Ipswich Town 1 Fortuna Dusseldorf 2

July 28, 2024August 1, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s late July already, summer has almost arrived, and so has the new football season. In the Eastern Counties Premier League, the likes of Brantham Athletic and Walsham le Willows are starting their league fixtures today, but I have decided to prolong the sense of anticipation for the ‘real’ stuff and am returning early to Portman Road to witness the friendly between the mighty Blues and Fortuna Dusseldorf, or “Our friends from Germany” as they have become known. I am looking forward to an afternoon of Kraftwerk and altbier.

Pre-season friendlies are strange beasts, and I don’t usually bother with them. Back in the 1970’s my youthful exuberance meant I was as eager to see a Will-hire Cup match against Cambridge United as I was to see any game, but I’m mostly out of exuberance nowadays and I begrudge paying the money just to watch the team train. I last saw Town play a pre-season friendly eight years ago when they met Union St Gilloise from Brussels, a club then in the Belgian second division but now regular Pro-League title challengers, although sadly they never quite manage to win it. The fact that St Gilloise are from Belgium and Fortuna from Germany is significant; I can’t resist seeing teams from abroad, even in friendlies. Maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days before that stupid referendum (emphasis on the ‘dum’) cut Britain adrift, or maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days when competitive European games were regular entries on Town’s fixture list, or maybe I’m just hoping to catch the lingering scent of strong beer, trams, fine wine, fast trains, chocolate and haute cuisine clinging to the replica shirts of visiting supporters.

As befits late July, it’s a fine, warm day with fluffy clouds heaped up under azure skies. My train (return ticket £9.60 with senior railcard) is on time, and as I step on board the chill of the air-conditioned carriage comes as a bit of a shock, as does the smell of the toilet. Reassuringly, the eletronic sign above the gangway tells me that this service for Ipswich will call at Ipswich. On the opposite side of the gangway to my seat a man with two young boys has a voice that sounds like a very sleepy version of the now deceased comic and Eastenders actor Mike Reid; “…know what I mean?” he says to the boys after he explains that he doesn’t think any football ticket should cost more than £50.00. I see all four polar bears at Jimmy’s farm as the train eases down the hill into Ipswich.

I am meeting Mick today, but by way of a change our rendezvous is at the Station Hotel, where Mick is already eating the sightly odd combination of a toasted cheese sandwich and chips with his friend Chris, whom he previously met off the train from Felixstowe. I join them with a pint of something called Platform Number 9 (£3.90) and we talk of summer signings, locally listed buildings, prostates, American politics, how some of the cheese in Chris’s toasted sandwich hasn’t melted and how I have had an air source heat pump installed this week and thanks to various pipes and ducts the back of my house now looks like the Pompidou Centre. Conversation continues with a further pint of Platform Number 9 for me and a Jameson whisky for Mick (£7.85 for the two), before Chris suggests we make a move for Portman Road, which is exactly what we do.

In Portman Road there are queues for the Cobbold Stand where our seats are sat waiting for our bottoms, but first I stop to acquire a programme (£2.50) from one of the blue booths that look as if they should also sell ice creams. The front cover of the programme gives Mick and I something to talk about in the snaking queue to the turnstile as we comment on the casual, hands in pockets stance of Ali Al-Hamadi, Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke, and the somewhat macho “You looking at me?” expressions on their faces. Mick doesn’t recognise Ali Al-Hamadi or Harry Clarke and I can’t remember Clarke’s name at first either. “That full-back” I tell him, “you know, Colin Harper”.

After venting excess “Platform Number 9” we find our seats and almost immediately the game begins, as if they’d just been waiting for us to arrive. Fortuna get first go with the ball , or it could have been Town, I wasn’t really paying attention. Fortuna, in all red, are kicking the ball mostly in the direction of the telephone exchange, Barrack Corner and what used to be Anglesea Road hospital beyond, where in June of 1976 my father had a hernia operation. A couple of months later he and I would see Town beat Go Ahead Eagles Deventer one-nil in a pre-season friendly. Barely four minutes pass and Fortuna score, Schmidt. It’s an overly simple goal with a cross that reveals an absence of marking and ends with an unchallenged header. Oh well, it’s only a friendly.

