ridiculously fawning, bottom licking FIFA president Gianni Infantino (‘Johnny’ to his friend) prostituted the World Cup, the beautiful game and himself to the odious Donald J Trump. It feels like nothing can ever be the same again after such a performance from the man, but I have woken up this morning to find that Ipswich Town are still playing Coventry City at Portman Road at three o’clock this afternoon and there are still eggs and bacon in the fridge.

It’s a day that is neither bright nor dull but the train to Ipswich is on time and the bloke who spoke to me when I boarded the train for the Wrexham match a fortnight ago is here again, but with a female accomplice. “Hello, again” I say, but that’s the extent of our conversation today, perhaps he’s ‘on the pull’ and sees me and my luxuriant head of hair as a threat. Time passes quickly and Gary is soon sat next to me on the train and telling me how he could have gone to the footie with his brother, as he did for the Wrexham game, but instead decided to go with his trusted friend. The punch line is of course that his friend isn’t available, so he’s going with me instead. Gary isn’t as vain as Donald J Trump, but his story is an obvious attempt to show off his brand of wit in this here blog. I gain a modicum of revenge when Gary says he’s been to London to see a production of Othello with Toby Jones, and I tell him I didn’t know he knew Toby Jones. The highlight of our journey is as ever the sighting of two resting polar bears as the train descends through Wherstead into Ipswich.

In Ipswich, the Station Hotel is heaving with Coventry City supporters, and I remark to Gary that they are clearly a soft, wussy bunch because there aren’t many of them outside drinking in the beer garden. Gary suggests that I probably wouldn’t tell them that to their faces and I agree, telling him “I expect they already know”. In Portman Road we don’t waste money on match day programmes and proceed as fast as Gary’s legs will carry us to the ‘Arb’, where with perfect timing we arrive at the bar just as Mick is buying a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride. Naturally Mick buys me one also and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary, and he also orders a falafel Scotch Egg. We retire to the beer garden like the tough Suffolk blokes that we are, although curiously Gary is an Essex boy and I was born in Wales.

Today’s conversation meanders like a lowland river and under instructions from my wife I tell Mick that the problem he has in being unable to straighten out one of his little fingers is an affliction he shares with the late Margaret Thatcher. Understandably, Mick is not best impressed, but I tell him we thought he should know given his lustful feelings towards Kemi Badenoch. Mick not unreasonably responds that Margaret Thatcher and Kemi Badenoch are ‘erotically’ very different. Any mention of Liz Truss would be a step too far and likely to result in inclusion on some sort of register. Mick meanwhile woofs down his falafel Scotch egg and as other pre-match drinkers drift away, Gary gets in another round of Lager 43, Suffolk Pride and Jameson Whisky before we speculate as to why people leave so early for the match and wonder if they are going to another pub on the way.

It’s twenty to three when we leave ‘the Arb’ and roll down High Street past the Museum, whose reopening we eagerly await next year. We part ways near the statue of Sir Alf, bidding one another “adieu” until Wednesday evening and our inevitable alcohol-fuelled preamble to the Stoke City match. At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand there are no queues at all and I have a choice of electronic detector wielding men in dark clothes and high-vis tabards to approach with arms outstretched as if playing ‘aeroplanes’. I pick a bearded man of probable south Asian origin and he asks me to empty my pockets “What all of them?” I ask incredulously, wondering why he would want to see my scarf, woolly hat, fingerless gloves, notebook and pencil, as I wave my mobile phone about. We laugh and smile and I head for the famous turnstile 62, named in honour of the great Premier League win of sixty-three years ago, when hand-held electronic detectors and hi-vis tabards were just a dream.

Relieved of spent Suffolk Pride I’m soon shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, who of course are already here. The man from Stowmarket (Paul) is however absent again, but his grandson will later tell me he’ll be back for the Sheffield Wednesday game. In the excitement of arrival, it takes me a while to realise that the excitable young stadium announcer is already halfway through announcing the team, and I only get to bawl the last three or four Town player’s surnames in the manner of someone Gallic with an abonnement at the Stade du Moustoir in Lorient or the Stade de la Meinau in Strasbourg.

