George Hirst

Ipswich Town 1 Watford 1

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 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

/ 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?

Ipswich Town 3 Norwich City 1

/ martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

One of the many unpleasant things about returning to work having been on holiday is once again being shaken from one’s slumbers at an unearthly hour by an alarm clock.  The first weekend after the return to work is usually a beautiful thing therefore because of the albeit temporary return to what had been the normality when on holiday of not having to get up before you naturally wake up.  Today however, Ipswich Town are playing local rivals, nasty Norwich City and because of human beings’ apparent need to divide ourselves into groups which hate one other, the people charged with maintaining peace and good order have decreed that the match shall begin at 12 o’clock on a Sunday morning.  I had planned to catch the 10:05 train but having received an e-mail from Ipswich Town entreating him to get to the game early, Mick seems anxious that he should.  I therefore set my alarm for 7.30 to give me time to shower, prepare and eat a hearty breakfast, drink coffee with a glass of advocaat and walk to the railway station to catch the 09:30.

It’s a bright sunny morning as I walk to the station and through the leaves of the trees the wind seems to whisper, “Ipswich win, Norwich lose”.   The train is on time, and I sit across the aisle from a man at least in late middle age who wears shorts and a body warmer, as if his legs still want to be on holiday but his torso realises it is autumn.  Another man of a similar age relives his past by wearing a blue Harrington jacket.  The sun is still climbing in the sky and dances between those Ipswich supporting trees as we speed down the line towards Gary, who joins me on my journey along with his recovering achilles tendon.  We chat about the tendon, Ipswich having only played Norwich fourteen times in sixteen years, and Ipswich still having won as many local derbies as Norwich despite Norwich’s eight victories since Ipswich’s last victory in 2009, before looking out for the Wherstead polar bears, of which we see two out of the surviving three.

The streets of Ipswich are heaving with police persons in day-glo gilets, baseball hats and other “street-wear” encouraging Gary and I to reminisce about the days of pointy helmets and long dark coats.  Neither of us stops to buy a programme, deeming £4.00 too much for something glossy but of little real interest, which will sit on a shelf and gather dust until our younger relatives clear our homes when we die and optimistically put them on e-bay.  At the Arb’ I buy Gary a pint of Estrella Gallicia and one of Suffolk Pride for myself (ten pound something with Camra discount). We find Mick in the beer garden basking in the morning sunlight; at first we don’t see him at all and go to sit elsewhere, it’s been a while and it’s as if we’ve forgotten what he looks like, although Gary mistakenly thinks we have seen him once this season, but we haven’t.  Mick jokes, in poor taste, about oncoming senility, but like the baby boomers we are we laugh anyway.

We talk of Ipswich’s first book festival, Brittany, bagpipes, neolithic standing stones, Sligo and Galway, tacky souvenirs and the Catholic church,  electric vehicle charging points and the sale of Mick’s deceased neighbour’s house.  Mick buys us more pints of beer and before long we’re the only people left in the beer garden, everyone else having heeded their e-mails like the obedient, malleable citizens that they are, not like us independent thinking baby-boomers with our pensions and Palestinian flags.   We nevertheless leave the pub perhaps ten minutes earlier than we might normally, but then, Gary’s achilles tendon is still slowing him down. In Sir Alf Ramsey Way the turnstiles are queue-less, although the same is not true of the back of Sir Alf Ramsey’s stand where entry is slowed by scanning for weapons, frisking for stale dumplings and dead budgies with which people might taunt the visiting fans, and an old boy in front of me who is trying to use his season ticket card like a chip and pin and is ignoring the QR code.