“Come on Ipswich” shouts a shrill child behind us and Mick and I piece together the line-up of the Town team. The shirts show squad numbers, but the programme doesn’t provide the key to these and the Town players’ names are not on their shirts either. From what’s on the back of their shirts, all the Fortuna players appear to be called Dusseldorf. Not being ones to memorise the Town squad numbers, Mick and I are at a loss to identify Town’s number 14, but the bloke sat next to Mick that isn’t me helps us out, revealing that it is Jack Taylor; it threw us seeing him start a match. We eventually also manage to deduce that the new signings are number 22 Jacob Greaves, number 8 Liam Delap, number 2 Ben Johnson, and the goalkeeper is Arijanet Muric. After eight minutes Town fashion a first shot on goal, a weak effort by Delap.

Twenty minutes pass and my interest has mostly only been piqued by the building work on the West Stand, where swathes of seats are missing and it’s possible to see the decorative brickwork of the Corporation bus depot through the gap where there will eventually be more hospitality boxes. I note that our goalkeeper wears pink and that Jacob Greaves wears his hair in a small bun, a bit like former Pompey player Christian Burgess who coincidentally now plays for Union St Gilloise. I do like a centre-half with longer hair, it suggests to me a welcome element of flair in a position not usually known for it.

Liam Delap receives a strangely generous smattering of applause when caught offside and after twenty-five minutes Town win a corner, but then Fortuna are awarded a free-kick by referee Mr Smith and the man next to Mick that isn’t me starts waving his left arm about in anguish. “English, and he’s against us!” he shouts weirdly, as if its 1944 not 2024 and the referee is Lord Haw-Haw. I turn to Mick to tell him how surprised I am at how much some people seem to care so much about a friendly; but soon I’m thinking to myself that I’ve not sat in the Cobbold Stand since the Blue Action group has moved in and at half-way through the half the drums are beginning to get on my nerves. Perhaps with the players feeling the same as me, the twenty ninth minute is an unexpected drinks-break, and Mick checks his phone to see what the temperature is. Twenty-five degrees is evidently warm enough to crack open the Lucozade, or whatever isotonic elixir the modern Premier League player and his coach prefer.

Drinks supped and play resumed, Marcus Harness replaces Wes Burns and I admit to Mick that I hadn’t realised Wes was even playing. Harness’s introduction is an immediate success as his first cross is headed goalwards by Jack Taylor and Town have another corner, which George Edmundson heads at the Fortuna goalkeeper Florian Kastenmeier who interestingly shares his first name with Florian Schneider, one of the two founder members of 1970’s Dusseldorf-based ‘Krautrock’ band Kraftwerk. “Use your height Conor” shouts a man behind us before he laughs at his own ’joke’, hopefully out of embarrassment. Not totally absorbed by the match, I’ve noticed that a lot of surfaces around the ground are now painted matt black, including all the vomitoriums (vomitoria?) and I wonder if this is something required by the Premier League along with canapes and a shrubbery for Sky Sports presenters and a toilet reserved for Alan Shearer.

Three minutes of added on time are announced and I realise that from beneath the roof of the Cobbold Stand I cannot see the sky, it’s like looking out through a letterbox. When half-time arrives, I stay where I am for the duration unable to face the confined spaces beneath the venerable Cobbold Stand, although Mick bravely heads off to the lav.

Predictably, the re-start after half-time brings multiple personnel changes on the field of play and Delap, Edmundson, Greaves and Muric can catch the early bus home as they are replaced by Hirst, Burgess, Woolfenden and Walton. Fortuna win an early corner after a mistake by Woolfenden, who Mick remarks will need to improve to retain his place this season, and I agree with him. Then Marcus Harness equalises with a goal not dissimilar to Fortuna’s in that he is left alone on the right-hand side of the penalty area, but it’s a shot, not a header, at the end of a pass from Conor Chaplin.

After a rather dull first half, Town seem for a short while to have re-discovered themselves, and George Hirst breaks forward and plays in Jack Taylor to shoot high towards goal but have his shot saved. The thrills around the Fortuna goal don’t last however and soon it is the German Bundesliga team that are breaking forward with Ao Tanaka who, running on his toes and with a floppy mop of hair looks a bit like an oriental Trevor Putney. Tanaka misses, but within minutes Tim Rossmann is left with almost a quarter of the pitch to himself and he runs on to shoot past Walton with aplomb, and Fortuna lead 2-1. It’s nearly 3- 1 soon afterwards, again thanks to Tim Rossmann, but this time he misses the goal.