Eventually, the game begins and it is Coventry City who get first go with the ball, which they attempt to boot mainly in the general direction of Sir Alf Ramsey’s former house on Valley Road and the Man On the Moon pub on Palmcroft Road. Coventry City are sporting shirts, shorts and socks in a shade of orange so lurid as to be indescribable. The sight of this ultra day-glo kit is quite overbearing and immediately explains why a team managed by Frank Lampard has so unexpectedly climbed to the top of the league and why so many Championship players are suffering from migraines this season. As Ray will tell me at half-time however, the West Midlands Metropolitan Council highways department want the shirts back immediately after the game. Town meanwhile are of course kicking towards me and my fellow ultras in our customarily tasteful blue and white.

The early exchanges on the pitch are uninteresting, as are the musical exchanges between supporters, with Coventry fans weirdly singing that song about super Keiran Mckenna knowing just what they need with Woolfy at the back and Ladapo in attack before launching into the old favourite about football in a library. Meanwhile, I amuse myself pondering the origins of the two Coventry players with double-barrelled surnames, Kesler-Hayden and Mason-Clark. Are they perhaps the sons of people who Frank Lampard first met when at public school or were their parents just not married and unable to decide who had the best surname to give to their offspring. Personally, I like the idea of the hyphen in double-barrelled surnames being replaced with “and/or” so the child can decide themselves.

“Your support is fucking shit” chant the Coventry fans imaginatively as Town’s Sindre Walle Egeli has a shot on goal and, possibly channelling Frank Lampard’s probable familiarity with public schoolboy nicknames, I decide that from now on I am going to refer to Walle Egeli as Eggy for short. In the row behind me an overly talkative man is revealing himself to be some sort of tactical expert, or at least someone who has a strong command of the vocabulary of the average Match of the Day pundit. I console myself by enjoying the sight of low, winter sunshine illuminating the huge, white-painted girder above the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.

Fifteen minutes have disappeared into forgettable history and George Hirst is an early victim of referee Paul Tierney’s yellow card after he fouls the cheeky-sounding Bobby Thomas. Mr Tierney incidentally sports a Gianni Infantino hairstyle but without the stick-on eyebrows. Four minutes later and it sounds like the Coventry fans are singing “Your boss is a Norwich fan”, which is banter of primary school standard rather than public school. Back on the pitch, the main Coventry tactic that I have discerned so far is that it is necessary to take a very long time over throw-ins and to make sure they are thrown straight to Christian Walton the Town goalkeeper.

The half is half over. “No noise from the Tractor Boys” chant the Coventry supporters, and it’s not that surprising because as the bloke behind me succinctly puts it “Shit game at the minute”. But then either Coventry briefly come to life, or Town nod off and a deep cross is inexpertly headed wide and over the bar by Kesler-Hayden. A minute after that, Coventry’s Eccles, whose grandfather was a character in the Goon Show, has a low shot touched onto a post by the lengthily diving Christian Walton, moments before Mason-Clark “gives it both barrels” and Walton tips the resultant shot away over the cross bar.

Happily, Coventry’s serious attempts to score are now over and George Hirst is chasing a ball from an offside position and shooting past the far post, tricking the Coventry players into revealing how utterly unsporting they are as they plead with the referee to send him off. It’s a pitiful sight, a perfect accompaniment to Gianni Infantino’s antics in Washington the night before and along with sponsorship by betting companies, dubious bit coin currencies and despotic regimes further evidence of just how rotten to the core professional football is. “Super Frankie Lampard” sing the Coventry fans in an apparently unrelated incident, although after the match he will repeat that Hirst should have been sent off because of course if Hirst hadn’t kicked the ball past the goal and delayed the game by less time than it takes a Coventry player to take a throw in, Coventry would definitely have won.

The last five minutes of the half have Ipswich dominating as Eggy is fouled, and then so is Nunez, and Coventry’s Grimes (aka Grimey) is booked before Town win two corners in quick succession and we chant ”Come On You Blues” for all we’re worth as the ball is sent back and forth across the Coventry goal mouth until Philogene squares it to Eggy, who curls it first time into the corner of the Coventry net from the edge of the penalty area. A minute of added-on time is added on, and the first half ends with Ipswich 1-0 up.