After venting spent Suffolk Pride it’s soon a joy to be re-united with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood who are all inevitably awaiting kick-off.  From the Sir Bobby Robson stand a blue and white banner hangs, which slightly cryptically asks “who’s that team we all adore?”.  Given the Gothic typeface I’m thinking someone Germanic, Schalke perhaps or Karlsruher? Hansa Rostock?  But it’s a question that doesn’t really need asking.  On the pitch, the excitable young stadium announcer is contorting his lanky frame as he bellows into his microphone and announces the team.  Sadly, he is becoming as hopeless as his predecessor Murphy and he fails miserably to co-ordinate his announcing of the player’s names with them appearing on the big screen in the corner.  He is possibly just too excited.   I simply ignore him therefore and bawl the players’ names as they appear on the screen, as if I were at the Stade Marie-Marvigt in Le Mans or Stade Ocean in Le Havre.

Eventually, the noise through the PA system subsides and the game begins as the wind howls around us and small pieces of torn up paper flutter about.  It’s Norwich who get first go with the ball and they boot it more or less in the direction of where they come from whilst wearing their traditionally unpleasant signature kit of yellow and green, like a poor man’s Runcorn or Hitchin Town.  Ipswich meanwhile are of course resplendent in blue and white.  If the bloke beside me is to be believed, early Town play is a bit sloppy. “Come on Town for fuck’s sake” he shouts as a pass or two go astray.  Typically, Norwich commit the first foul as if to keep alive the memory of Duncan Forbes.  “All aspects of plastering and drylining” announce the electric advertisement screens brightly between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.   A Town free-kick is wasted. “Fucking numpty” says the bloke behind me as the linesman gives a throw to Norwich.

Ten minutes pass and Norwich are probably having more possession of the ball than Ipswich.  The Norwich supporters sing “Your support is fucking shit”.  Ipswich win a corner and along with Pat from Clacton and ever-present Phil I shout “Come On You Blues” a good three or four times as we support our team without using swear words.  On the touchline meanwhile, Keiran McKenna looks a little drab in his grey trousers and black polo neck top, and I think to myself that it surely wouldn’t break our American backers if they let him have a blue and white scarf out of the club shop to brighten him up a bit.  Back in the Cobbold Stand the Norwich supporters think they’re being clever as they sing to the home supporters “Sit down if you love Norwich”, somehow not noticing that they themselves are all standing up.  Sixteen minutes pass and Town win another corner and it’s time to chant “Come On You Blues” again, and again and probably once more for luck, but the score remains goalless, although I do notice that Norwich have a player called Topic and I am reminded of the nougat, caramel and chocolate based confection that reportedly had a hazelnut in every bite but which according to Wikipedia ceased production in 2021 having been introduced in 1962, the year Ipswich were English Champions.

The 19th minute witnesses Norwich’s number twenty-nine kick Town’s Furlong up in the air but escape punishment from the referee who seems to have the authority to absolve Norwich players of sin rather than book them.  The advertisement for Aspall cider that says “Made in Suffolk since 1728, now available in a can” runs across the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I can’t decide whether or not  this is meant to be ironically amusing. My reverie should be shattered as everyone in the ground except for Fiona and myself stands up to celebrate Jaden Philogene smashing the ball into the Norwich net.  But it seems we were alone in hearing the referee’s whistle signalling that a Norwich player had fallen over in the build-up.  Then Norwich win a couple of corners before there’s a cross from the right and a George Hirst header, albeit straight at the Norwich goalkeeper, which stands out as the first incident easily recognisable as attacking football.

The game is now a third of its way into history and Town win another corner.  Along with my fellow ultras I chant “Come on You Blues” again and this time the ball drops down, avoids a couple of boots before being launched comprehensively into the roof of the Norwich goal net by Ivorian Cedric Kipre for whom, seeing as he is on loan from Reims, this must be Champagne football.

Confusingly, the Ipswich supporters begin to sing “You’re not singing anymore” as the Norwich supporters sing “Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning”. But the musical interlude lasts only a couple of minutes as Norwich win a corner and the Town players ignore the Norwich number twenty-nine to whom the ball drops at the edge of the penalty area; he shoots, and the ball is by some fluke deflected past Palmer and into the Town goal for an unexpected equaliser and hopefully the last bit of good luck Norwich City will ever get.