With the German lead restored, the game reverts to how it was in the first half and the Fortuna goalkeeper Kastenmeier has the time to stand and watch a seagull soar and swoop above the pitch and I wonder if he doesn’t get to see many seagulls at the Merkur-Spiel Arena in Dusseldorf. Dusseldorf is some way in land, but it is on the Rhine which I imagine seagulls follow up-stream. Annoyingly, I don’t remember if there were seagulls or not when I saw Town play at the Paul Janes Stadion in Dusseldorf back in pre-season,2015. Whatever the ornithological ins and outs of the Rhineland, nine years on and Fortuna are the better team today. On the touchline, Kieran McKenna retreats to the dugout to peer thoughtfully at a his lap top and rest his head on his chin in contemplation.

More substitutions ensue, but I‘ve lost interest to a large degree and the adverts announcing “University of Suffolk – apply now through clearing” and the sight of OGC Nice club crest catch my eye almost as much as the balding pate of Fortuna’s number 27, the obviously bleached blond hair of their number 18 and the enormity of their number 43 who, for a short while until Mr Smith tells him his fortune seems to ‘want a piece’ of Sam Morsy.

“Mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa, Sam Morsy mwa mwa mwa” says the stadium announcer incomprehensibly as the match draws to a close, and we guess Sam Morsy is man of the match, for what it’s worth. Mick and I share our mild disappointment at having forked out £35.00 between us to watch two teams train, and then our equally mild confusion that there is to be a penalty shoot-out despite the game not having ended in a draw. With Fortuna having lost the play-off match for promotion to Bundesliga 1 on penalties at the end of last season, it almost seems like mental cruelty to remind them of the experience so soon afterwards. On the other hand, there is every chance it will be more exciting than this afternoon’s match was, or at least it would be if anyone cared.

Both teams miss their first penalty and score their next four, and the next one , (or is it two?) after that. When Luke Woolfenden steps up to take the next penalty, I tell Mick that he will miss. Whilst Woolfy’s shot is on target it is nevertheless saved quite comfortably and if these are “sudden-death” penalties Fortuna have won for the second time this afternoon. But then Christian Walton gets to take a penalty, which he scores, and I have no idea what is going on, although looking at my watch I realise I’m going to miss my train, and I do.

Unbowed, or just stupid and somewhat mystified, as we head away from Portman Road Mick and I agree to speak soon to arrange buying tickets for the final friendly of pre-season versus OGC Nice (Olympic Gymnaste Club de Nice) of French Ligue 1. A pre-season friendly against French opposition ? We wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Ipswich Town 3 Accrington Stanley 0

March 9, 2023March 9, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I first saw Accrington Stanley play back in January 2004, it was an FA Cup tie at Layer Road, Colchester; Colchester won and the Accrington manager, who incredibly is still the same bloke, although he’s been to Rochdale and back via Southport and Sligo since then, became very, very agitated and might even have been booked or sent off; it was a lot of fun. I recall looking forward to that match very much indeed, and heading for twenty-years on I am still looking forward to seeing Accrington Stanley tonight at Portman Road. Accrington Stanley are just one of those ‘must see’ clubs with a funny name like Crewe Alexandra or Hamilton Academicals, or Borussia Monchengladbach or Red Boys Differdange (sadly no longer with us), and what is more, Accrington Stanley were named after a pub, the Stanley Arms.

After a hard day’s graft at the desk face I collect my thoughts by mooching around town for an hour, growing sadder by the moment at the streets of shops left empty by people’s lazy love affair with Amazon and their ilk. In an attempt to make the World a better place my wife has just deleted her Amazon account, I’d recommend anyone to do the same. But for the time being at least, it doesn’t stop the town looking like a beautiful friend who has been punched in the face. Feeling a little downhearted at the state of the modern world, and with the sun going down and casting cold shadows I do what anyone with a mild dependency on alcohol would, and head for the pub.