I spend half-time venting more spent Suffolk Pride before joining Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison at the front of the stand where Harrison riffs on the Coventry goalkeeper Rushworth and rush goalkeepers and we generally spend our time feeling happy. The football resumes at two minutes past four and the pattern of play differs immediately from most of the first half as Town retain possession and look the better team. Nunez shoots wide at the end of a long series of passes between Town players.

“One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Coventry fans unaware of our vow of silence or that being tough enough to drink outside at the pub makes us the strong silent types. Seven minutes into the new half and George Hirst is sent through on goal by Cedric Kipre but his shot is saved by Rushworth in exactly the manner that Hirst might have expected Rushworth to save his first half offside effort, which instigated the whole embarrassing “sending-offgate” scandal later to be promoted by a tearful, foot stamping Frank Lampard. Eight minutes later and it’s Nunez who puts Hirst through on goal, this time in a more central position, and this time Hirst scores the second Town goal. “Top of the League? You’re having a laugh” we all sing to the tune of Tom Hark, which was originally by Elias and his Zig-Zag Ji-flutes but later covered by The Piranhas, who I fondly recall seeing play regularly on a Sunday evening at the Alhambra on Brighton seafront in the late 1970’s.

Coventry fight back with a meagre corner but a 71^st minute, triple substitution keeps Town fresh, although as the tension mounts Pat from Clacton says she feels sick. The excitable young stadium announcer tells us that there are 29,025 of us here today and adds the usual platitudinous something about “incredible support” when it would be more honest to say “numerically impressive, but not especially noisy support”. A seventy-fourth minute Coventry corner and another decent save from Christian Walton has Pat from Clacton swallowing hard and not thinking about the baked potato she’s going to have for her tea. I meanwhile relieve the tension with the thought that Coventry number nine Ellis Simms looks like the bloke in the 1970’s illustrated sex manual ‘The Joy of Sex’. Staying back in the 1970’s Pat then reveals the existence of a what she dubs a ‘lucky’ 1973 fifty pence piece commemorating Britain joining the European Union, that someone on the Clacton supporters’ bus had tried to pass off as legal tender and which she now has in her purse along with the masturbating monkey charm from Cambodia and Derek the Dodo from Mauritius. I immediately place my faith in the lucky fifty pence piece and a return to the EU. Hopefully, we can also rely on Ellis Simms not having the energy to pull a goal back for Coventry.

There are nine minutes left of normal time and a slow chant of “Oh when the Town go marching in” emanates from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, who really need to work on sounding more cheerful when we’re two-nil up with less than ten minutes to go. With the final minute of normal time Christian Walton merely catches the ball, and I think it’s one of the best saves I’ve ever seen and we’re into five minutes of time added on, even though there have only been seven of a possible ten substitutions and no injuries. I can only imagine we are recouping time spent on Coventry throw-ins but if this is the case the visitors are then hoist by their own petard as substitute Ivan Azon has a cross blocked but then strikes the ball obliquely into the Coventry net for a third Town goal, which confirms an ultimately comfortable victory.

As ever, Pat and Fiona are quickly away to catch a bus and a train but with time on my hands I linger to applaud the Town team from the field and gloat as the man I know through my West Ham United supporting friend Claire as ‘fat Frank’, leaves the field with his day-glo clad supporting cast. Despite a dull first half, it’s been a very enjoyable afternoon overall and undeniably an excellent result. It’s amazing how quickly a goal or three can make everything alright again. With a celebratory beer and a couple of glasses of wine with my dinner tonight I might even be able to forget Gianni Infantino.