For a minute or two Norwich look puffed-up and pleased with themselves and their number six, who laughingly is called Darling, fouls Leif Davis and referee Mr Thomas Kirk picks him as the first player of the afternoon to see his yellow card. “Name?” says Mr Kirk. “Darling” says Darling. “You can’t get round me like that” says Mr Kirk, blushing slightly. “No, my name is Darling” says Darling. “Well, I’m going to have to book you Darling” replies Mr Kirk, then adding “I hope you don’t mind me calling you Darling, Darling.” 

As the last five minutes of the first half run on, Town win another couple of corners and yet again in vain, we chant “Come on you Blues”. Meanwhile the bloke beside me is analysing the game with the man from Stowmarket (Paul). The last minute of the half is here, and the Norwich number seven fails to control the ball. Jaden Philogene runs on to the loose ball as it rebounds away from the Norwich bloke’s rubber foot, Philogene spins on the ball to leave rubber toes staggering and about to fall over, Philogene takes a stride or two towards goal and then unleashes a left foot shot. Grazing the underside of the crossbar the ball then strikes the Norwich goal net and Town are winning. My jaw drops. English reserve evaporates as Fiona and I hug, and I open my eyes wide just merrily thinking “Wow”.

Naturally, half-time is a time of happiness, a time to reflect on a job half done. I head to the front of the stand to go and speak with Ray, but my way is blocked by a steward, who won’t let me through to the front of the stand. I ask why not. “Instructions” says the steward. “What is the reason for the instructions?” I ask. “Instructions” says the steward suggesting some sort of peculiar chain of command in which no one ever explains the reasons for anything. Fortunately, Ray walks over to me and we talk the usual nonsense, but I can only wave to Ray’s grandson Harrison and tell him to be careful, he is in a restricted zone.

Hostilities resume at five minutes past one and initially Norwich look keen to level the scores, but somehow without actually scoring, or even having a shot. Town’s Sindre Egele fouls some bloke in a yellow shirt “Great tackle” says the bloke behind me appreciatively “Shudda been a bit higher”. Town win the ball back from the subsequent free kick but stubbornly insist on ‘playing out from the back’ at all times and consequently concede a corner.

Substitutions are made by Norwich because the players they have had on the field up to now have clearly not been much good. Above, the sky is turning increasingly grey and with an hour gone the floodlights suddenly burst into life as if someone had unwittingly leant on the switch. “Stand up if you ‘ate the scum” chant the home supporters now able to see the yellow and green shirts again and also Marcelino Nunez warming up on the touchline, before launching into what is to become the theme tune of the afternoon, “He’s in your head, He’s In your head ,  Nunez, Nunez, Nunez” to the tune of ‘Zombie’ by The Cranberries.   Feeding off the growing sense of joie de vivre amongst the Ipswich fans Sindra Egele goes past a Norwich player by flicking the ball up over the hapless defender’s head, thereby making a monkey out of a canary.

Twenty minutes of normal time remain and perhaps needing to get his breath back, referee Mr Kirk awards Norwich four corners in quick succession, whilst the Norwich number twenty-three, a belligerent fellow with a shrew-like face, gives up on football and just tries to push and shove and generally wrestle with anyone in a blue shirt. Mr Kirk shows him the yellow card for his trouble.  With the succession of corners over, Keiran Mckenna, still looking ready for a funeral in grey and black, makes three substitutions bringing on Nunez, Ivan Azon and Jack Clarke.  Within three minutes, possibly two, Nunez chips the ball up for Azon to run on to and strike a low shot against the far post and with grace and style Jack Clarke majestically sweeps in the rebound to put Town 3-1 up.