In ‘the Arb’ I order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.51 with Camra 10% discount) and a Scotch egg with thick cut chips (£9). It’s bloody cold today, but all the tables inside are either already occupied or reserved, so I do what I always do and sit out in the beer garden. Just before my food arrives, so does Gary, nursing a pint of Lager 43 which is the liquid element of his order of a pint and a ‘half-stack burger’ for a tenner. We talk of death, people we once worked with and holidays, and we eat our food before Mick arrives and buys halves of Suffolk Pride for me and him and Lager 43 for Gary. I remark on how Lager 43 sounds like the name of a prisoner of war camp. Two other men are in the beer garden and we talk to them. They work in insurance and one of them has only missed one match all season, the game at Cambridge; he asks what we think the score will be tonight, Mick says 2-1, I say 3-0, Gary says 4-0. Gary tells them that one of the two boys who appeared in the ‘Accrington Stanley’ TV advert for milk in the late 1980’s and 1990’s has recently been sentenced to life imprisonment for murder after beating a man to death. The one who has been imprisoned is the one who said “Accrington Stanley? Who are they?” No good could ever come of such ignorance.

At about twenty past seven we depart for Portman Road, and I feel a little as if the Suffolk Pride and the Scotch Egg and Chips are fighting it out to see which one will repeat on me first, but happily by the time I reach turnstile 61 off Constantine Road I think I‘ve walked them off. It’s disappointing that turnstile 62 is not open tonight; the lights are on but no one is at home, but it is some consolation that turnstile 61 is operated by one of the stadium’s more attractive turnstile operators. I take my seat next to Fiona just as the teams are marching side by side on to the pitch; I joke with the man from Stowmarket that this is no coincidence as I have been giving the team talk. Stephen Foster announces the line-ups and pretending to be French, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and I bawl out the Town players’ surnames as he does so. Satisfyingly, the last name on the team sheet is Nathan Broadhead, allowing me to draw out the second syllable of his surname for extra effect.

The game begins and Town, in classic blue and white, get first go with the ball, booting it towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Despite Accrington’s first choice kit of red and white not clashing with Town’s, they sport an away kit of white shirts and black shorts and from a distance could be Germany or even Hereford United. It feels cold enough to be mid-Winter and perhaps that’s why the Sir Bobby Robson Stand burst into a chorus of “ Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” to the tune of Harry Belafonte’s ‘Mary ‘s Boy Child’. But perhaps realising that it’s now 7^th March, or that they simply don’t know any more words, the singing quickly trails off. An Accrington player soon earns the dislike of the home crowd for some perceived misdemeanour, but their goal keeper makes it all better by inaccurately hoofing the ball into touch and provoking chants of “De-de-de-de-de, fucking useless” to the tune of Pig Bag’s May 1981 hit single ‘Papa’s got a brand new pig bag’. It’s nice to be reminded of a tune people might have danced to as they celebrated Town winning the UEFA Cup. On the touch line Town manager Keiron McKenna appears to sport a short brown anorak; it’s what my friend Pete’s mother would have disparagingly called a ‘shorty-arsed jacket’ and not suitable for a cold night like tonight.

Ten minutes recede into the past and Town win the game’s first corner; as usual it comes to nothing but having won the ball back Sam Morsy plays the ball to Massimo Luongo who picks out what commentators might strangely call a ‘delicious’ through ball, which speedy Kayden Jackson latches on to and crosses low for Nathan Broadhead to side foot into the Accrington net and give Town the lead. It’s a classy goal that few if any other teams in the third division would be capable of scoring .

Almost ten minutes later and Town are producing things of beauty again as Janoi Donacien wins two tackles in quick succession, comes away with the ball, strides off down the wing and delivers a cross which his headed goalwards by Freddie Ladapo. It turns out to be a comfortable catch for the Stanley goalkeeper Lukas ‘Kid’ Jensen, but the joy of football isn’t just in the goals.

The game is a quarter of the way through and it’s time for a ‘catch-up’, so Accrington’s Rosaire Longelo receives treatment whilst everyone else gathers for a chat over by the dug outs. Surprisingly Longelo’s ailment proves to be terminal and he is substituted for the more plainly monikered Jack Nolan. The game resumes but the crowd has gone quiet after all the excitement of the early goal and Accrington are not looking as hopelessly beaten as I hoped they would. We might need more goals.