Ipswich Town 1 Watford 1

November 6, 2025November 7, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

Leaving off work on a November evening is one of life’s many pleasures, as indeed is leaving off work at any time of day or year but the fading light and swirling russet leaves, like in the opening scene of The Exorcist, somehow add a layer of gloomy beauty that enchants. Add the prospect of an evening kick-off at Portman Road, and the streets of Ipswich are alive with worried expectation. Opposite the bus depot I ‘bump into’ Richard, a long-since disillusioned but long-time Town supporter, who now occasionally catches a game when he can but mostly watches local non-league football. He’s on his way to meet a friend for a pre-match drink but has arrived early, so we have time to stand in the glow of a streetlight and talk of Brightlingsea Regent, Wivenhoe Town, Hackney Wick, SOUL Tower Hamlets and Kings Park Rangers, who sound from Richard’s account of a recent match like hired hitmen. Richard is concerned that the team that starts tonight’s match will not be the same one that started the match on Saturday.

Leaving Richard to go his own way, I have time to visit the recently installed ‘portal’ on Cornhill, and because I’m not sure what else to do, wave to people in Dublin and New York, some of whom wave back. Unfortunately, I hadn’t thought ahead and prepared a rude comment about Donald Trump to hold up on a piece of cardboard. I had wondered what the point of the portal is and still do but think I like it. It’s good to know I can momentarily make meaningless, mute contact with someone in Lithuania, Poland or Brazil.

At ‘the Arb,’ there are people crowding around the bar umming and ahhing over what they want to eat. Over their heads I order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, and they seem surprised when I am being served, and they are not. When did people stop understanding the etiquette of pubs and bars? I add an order of chilli, chips and cheese (£13) and retire to the beer garden with my beer to wait for Gary, Mick and the chilli, chips and cheese. Gary is first to arrive in his orange puffa jacket and with a pint of Spanish lager. The chilli, chips and cheese are next, followed by some cutlery, and then Mick who arrives before I finish eating. Mick has a pint of Suffolk Pride, Gary then has chilli, chips and cheese and Mick has chips and Emmental and he also buys another round of two pints of Suffolk Pride and Spanish lager as we talk of how busy the funeral business is currently, inter-sex sports people, Gary’s favourite places in India, Gary’s quiz team, the sale of Mick’s deceased neighbour’s house, a woman Gary and I knew who reached the final of tv’s Mastermind, whether Quorn comes from Quorn in Leicestershire, re-using Haig Fund poppies, the presence of gender in the Romance languages and other things that I’ve probably forgotten. There’s finally still time for me to buy another half of Suffolk Pride for myself and a whisky for Mick, but Gary is too full of chilli, chips, cheese and gassy Spanish lager to consume another drop.

As ever, we are the last to leave for Portman Road; it is twenty-three minutes past seven. At Portman Road there is no queue into the stand formerly known as Churchman’s and seeing the security staff brandishing their magic wands for detecting weapons, I stick my arms out wide as I approach. The security man smiles broadly, “You’re flying already” he says in a jolly Afro-Caribbean-cum-London accent. “High as a kite” I tell him, pretending to be, in the words of Marge Simpson ‘whacked out of my gourd’. After venting the spent drug of my choice, Suffolk Pride, I emerge into the stand in time for a minute’s silence for Armistice Day and the last post, something I still find odd in the context of attending a football match. Inevitably, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and ever-present Phil who never misses a game are already here, but Phil’s son Elwood is absent and so is Pat from Clacton, although on the end of the row sits a woman in dark glasses who looks a bit like her. Of course, in reality, the woman on the end of the row is Pat from Clacton and she’s not in disguise, only shielding her eyes from the glare of the floodlights having recently had cataracts removed.

I seem to have missed the announcing of tonight’s team, the ritual of remembrance having taken precedence over the usual pre-match ritual, and with players’ huddles out of the way it’s Ipswich who proceed to get first go with the ball, which they predominantly aim in the direction of the goal in front of me and my fellow ultras. As usual, Town sport their signature blue and white kit, whilst visiting Watford sport lurid, garish yellow shirts with red stripes and red shorts, colours which remind me of centrifuged blood and the French second division team Le Mans FC.

Ipswich quickly win a corner, so quickly in fact that I forget to chant “Come on You Blues” and the attacking opportunity is hopelessly wasted before I even realise. I’m still getting to grips with the diminutive height of the referee and the poppies on the players’ shirts as Town win a free-kick and Jaden Philogene places the ball very inexpertly and disappointingly over the Watford crossbar. A short while later Jens Cajuste shimmies wonderfully between a couple of Watford players on the edge of their penalty area, and the home crowd sing supportively for their team. Watford look tidy, but Ipswich are tidier.