The final twelve minutes of normal time bring two more Town corners after a free kick by Nunez, which 28,000 people fail to will into the Norwich net, and Pat from Clacton tells me she’s off to Great Yarmouth to play whist next week, in a hotel where the manager is a Norwich fan. Today’s attendance is announced by the excitable young stadium announcer as being 29,809 and five minutes of added on time is called, a bit like drinking up time.  Town fans meanwhile are drunk on Philogene and Nunez whilst Norwich are getting chucked out with the empties and throwing up on the pavement outside.  With the final whistle, everyone in blue and white is delirious; I resolve to drink champagne and dance all night and try not to forget to set my alarm clock.

Ipswich Town 1 Southampton 1

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

My wife Paulene grew up in the city of Portsmouth like her parents and their parents before them.  Her father was present at Wembley to see victorious Pompey lift the FA Cup in 1939 and was a regular at Fratton Park before he got married.  Paulene started watching Pompey in the late 1960’s and hers is one of the names on the wall behind the North Stand at Fratton Park which records those who bought shares to keep the club alive and take it out of administration back in 2011.   Today, my team Ipswich Town play Pompey’s bitter rivals Southampton and must win, and by several goals.  The reason for this is that Paulene will then be in my debt because yesterday Pompey lost to flippin’ Norwich.

Weirdly, it’s Sunday, and almost every other team in whatever league it is Ipswich now play in have already played.  To make matters even more confusing, kick-off is at 12 o’clock, barely giving time for the God-fearing to get home from church before heading for the match.  Untroubled by such matters however, I have already checked that ‘The Arb’ will be opening early, and after a breakfast of all manner of things left in the fridge and then introduced to a frying pan, I am heading to the railway station in sandals, shorts and t-shirt beneath an ITFC bucket hat and a blazing August sun.  Despite my outwardly sunny disposition, I can’t help but quietly question what I’m doing embarking on yet another season of probable anguish and despair.   After all, we reached the ‘promised land’ last year and it turned out to be something of a disappointment, why bother trying to go back?  It was like saving up for a luxury holiday, expecting to stay at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo and then finding yourself with half-board in a B & B in Lowestoft.

Just like last season, Gary joins me on the train at the first station stop.  Our conversation joins the dots between now and last May before we look for polar bears on the rolling slopes of Wherstead.  Opposite us sits an inscrutable, full-faced and bearded man in dark glasses, who looks so miserable he makes me want to laugh.  He has a face to ward-off evil spirits.  As ever, due to careful planning our carriage draws up by the lower of the two foot bridges that span the tracks at Ipswich station, and having negotiated the ticket barriers we make for the Arb via Portman Road and its ice cream kiosks that sell programmes.  But today there is a technical issue at the first kiosk, a queue at the second and so I buy my programme from a large young bloke with just a two-wheeled, blue trolley with a stick on it bearing a sign that says “programmes”. To my horror the programme now costs four pounds. “Four pounds!” I exclaim. “Yes, everything is going up” says the large young bloke sounding like the voice of experience.  “How much were programmes when you first came to Portman Road?” asks Gary. “Five pence” I tell him, and for that you would also get a Football League Revue which cost five-pence on its own.  I wonder why at French football matches programmes are free, and speculate that if everyone at the game was given a programme it might be possible to charge more for the advertising.  On the plus side, the front cover of the programme features a painted portrait of Dara O’Shea with Umbro badge to the fore.  The painting is in a conventional style by an artist called Louise Cobbold but I look forward in the weeks to come to enjoying the faces of Luke Woolfenden and  Ali Al-Hamadi as they might have been seen by Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud or Picasso.

Since yesterday Gary has had a bad ankle.  He tells me he drove to Braintree and when he got out of his car his ankle hurt.  Our journey to the Arb is therefore a slow and arduous one and by the time we get there I feel a lot like Mao Zedong and the Red Army must have at the end of ‘Long March’, but minus the revolutionary fervour.   I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10.50 for the two with Camra discount) because The Arb no longer sells Lager 43.  Like a twit, I pronounce ‘Galicia’ as I imagine a Spanish person would, I think it’s my age.  Beers in hands, we retire to the beer garden to mourn the absence of Mick, who is at a wedding in Scotland, and to talk of films, immigration and the town of Bromley.  Gary later buys another round of pints of Suffolk Pride and Galicia too.