Meanwhile, referee Mr Lee Swabey is beginning to annoy the home crowd by not giving free-kicks to Town when he should, giving free-kicks to Accrington when he shouldn’t and generally being a bit of an arse. “ Oh shuddup ref” shouts a slightly whiny voice from the front of the stand as someone makes it clear they just cannot take anymore. Happily, Town produce a few flashes of football again to raise our spirits and the Sir Bobby Robson catches an invisible wave of euphoria as they sing “Addy, Addy, Addy-O, ITFC, they’re the team for me” followed by “Ole, Ole, Ole, We’re the Tractor Boys, gonna make some noise” like it’s 1962, 1978 and 1981 all rolled into one. Mr Swabey hasn’t finished however and takes his incompetence to new levels by showing his yellow card to Cameron Burgess for a perceived foul that is at worst innocuous.

Three minutes of added on time are inevitably added on. The minutes subtract themselves like all minutes do and then Swabey succeeds in blowing his whistle; the team leave hurriedly for their half-time cuppa forgoing any ovation, but Swabey takes his time and runs the full gauntlet of boos that he has worked so hard to earn and so richly deserves. It’s been a difficult half, mostly rather turgid, but illuminated by outbreaks of beauty like a cloudy but windy night when there are just occasional glimpses of a bright, pale moon or twinkling stars.

Overcome by poetic similes I make for the front of the stand for a chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison. We talk of Mr Swabey and Priti Patel, but fortunately the teams appear back on the pitch before we become too depressed.

At nine minutes to nine the match resumes and the groundlings in the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson are soon chanting “Blue and White Army” over and over again to no particular tune. As usual, many quickly fall by the wayside; bored hopefully, but a knotty rump carry on, seemingly mesmerised by the endless repetition of the same five syllables. Eight minutes into the half and Town win a corner and a minute later Kayden Jackson wins another as his cross is deflected away. The corner produces no goal again, but Town retain the momentum and Nathan Broadhead embarks on a simply superb dribbly run deep into the Accrington penalty area, he pulls the ball back, a shot hits the cross bar but Kayden Jackson has been waiting to tap it back into the net and Town lead 2-0. It must feel like time to open their Christmas presents in the Sir Bobby Robson stand as Harry Belafonte’s ‘Mary’s Boy Child’ gets another joyful airing with its altered words about fighting on Boxing Day , even though Ipswich Town haven’t played Norwich City on Boxing Day in over forty years.

Time soon comes round for the first substitutions and Massimo Luongo and Nathan Broadhead depart and Marcus Harness and Cameron Humphreys replace them with everyone getting generous applause. The personnel change makes no difference to Town and Kayden Jackson is soon breaking away to put in another low cross which runs tantalisingly behind Freddie Ladapo and Cameron Humphreys shoots a little awkwardly wide of the far post. More minutes pass, and Conor Chaplin wins another corner and then Harry Clarke and George Hirst replace the excellent Leif Davis and Freddie Ladapo. Stephen Foster announces the attendance as 22,413 including 59 from Accrington. The now usual self -congratulation follows and applause for the visiting faithful, which is a nice change from the 1970’s when the away supporters would simply have been told by the North Stand that they would be going home in an ambulance. There is much debate about the number of Accrington supporters tonight as several of us have counted no more than 26 in the Cobbold Stand. Theories abound about whether police and stewards have been counted too and I suggest that there perhaps are unusually high number of pairs of Siamese twins amongst the Accrington support or may be several visiting fans are all sharing the same coat, or simply watching the match in shifts. I wonder what Pat from Clacton would have thought if she’d been here instead of watching at home in i-follow.

Fifteen minutes remain and another corner is won, only for Marcus Harness to head over the cross bar. Accrington’s Doug Tharme goes down under a challenge from George Hirst and wins a free-kick; “Fucking tart” calls an angry voice from somewhere behind and I reflect on how few players are called Doug nowadays. Another corner goes to Town as Marcus Harness has a shot blocked and then Town ‘go knap’ on substitutions as Kyle Edwards usurps Conor Chaplin, the top striker many fans didn’t seem to know we had. Just to make the dying minutes a little more interesting, Accrington win a corner , but they’re no better at them than any other team . The flags on the roof of the Cobbold Stand hang limp in the still, cold night air and I sigh at the thought of five minutes of added on time and wonder if I can stave off frost bite for that long. I decide to employ the power of mind over matter and hope for a third Town goal to keep my feet warm, and lo and behold Harry Clarke is suddenly charging goalwards only to be pole-axed by the streaky yellow figure of Lukas ‘Kid’ Jensen who is summarily sent off by Swabey who has upped his game, shamed perhaps by being mentioned in the same sentence as Priti Patel. At first, Jensen hangs about a bit as if he expects some sort of late reprieve, but in fact he probably doesn’t know if his team still have a substitution left to make or whether he must hand his yellow shirt to an existing team mate. A much shorter substitute goalkeeper eventually appears from the touchline and Jensen departs, at first in the direction of the dugouts, but then towards the dressing rooms as the gloating Town fans sing “Cheerio, Cheerio, Cheerio” . When everything settles down Kyle Edwards pops the free-kick over Accrington’s defensive wall and into the top right hand corner of the goal to give Town the 3-0 scoreline they deserve.