Almost inevitably, despite not being as tidy as Ipswich, it is Watford who score. The sixteenth minute is Town’s undoing along with a general melting away of any defence on the right-hand side of the pitch, resulting in a low cross and a simple close-range goal from the misleadingly named Louza. “We’re winning away, we’re winning away, how shit must you be? We’re winning away” chant the Watford supporters to the tune of the Beach Boys’ Sloop John B in what passes for humour amongst most football crowds. Meanwhile I snigger because Watford’s number six is called Matthew Pollock, I just can’t help myself when people are named after certain fish.

Happily, Watford won’t be winning for long and after George Hirst heads over the crossbar, central defender Cedric Kipre provides a through ball worthy of any midfield maestro and Jaden Philogene scoops and curls the ball over the prone body of Watford’s Norwegian goalkeeper, and the score is one all. “We’re no longer winning away, we’re no longer winning away, you’re better than we thought you were, we’re no longer winning away” chant the Watford fans, except of course they don’t. Instead, the excitable young stadium announcer tells us excitedly and loudly that the goalscorer is “Our” Jaden Philogene, and he then proceeds to bawl “Jaden” and wonderfully allows the crowd to chant “Philogene”, which happens three times, as if we were in the Stade Roudourou or somewhere equally French. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game turns around wide-eyed, with a look of surprised recognition on his face to celebrate the moment with me. “All hail the excitable young stadium announcer” I think to myself.

There are still the best part of seventy minutes left to record a famous victory, although the tiny referee seems to want to make things as difficult as he can as he takes his time allowing Chuba Akpom back on the pitch after receiving treatment. The expected goals don’t happen. Watford win a couple of corners. “Event cleaning” say the electronic advertising boards on the Sir Bobby Robson stand before promoting the name of RJ Dean Plasterers, and probably because this is advertising, I think of Pearl & Dean at the cinema; Baba, baba, baba, baba, bababa. There are three minutes of added on time, which is long enough for Watford’s Kwadwo Baah to claim the first booking of the evening. BahBah, BahBah, BahBah, BahBah, BahBahBah. The Watford supporters complain, perhaps because given the number of fouls that had previously gone unpunished they thought their team had diplomatic immunity, and the Town supporters claim to have forgotten the Watford supporters were here. “Plus ca change” I think to myself, briefly returning to the Stade Roudourou.

With the half-time whistle I speak to Ray his son Michael and grandson Harrison at the front of the stand. Strangely, we don’t mention the match, perhaps because we can’t hear ourselves think, let alone speak above the deafening public address system.

The second half brings a booking for George Hirst after ten minutes after he is fouled and no free-kick is given and so he not unreasonably assumes it’s open season; if it is it ends just before he gets to the other bloke. “Watford, Watford, Watford, Watford” sing the Watford fans to the tune of “Amazing Grace”, which is itself amazing and also rather funny. Nearly an hour has gone the way of history, and we get to cheer another booking for Watford’s Mark Bola, who is momentarily as popular as Ebola. The second half has ebbed and flowed a bit but whilst Watford create no chances whatsoever, they still pass the ball very nicely and I think they look quite good, which might help explain an unusual interlude in which Jaden Philogene and Azor Matusiwa almost come to blows and probably would do if Cajuste doesn’t step into keep them apart.

It’s always time for change with about a half an hour left to play and tonight is no exception as Clarke, Azon and Taylor usurp Jaden Philogene, George Hirst and Jens Cajuste. Pat from Clacton clearly thinks in the same way as Keiran McKenna, but with no substitutes of her own to bring on she just delves into her handbag to pull out the masturbating monkey charm, who reportedly has changed many a game in the past, although I’ve never witnessed it myself. The monkey passes from Pat to Fiona to me and I ask what I’m supposed to do with him. “Rub his head” says Fiona. Relieved, I hand him back to Fiona who hands him back to Pat who puts him back in her handbag. Victory is now assured.