It’s just gone twenty-five to twelve when we head for Portman Road; we leave a little early because of Gary’s painful ankle but proudly we’re still the last people to go.  We part ways near where Alf Ramsey’s statue stands hands in pockets perhaps wondering why football fans sing about Bobby Robson but not him, even though he won the League and the World Cup and Sir Bobby won neither.  I saunter past queues for the turnstiles in Portman Road but at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand emergency measures are in place and as I arrive hopeful spectators are being ushered through the side entrance past recent building works and a sign that reads ‘Broadcasters Toilet’, which I hope is specially adapted to flush away what comes out of their mouths.

I make it into the company of the man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the excitable young stadium announcer finishes telling us who ‘our’ team are today.  In the time-honoured manner, I bawl the players’ surnames out as if I was at the Stade du Roudourou in Guingamp or Stade Saint-Symphorien in Metz. It’s as if I’d never been away, or indeed to either of those stadiums and oddly enough I haven’t.  At the far end of the ground a banner, it’s not really big enough in size or ambition to be called a tifo, reads “Side by side a sea of blue and white” which doesn’t quite sound right but I think I get the general idea.

When the game begins, it is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they proceed to boot very effectively towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras.  Naturally enough Town are in traditional blue and white, whilst Southampton are in their usual red stripes and black shorts but have seemingly travelled here through time and have donned the kit that Mike Channon and little Alan Ball used to wear back in the second half through the 1970’s.  Within four minutes Town score as George Hirst nicks a back pass and crosses to Jack Clarke who skilfully sets the ball up for the flamboyantly monikered Taylor Harwood-Bellis to score an own goal.

With promotion assured, we settle down to enjoy the match, the sunshine and the remainder of the season.  Pat from Clacton has had an operation on one of her eyes she tells me, and I guess that’s why she’s looking extra cool in her shades today; and luckily, she’s looking much more cheerful than the bloke in the dark glasses on the train this morning. “Sit down if you love Pompey” sing the Southampton fans and so because we do, we do.  

On the pitch however, things have taken a turn for the worse and Southampton unsportingly won’t let Town have the ball.   The upshot is that it all gets a bit too much and Southampton score an equalising goal with a ‘towering’ header from a bloke called Jay Robinson. All around people agree that “it had been coming”, which philosophically speaking is probably something of a truism because looking back hasn’t everything?    Disappointed, I seek solace in telling Fiona that Southampton’s number thirty-four, Wellington, used to play for Wimbledon. Without hesitation, Fiona gets the joke, possibly because I said the same thing the last time Southampton were at Portman Road.

Wellington is booked before half-time by referee Mr Madley, who has taken to annoying supporters of both teams who accuse him through the medium of a tuneless chant of not knowing what he is doing.  I however think he does know what he is doing and that is the opposite to what we think he should be doing. He proceeds to book Jack Taylor and Azor Matusiwa.

With half-time I vent excess Suffolk Pride and then reacquaint myself with Ray and his grandson Harrison  who have spent the summer attending gigs, concerts and happenings and are soon due to see Tom Jones.  I hope Ray has a clean pair of knickers to throw at the Octogenarian.

After the somewhat uneasy first-half in which Southampton would probably claim to have been the better team, in the second half it soon becomes clear that whatever Kieran McKenna said at half time to his players was much more worth listening to than whatever the ginger Anglo-Belgian Will Still said.  Sammie Szmodics hits a post and the ball defies the laws of physics by bouncing back to the goalkeeper instead of into the net and Jadon Philogene executes a spectacular overhead scissor kick.  There are other chances for Town too, whilst as a tall slim man, for Southampton I find Adam Armstrong and Ryan Frazer antagonisingly stocky.