With the final whistle, the man from Stowmarket and his grandson file past me and we discover that we share the view that it wasn’t the best match overall despite the scoreline, but we are nevertheless leaving with a warm feeling inside after that wonderful third goal. It’s been an evening of moments of bright illumination, a bit like a compelling but slightly dull book, which every now and then has some really good pictures to look at.

Ipswich Town 4 Rotherham United 1

January 8, 2023January 15, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 2 Swindon Town 3

January 10, 2021 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I awoke from a dream this morning in which I was in an Ipswich which had a similar layout to the real place but all the buildings were different and weirdly the buses were like those from the 1970’s; I got on one in a shopping-centre painted chocolate brown and it unexpectedly took me up a fast road to what might have been Chantry; I got off and wandered back towards Portman Road because there was a match on. I walked through streets of medieval, half-timbered buildings and past a pub I had never been in before where they were calling last orders, it was only two o’clock; I knew I had had a pint already but I couldn’t remember where. That’s when I woke up.

After a welcome mid-season break which has made me feel even greater kinship with the people of France, and Germany that Brexit has tried to divorce me from, I have spent the last few days in keen anticipation of today and the match versus Swindon Town, even though it’s only on the telly, but this is the new reality to which I have become accustomed. I even ordered a match programme yesterday (£3.50 including postage and packing), but the waking day gets off to a bad start because when I check my post it hasn’t arrived. Kick-off today is at 5.30 so after a morning of dull, domestic normalcy and a light lunch of chorizo sausage and salad I take an afternoon walk, slipping, trudging and sliding across frosty, muddy fields, squinting into the low January sunlight and avoiding human contact.

Back home, with the help of tea and biscuits I watch the FA Cup scores develop on BBC 1 where a man who looks like a bigger version of Pep Guardiola fills the air time once occupied by Grandstand and the seat left vacant by Frank Bough. Gradually, 5.30 draws near. I log onto the ifollow in time to catch the last three names of today’s virtual mascots, Georgia, Rory and Albi; I am reminded of Albi the racist dragon, who Bret and Jermaine sang about in episode seven of Flight of the Conchords. There follows a compilation of the best bits from the commentary the last time Town played Swindon, which was back in January 2000, even before Flight of the Conchords was first on television. In goal for Swindon that day was Frank Talia and I amuse myself by wondering if he had a sister called Jenny. There’s time to get a pre-match ‘pint’, if not to drink it, before kick-off and I pour a glass of Fuller’s 1845 (on offer before Christmas at £3.00 for two from Waitrose) for me, and a glass of ‘mother’s ruin’ for my wife Paulene, which she takes topped up with fizzy water.

As the players take the knee we are informed that today’s fixture is a ‘memorial match’ for everyone who has died in the last year. Paulene chuckles and we both roll our eyes. “What the heck is a memorial match?” asks Paulene. It’s as if people have never died before. What a sentimental, maudlin lot we have become. As the handover is made from the Radio Suffolk studio to the commentary team we learn that today’s commentary will not be from Brenner Woolley, who sadly is unwell, instead Radio Suffolk have enlisted the services of former Northgate school boy Stuart Jarrold, who should by rights be enjoying his retirement; I can remember him on Anglia TV forty years ago; he must be well over seventy. Happily Stuart’s co-commentator is still the dependable Mick Mills who will hopefully add to his record of 741 games played for Town by co-commentating on a similar number. It was Mick’s birthday this week; he was seventy-three. With two septuagenarians at the microphone there is an undeniable hint of Last of the Summer Wine pervading the airwaves.