Time takes us into the last twenty minutes of ‘normal’ time and Watford make a copycat triple substitution as the bloke beside me complains that “There’s no end product” and then says it again. Moments later there is an ‘end product’ from Ivan Arzon, but what should be a decisive net-rustling header is one that goes unpleasantly wide. Akpom and Johnson are replaced by Nunez and Greaves.

Eighty-two minutes have joined the persistence of memory and Arzon misses again, this time shooting over the cross bar, and we are told that there are 27,184 of us here tonight, the lowest attendance for a home fixture in over two and half years; since we played Shrewsbury Town and the Shrews brought just 343 supporters with them. As time begins to run away from us, Watford win a corner and then Ivan Arzom has a header saved by the Watford goalkeeper. Two minutes remain of the original ninety and it’s Town’s turn to have a corner from which the ball lands at the feet of Nunez, clear at the far post and perhaps six yards from it. Nunez proceeds to display how he may always be tainted by having played for Norwich City and boots the ball hopelessly high and wide of the gaping target.

Seven minutes of added on time are added on and whilst it seems like renewed hope, of course it isn’t , and we even have to defend another couple of Watford corner kicks, although I remain confident that there will be no injury time defeat snatched from the jaws of victory, mainly because we’ve never been winning. With the final whistle I rise from my seat and promptly depart because I have only eight or nine minutes in which to get the ‘early’ train home. I console myself with the thought that although we should have won, at least we didn’t lose, although at the railway station I will meet Richard again, who will describe himself as ‘underwhelmed’, but may be he doesn’t enjoy leaving off work on a November evening as much as I do.

Ipswich Town 1 West Bromwich Albion 0

October 26, 2025October 27, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

Another Saturday, another kick-off time, this time 12:30 when most civilized people are at least beginning to think about a pre-lunch drink or perhaps even lunch itself. But it’s not lunchtime yet and I’m struggling to make breakfast as the seven-month-old induction hob in my kitchen refuses to turn on, simply announcing ‘error’ every time I press the on button, and refusing to give me any of the error numbers listed in the instruction manual. Frustrated but not beaten I resort to an earlier technology using the grill to cook the bacon and microwave for the scrambled eggs.

Barely ten minutes after finishing breakfast I’m off down the road to the railway station as rooks circle above as if about to re-enact a scene from ‘The Birds’. Arriving at the railway station I am conscious that for the first time this season my hands feel cold, and putting on my woolly gloves I witness a man who had been standing about 50m away from all the other passengers on the London bound platform having to walk back down the platform when the train pulls in because it is half the length he evidently expected to be. I am still feeling sympathy for him when the Ipswich train arrives, probably because there’s been nothing else to make me forget him and probably because it’s the sort of thing I can envisage happening to me.

Not much more than five minutes later Gary is sitting opposite me and we’re talking about how there will be forty-eight teams at the next World Cup finals and how games will take place thousands of miles apart in America, Canada and Mexico, which won’t help save the planet so there can be future World Cup finals with even more teams.

Arriving in Ipswich, Gary remarks on how well located the Station Hotel is for away fans and I add that Ipswich Town generally has one of the best locations of any football ground anywhere, being close to both the town centre and the main railway station. Why everywhere is not like Ipswich I cannot imagine, all we’re missing are some trams. It’s still about two hours until kick-off, so the streets are relatively quiet, but there are still eager, expectant people seemingly with nowhere better to go, hanging round the turnstiles of Portman Road. At the Arb,’ our path to the bar is unhindered by other drinkers and although I order a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself Gary offers to pay for them, and I let him. We repair to the beer garden to sit in the cold because that’s what we’ll be doing at Portman Road. We’re talking of someone Gary knew who died in tragic circumstances when Mick arrives and when Mick returns from the bar our grim conversation continues with talk of wills and probate and then the worryingly large number of despotic political figures around the world and how it can only end in war; it must be our age. Mick buys another round of drinks and with the clock ticking past noon I ponder whether there is time for another pint, or perhaps a half before we leave. I almost reluctantly decide against it and Mick says, “You could have an orange juice”. “Why on earth would I want to do that?” I ask as incredulously as I possibly can.