Wellington is substituted by Will Still before he plays an hour and Fiona and I are disappointed but not surprised when he’s not replaced by Orinoco.  Pat from Clacton tells me she’s having a baked potato for tea, with chicken and salad. Southampton’s number 18 Mateus Fernandes shoots over the Town cross bar from a free-kick and then smacks the palm of one hand obliquely across the other in a gesture that says ‘darn my luck’ or, if Google translate can be believed ‘droga a minha sorte’ in Portuguese.  The excitable young stadium announcer goes on to thank us for our being 29,128 in number today and almost as a final act before declaring the game over, Mr Madley books Southampton’s Shea Charles in the manner of a man who enjoys being the architect of the practical joke.  Madley allows Charles to walk away from the scene of his crime, before suddenly calling him back and thrusting the yellow card at him the moment he turns around.  It’s a decent finale to a match that wouldn’t otherwise have one.

I don’t hang about after the final whistle and leave for the railway station to the sound of people reluctantly saying it was probably a fair result.  I’m not sure my wife Paulene will think it was and I may have some explaining to do, but at least we didn’t lose.

Bromley 1 Ipswich Town 1 (Bromley win 5-4 on penalties)

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These are the dog days of summer.  So named, Wikipedia tells us, because it’s the time of year when Sirius the dog star rises in the night sky. These are hot, humid days and the portent of ill-luck to some apparently,  It’s an appropriate time therefore to start the domestic football season, although I count myself lucky enough to have already dabbled in the exotica of the European Conference League back in July when I witnessed Haverfordwest County take on Floriana Malta in cosmopolitan Llanelli.

The Football League and FA Cup have already staged a staggered start over the past two weekends, but I eschewed them in favour of applying satin finish emulsion and gloss on the upstairs landing.  Today however, I have knocked off work a little early and now feel myself gently melting into the moquette on the 15:48 to London Liverpool Street as I embark on the epic journey to the deepest suburbs of southeast London, specifically Bromley.  It’s a journey that has been in the planning several weeks since Ipswich Town drew Bromley in the Football League Cup, which I believe is now known by younger people, duped by the concept of ‘energy drinks’, as the Carabao Cup.  Whatever happened to Milk?

 I have had a difficult few weeks since the draw was announced, wondering whether to travel by planet saving electric Citroen e-C4, or to reduce traffic on the roads and catch the train and risk being stranded in the big city if the game went to extra time and penalties.  But having learned that extra-time is now consigned to the dustbin of football history along with Dickensian sideburns, ‘dolly birds’ and the teleprinter I gained the confidence to sign up on the Bromley FC website, along with my friend of forty-seven years Chris (aka ‘Jah’ because of his love of Reggae) and acquire two tickets for the North Terrace (£19 each for over 65’s).

 I meet ‘Jah’ by platform 4 at Victoria Station, which today is doubling as a greenhouse.  By twenty to six we are on the packed train to far away Ramsgate which fortunately stops at South Bromley.  On the train, it seems like we are the only two people talking to one another, which is a good thing because my hearing isn’t what it was.  We quickly get the subject of the ‘Bromley contingent’ out of the way and share memories of having seen Siouxsie and the Banshees respectively in Durham and at the Ipswich Gaumont, but ‘Jah’ gains the greater credibility because he probably saw them in 1978, about the time ‘Hong Kong Garden’ was released, whereas I had waited until at least 1980.

Arriving at South Bromley railway station we emerge onto the broad high street and look up and down expectantly in the manner of Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly on shore leave in New York.  But they had twenty-four hours, we only have two before kick-off at Hayes Lane.  We are drawn towards two policemen stood at the edge of the pavement, presumably on the look-out for “football hooligans”. We ask where to find the best of Bromley and they point us back towards the railway station implying that the best thing is the train out. Eventually, they direct us up the high street to “plenty of pubs and restaurants” and down the road to the “Bricklayers” which is the pub for away supporters.