Stuart begins his introduction to the game assuredly and authoritatively, he’s an old pro. But then the game begins; Swindon kick off, play the ball back and Dion Conroy lumps it up field. It is immediately clear that Stuart doesn’t recognise any of the players; he doesn’t even seem to be familiar with their names. His assuredness has departed quicker than a season ticket holder in the top tier of the Cobbold stand when we’ve just conceded a third goal with twenty minutes to go. Just to make it clear to anyone who hadn’t picked it up from his commentary, Stuart now admits he hasn’t watched Town at all this season. Stuart can’t tell Luke Chambers from Luke Woolfenden. He struggles on. Usually it’s Brenner that interrupts Mick, but today Mick has to interrupt Stuart to clarify what’s just happened. “Was that Brett Pitman firing in a shot there?” asks Stuart sounding reasonably confident “No, it was Matt Smith” replies Mick.

The camera lingers on a man in glasses and a black hat with a dark scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face. I can’t tell who it is. It could be Marcus Evans, it could be Paul Lambert. Either one of them could be forgiven for not wanting to be recognised at Portman Road. “I can’t see Paul Lambert here” says Stuart, quite coincidentally and no doubt unaware of the picture on the tv screen. Would Stuart even recognise Paul Lambert if he saw him?

Stuart tells us that three minutes have been played, but the figures in the corner of the tv screen suggest he is living some three minutes in the past. “Can’t see who’s taking the corner from here, can you Mick?” Mick is having to work hard today. “Cleared by one of the Lukes” says Stuart. Armando Dobra is fouled by Paul Caddis. “Did Caddis get a yellow card for that?” asks Stuart in the latest in a series of questions “I think he did”. Mick resorts to saying things which Stuart can re-use in his commentary. “Luke Chambers knocks it back to err…err… err… Luke Woolfenden” says Stuart.

I don’t know if it’s wheeziness due to his age or just anxiety, but Stuart’s breathing is audible over the microphone. Paulene cringes, but she’s feeling sorry for Stuart. I am too, but I don’t let it stop me from laughing, this is what makes local radio so great. “It’s a bit aimless in the middle there Mick” says Stuart, sounding slightly incredulous that the game is as bad as it is. Further proof, if proof were needed, that he hasn’t seen Town play previously this season. Stuart mentions that Swindon’s Diallang Jaiyesimi had been at Norwich City. Mick asks if he ‘came through the ranks’ there. Unsurprisingly, Stuart doesn’t know.

It’s the 16^th minute, Swindon score. “Err, yes, it’s a goal, it’s a goal” says Stuart, sounding as unprepared as the Town defence was and as if, like them, he wasn’t really watching when it happened. Paulene cheers, I think because Brett Pitman played for Pompey, although he didn’t score the goal, that was our friend from Norwich City. I look at Paulene coldly.

The game resumes. “I haven’t mentioned Judge yet, I’ve rarely seen him touch the ball” says Stuart optimistically suggesting he would recognise Judge if he did see him touch the ball. “I’ve got to get used to these players, haven’t I” he adds, more realistically. He is improving, a little. “This is Emyr Huws now, tussling with the ball” says Stuart in a moment of clear vision, but also a weird use of language worthy of Brenner Woolley. “We are beginning to sit back and watch them play” says Mick of the Ipswich players. “That’s not what we should be doing is it Mick?” says Stuart asking a question so stupid it would sound sarcastic if he hadn’t grown so childishly reliant upon Mick’s every word.

A half an hour passes. Andre Dozzell sends a brilliant pass over the top of the Swindon defence, little Alan Judge runs through but incredibly fails to score with just the Swindon ‘keeper Mark Travers to beat. It’s a unique moment of inspiration coupled to the usual failure and frustration in an otherwise featureless first half.

Half-time begins to loom like an oasis. “Luke Chambers…left foots it forward” says Stuart making up a new verb. “The last six or seven minutes seem to have dragged a bit, without a lot happening” Stuart then adds, clearly beginning to get into the feel and rhythm of Portman Road on match day. At the end of two minutes of added time Mick provides a concise summary of the half before being cut-off by advertisements which, not being a fan of the consumer-society, I ignore, “You’ve got to say Swindon have been the better side”.

Half-time is a delicious blur of more Fuller’s 1845 and gin.