As ever, we revel in being the last to leave for Portman Road, scoffing at the ‘lightweights’ who have gone before us. We part near Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue and bid each other ‘adieu’ until Tuesday week when we will meet again for the match versus Watford. I march onto Chancery Road to make my approach to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand where there no queues at all for the turnstiles, my way being only interrupted by a pretty, Muslim lady with a magic wand looking for weapons. She asks me what I have in pockets and I show her my pair of woolly gloves. I enter the stadium through the hallowed turnstile 62 and with no one else about it feels like Portman Road belongs to me.

After siphoning off excess Suffolk Pride I arrive at my seat as flames erupt into the air in front of Cobbold Stand and pigeons take evasive action. Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here of course, but Pat from Clacton has failed a late fitness test, and she remains in Clacton with the remains of her Covid infection. On the pitch-side, the excitable young stadium announcer and his sidekick are sporting shiny new sports coats over their shiny suits and look like two grey, striped sausage rolls on legs. Oddly, my mind is elsewhere as the Town team is announced and I forget to bellow out the players’ names in the style of a Frenchman at the Stade Marcel-Picot or Stade Oceane, only emerging from my reverie in time to shout “O’Shea!”. I think I must have been thinking of Pat from Clacton.

Before kick-off this lunchtime there is a minute’s applause for recently deceased Town player Mick McNeil, although he deservedly gets a cite more than a minute’s applause because the crowd begins to clap as soon as his picture appears on the big screen in the corner or the referee blows his whistle. It might seem a bit shambolic but it’s also fitting that the fans do their own thing on these occasions because spontaneity is what football crowds are all about. With the applause finally over, it is Town’s opponents West Brom’ that get first go with the ball, which they attempt to launch at the goal at the end of the ground closest to the chip shop on the corner of London Road and Handford Road and the old waterworks on Whitton Church Lane, which is much further away and I don’t know why I thought of it. West Brom’ are ill-advisedly wearing yellow and green striped shirts and green shorts. Ipswich of course wear classic blue and white and kick towards me and my fellow ultras. Within a couple of minutes, the game surprisingly develops into an extended bout of head tennis, possibly the longest bout of head tennis I’ve ever seen in a football match. Inevitably however, like everything including life itself the head tennis ends eventually, although I’d hoped it might continue for longer, and I’m struck by the thought that West Brom and Ipswich are quite alike in being failed Premier League teams desperate to return.

After five minutes, Jaden Philogene runs and shoots for the far corner of the goal and the West Brom’ goalkeeper Griffiths dives athletically to push the ball away for a corner. It’s all very dramatic and spectacular and has me thinking “Wow!”, which is not something I do often. Like most Ipswich corners and probably every other team’s corners the resultant corner comes to nothing, and I’m left to notice how swirly the wind is as it ruffles the players shirts and makes the three flags on the Cobbold stand flutter wildly.

The ninth minute is here and so is Jaden Philogene again, crossing the ball low for Sam Szmodics to not quite reach and divert into the West Brom’ goal. Szmodics has stretched himself a bit too much and receives treatment from the physio as a result, revealing a flash of tattooed torso in the process, making me think of Rod Steiger in the film The Illustrated Man. Five minutes later and Jack Taylor breaks forward through the centre of the West Brom’ defence, which parts like the Red Sea before he unfortunately shoots wide of Griffiths’ right-hand post. I think to myself that I hope this game doesn’t turn out like the one last Tuesday as the electronic advertisement hoardings seemingly incite revolution, reading “Change the way the world works”.

Meanwhile, from up in the Cobbold Stand it sounds like the visiting fans are singing “We’re the Albion we’ll sit on our own”, although I’ll later work out that they’re not feeling anti-social, but want to “…sing on their own”, which is a jibe at the home fans not singing. But the fact is, Suffolk is probably just less musical than Warwickshire and the West Midlands, and the tally of Nik Kershaw, The Darkness, Brian Eno and Ed Sheeran versus Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Roy Wood, Slade, Nick Drake and The Specials rather proves it.