Bromley is apparently the only town with a Football League team to also have a tory MP and from the comparative absence of empty shops on the High Street it certainly looks like the kind of place that can afford to say “we’re alright, we don’t care about you”.  Eventually arriving at a large Fuller’s pub called The Partridge, formerly a rather grand branch of the National Westminster Bank, we drink pints of Butcombe Rare Breed pale ale and reminisce about girls we once knew, a record player Jah owned when we were students and how his wife played pool with a family of Irish butchers in a Stockport pub.

Time moves on and so must we, to the Bricklayers Arms pub, which is much closer to Bromley’s Hayes Lane ground. Pints of Shepherd & Neame Whitstable Bay and Master Brew accompany packets of plain, and cheese and onion flavour Kent Crisps for about fourteen quid and we search out seats where we can hear each other above the noise of the television, which is belting out Sky Sports pre-match coverage from just down the road, which might explain why it’s so loud. Very soon however kick-off is a mere twenty minutes away and we must up-sticks again, with Jah not even having managed to finish his pint.

We make it through the turnstiles at Hayes Lane just as flames erupt into the evening sky from what look like darkly painted tea chests, and the two teams take to the field. I look in vain for a programme seller, but the game is about to start and so screwing up my disappointment into a knotted ball of resentment I head with Jah towards the partly open North Terrace.  “Don’t worry” says Jah, like a reassuring parent “You’ll probably find one on the floor on our way out at the end of the game.”   We make our way across the front of the stand and up the steps past the inevitable youth with a drum to a secluded spot beneath the shallow roof at the back of the terrace from where only one corner flag is obscured from view by the scaffolding tower atop which sits a Sky Sports television camera.  I convince myself that karma will reward me for sacrificing my full view of the pitch so that unknown couch potato subscribers to satellite television across the world may see all. Jah and I are stood behind a man with impressively well-conditioned, clean, brown, almost shoulder-length hair, which Sky TV viewers will probably not see.

The match begins and Bromley get first go with the ball, booting it towards the southern end of the ground where the Ipswich supporters are assembled to one side of a modern stand which looks like a very large grey shoe box that has had one side cut-off. On the rear wall of the shoe box neat letters spell out ‘The Glyn Beverly Stand’ which only in my mind is an anagram of ‘Clarks Kickers’. In reality, it simply seems that Bromley FC like to name the architecture of their ground after people who only supporters of Bromley FC are ever likely to have heard of. The John Fiorini Stand looks out on the tea chests whilst a little nearer to us just by the turnstiles is the Dave Roberts tea hut.  All along the eastern side of the pitch is a building site, one half of which shows recognisable progress with steel girders and concrete blocks arranged in the form of an embryonic but as yet disappointingly nameless stand.

Back on the pitch, Bromley are in an all-white kit with black trim, whilst Ipswich sport a cheap looking all red number, which closer examination reveals has blue scribble on the sleeves.  Bromley have very hastily won a couple of corners, and whilst the home crowd off to our right are noisy and excitable, the football shows room for improvement.  Ipswich are keen on the flanks but lack accuracy with crosses and presence in midfield.   Town’s Jack Clarks moves nicely but mostly runs diagonally like a stray dog.  Bromley are organised and alert and that’s about it.  Just as my thoughts are that it would have been nicer to have stayed in the pub, Jah distracts me by asking how I would define the beard on the face of the steward stood at the front of the stand.  The same steward also inspected the contents of Jah’s bag before we came through the turnstiles, when Jah had asked him if he was South African. It turns out he is French, but this doesn’t influence me in my decision that his beard resembles that of Ming the Merciless, who with the fall of his empire is now reduced to stewarding midweek matches for lower league clubs.

Half-time approaches with the memory of Ali Al-Hamadi having failed to make more of being put through on goal with just the ‘keeper to beat, Conor Chaplin whipping a shot narrowly over the cross bar and Jack Clarke having a not particularly hard shot stopped with a diving save.  For those around me one of the highlights of the half seems to have been receiving texts from friends and loved ones at home watching Sky Sports TV telling them that Ed Sheeran is in the crowd.  The chants of “Ed Sheeran, your music is shit” to the tune of Sloop John B would be understandable anywhere but are particularly so from inhabitants of a town where someone used to be next door neighbour to David Bowie.

The half ends with a corner to Bromley from which their second tallest outfield player, Deji Elerewe, scores with a header from improbably close range.  What had been a neutral half of inaccurate football, abusive chants and a shoe box has taken on a new level of disappointment for me, which I can only hope to assuage by obtaining a programme.  Jah fancies eating a pie, which doesn’t surprise me given the size of his stomach, but he foolishly says he’ll wait until I get back.  I return to a point close to the scene of my entry into the ‘stadium’ but can see no hint of a programme seller, only a couple of queues of thirsty, or hungry Bromley fans snaking away from the Dave Roberts tea hut.  I ask a young steward who is guarding the John Fiorini stand where I might find a programme and am surprised when he directs me to the tea hut. Excitedly I join the shorter of the two queues but there I stand for at least five minutes without progressing any closer to the hatch where I had expected to see a busy exchange of teas, programmes, cash and card payments.  Looking back towards the pitch to check that the second half hasn’t started yet I see Jah has now joined the other queue and having not seen anyone depart the tea hut hatches with a programme I decide they must be sold out and I abandon the queue to stand with Jah.  Eventually, Jah reaches the hatch only to discover that the pies (and indeed the programmes) have all sold out; unsure of what foodstuff can adequately compensate for the lack of meat, gravy and pastry in his diet this evening, Jah buys a Twix.

The players are by now back on the pitch and play has re-started as we head back to enjoy our slightly obscured view of the second half.  Jah eats his Twix, only to find that the chocolate coating has mostly melted, which is why Twixes will never replace pies.  The football is much the same as the first, but my spirits are raised after about ten minutes when substitute Ben Johnson scores for Town, although I do also start to worry that a draw and resultant penalty shoot-out will risk my missing my train out of here.  In truth, it is probably fourth division Bromley who have the better chances to score in the remainder of the game, despite Ipswich eventually introducing the players more likely to be considered ‘first choice’.   

There is something inevitable about the game descending into a penalty shoot-out, but that’s probably just because neither side looks capable of scoring another goal.  Our over-65 tickets now prove particularly good value as the penalty shoot-out takes place in the goal right in front of us, rather than at the far end where our obviously failing eyesight would render events somewhat mysterious. Hopes for catching the first available train home quickly receive a filip  as Town’s top striker George Hirst strikes the first penalty poorly and it is saved, although in my heart of hearts I’d rather it hadn’t been.  But a penalty or two later Bromley’s Ashley Charles, who to my out of date mind has the name of an actor rather than a footballer has his penalty saved too and I’m once again checking the time of the next train.  The first ten penalties pass into history with both teams scoring four and then the  hopeful release of  “sudden death” or “Mort Subit” as the French and Belgians call it arrives.  Death is indeed mercifully sudden as Bromley score their next penalty, but Ali Al-Hamadi doesn’t and for the umpteenth time this century Ipswich are knocked out of the League Cup by lower league opposition.  I can’t decide if Ipswich are consistently careless, uninterested, over-confident or just useless, but whatever it is, Town’s record in the League Cup has now become so atrocious that it is no longer embarrassing, it’s just what happens and there is no point bemoaning it. We can but look forward to next season’s defeat to Colchester, Swindon, Cheltenham, Newport, Wimbledon, Crawley, Newport, Bristol Rovers, Reading, MK Dons, Stevenage, Northampton Cambridge, Exeter, Leyton Orient, Barnet, Gillingham, Peterborough, or Bromley again.

Disconsolate but accepting of our fate I leave Hayes Lane with Jah and together we head back to South Bromley South railway station past the backs of people lauding their team at the front of the stand.  The one plus is that as I leave, as Jah predicted, I find lying on the concrete of the North Terrace a discarded or dropped programme which, after enquiring if it is the property of the people standing nearest, I claim as my own.  Life is never all bad I conclude.