Time has progressed to a point almost half-way through the first half and Sam Szmodics slopes off to be replaced by Chuba Akpom who soon wins Town another corner with a deflected shot, and I’m struck by the uncanny similarity, particularly of haircuts, between George Hirst and a pair of twins I recall from primary school who were called Nigel and Neville. Twenty-nine minutes have left us, and Town win another corner. “Come On You Blues” I shout repeatedly, but no one much seems to get that they’re meant to join in and produce a crescendo of noise which will frighten the ball into the West Brom’ net.

Town have been dominant again, but with about ten minutes to go until half-time they seem to be generously letting West Brom’ have a go with the ball, and ‘the visitors’ as radio commentators like to call them bag a couple of corners of their own, but naturally do nothing of interest with them. Indeed, West Brom’s spell of possession, is just that and nothing more, although for a short while the lack of action causes Portman Road to fall completely silent. “I thought I’d gone deaf for a moment” says the bloke behind me. Two minutes of added time are added on to give us our money’s worth, but the first half ends without a goal being scored.

Having cheered the referee off the pitch, I vent more spent Suffolk Pride and then visit Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison at the front of the stand. Pessimistically, Ray and I air concerns about the match so far being like Tuesday night’s, and Ray delivers his well-rehearsed joke that “It feels like deja vu all over again” before we talk about travelling around Europe and Ray reminisces about a trip to the Netherlands in his youth, before he met the woman he refers to as “the present Mrs Kemp.”

The football resumes at thirty-three minutes past one and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) gives me his assessment that the game doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, and unfortunately the absence of decent goal attempts continues. “We’re the Albion” chant the West Brom’ fans seemingly trying to stave off some sort of identity crisis and then Chuba Akpom starts to limp, takes off his left boot and with sixty minutes played is substituted with Nunez. The match however has become dull, “Football in a library” chant the West Brom’ fans consulting the well-thumbed pages of the English football supporters’ book of quick wit and ready repartee for something appropriate. On the touchline, Keiran McKenna acknowledges the chill in the air today having donned a short, dark grey puffa jacket, although he probably needs something more like the sports coats that stadium announcer Yogi and his sidekick Boo-Boo are wearing, but more colourful.

Twenty-five minutes of normal time remain and Town’s Sindre Egeli shoots wide to momentarily excite the home crowd and inspire the “witty” West Bromwichians to chant “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here” to the Welsh hymn tune Cwm Rhondda. Two minutes later and Egeli is at it again but shooting embarrassingly high and wide, which people find less exciting. With only seventeen ‘normal’ minutes remaining West Brom’ win another corner to keep the Town goal safe, and two minutes later George Hirst shows how he really is the new Rory Delap by becoming the first player to be booked. Hirst keeps in the limelight by being substituted a minute later along with Philogene and Jack Taylor, who are replaced by Ivan Arzon, Jack Clarke and Jens Cajuste before today’s attendance is announced as 28,447. In a busy couple of minutes, which almost pass for entertainment referee Mr Smith then books West Brom’ number two Chris Mepham, who coincidentally has the same surname as a girl I liked at primary school, although in truth I liked her friend Elaine a lot more.

With the end of the match in sight, either the substitutions are tactically astute or the players realise that they’d better do something quickly if they’re going to bank a win bonus this week and there is a noticeable increase in attacking intent with Nunez and Jack Clarke looking unexpectedly capable of penetrating the West Brom’ defence. The decisive play however comes from West Brom’ themselves who, keen to emulate Paris St Germain and Real Madrid by religiously “playing out from the back” conspire to lose the ball to Jens Cajuste no more than 15 metres from goal. Cajuste passes to Nunez or may be Azon ( i couldnt really tell from over 100 metres away) whose shot is parried by goalkeeper Griffiths but Jack Clarke strides forward to sweep the ball high into the goal net with the kind of stylish aplomb only accessible to a player wearing an alice band.

The remaining minutes, of which five are ones that have been dangerously ‘added on’ pass with a degree of anxiety but surprisingly without much fuss or any sharp intakes of breath. Fiona and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) make a swift exit at the final whistle, but today I am pleased to have the time before my train home to wait behind and applaud the team for forgoing lunch to deliver this unusually welcome victory. Now, I wonder what time our next match kicks off at?