The second-half arrives all too soon and James Norwood and Flynn Downes replace Aaron Drinan, who Stuart didn’t even mention not having mentioned, and Emyr Huws. Swindon’s Scott Twine has an early chance to double his team’s lead but doesn’t and Stuart carries on not knowing which Ipswich player is which “…..putting Jackson away, no, that’s not Jackson”. But Town do look a bit better now, with Norwood seeing more of the ball within a few seconds than Aaron Drinan did in the whole of the first half. It’s the 51^st minute and Stuart and Mick are now honing their double act to perfection. Little Alan Judge shoots on goal, “I thought it was going to hit the post” exclaims Stuart. “It did hit the post” explains Mick, demonstrating the value of having an expert co-commentator who has played the game at the highest level and is therefore capable of spotting the difference between the ball hitting the post and not hitting the post.

Two minutes later and Flynn Downes shows that he has settled back in to the team and receives his customary booking. Town continue to look like they have now been given a rough outline of the aim of the game and with just over an hour of our lives wasted Kayden Jackson unexpectedly plays in an early cross which James Norwood reaches just a few metres from goal. Showing an unimaginable level of skill Norwood slices an attempt to shoot onto a Swindon defender standing the statutory two metres away, the ball rebounds back to him and he strokes it into the goal. “We’ve scored” I utter cautiously, scarcely able to believe my eyes. Victory must now be ours, surely; how can we not go on to win against the team second from bottom in the league who have lost five of their last six matches conceding fifteen goals in the process?

Confident, I sit back, but unfortunately so does the Town defence and together we watch Scott Twine score from about 35yards. “It was a stupendous goal” says Stuart almost shouting with excitement and clearly scarcely able to believe that such a goal could be scored amongst what otherwise seems a pretty lamentable standard of football. Mick is appreciative of the finish, but generally less enthusiastic than wide-eyed Stuart, citing Ipswich’s contribution by virtually “inviting” Twine to shoot. Mick sensibly adds that it was a somewhat freakish goal too, although I would add not freakish enough to have actually been scored by Ipswich.

James Norwood harvests another booking for a pointless tug at a Swindon player before Brett Pitman appears to score a third goal for Swindon, but sadly it’s not Brett who scored it’s that bloke who played for Norwich instead. Had it been Pitman’s goal it would have been a good goal, a deft flick no less, but instead it’s a cross that has sneaked in at the far post because everyone else misread it, a bit like the weirdly named Keanen Bennett’s goal against Shrewsbury a few weeks ago. “It’s almost an embarrassment isn’t it?” says Stuart really getting to grips with the reality of commentating on Ipswich Town in the 21^st century.

We’ve watched seventy-eight minutes now, Town trail 3-1 and Jack Lankester replaces Armando Dobra. “Will that make much difference Mick?” asks Stuart , probably having worked out by now that it won’t. But with four minutes remaining of normal time a punt forward is controlled by James Norwood who lays the ball off for little Alan Judge to score simply and unexpectedly for Town. “That came out of nothing” says Stuart, not having yet realised that this is true of nearly every goal scored in the third division.

In the remaining minutes Mark McGuinness has a shot which might have been an equaliser if hit harder and wider of Travers in the Swindon goal and Swindon make a final substitution to eke out the dying seconds before another home defeat is confirmed. To misquote Elton John, I guess that’s why they call us the Blues. The players must be so pleased that the supporters are once again safely locked down at home and not in Portman Road, but if any has particularly good hearing they can probably discern the boos emanating from sofas and easy chairs all across the town as they leave the pitch.

What a disappointing afternoon it has been, but one in which Stuart Jarrold can at least feel reasonably happy that his inability to recognise Town players was matched by the Town players themselves, and that at least he had a really good excuse; unless they have all been in isolation for the past fortnight they didn’t. For myself, I at least now understand that dream, because I can no longer recognise the Ipswich Town I knew either, but I shall be back again next week to try again.

Ipswich Town 0 Swansea City 1

April 25, 2019August 14, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Despite being fortunate enough to grow up and go to school in Suffolk, I was born in Haverfordwest in Pembrokeshire, Wales, where I lived until I was a few months old and my parents moved to my mother’s home village of Shotley and took me and my sister with them, like the good parents that they were. The nearest Football League club to Haverfordwest is Swansea City, (still Swansea Town when I was born) and there is an argument that says I might follow their fortunes, but I don’t. The dual nationality comes in handy when Wales do well in the rugby and I like leeks, cheese on toast, Ivor the Engine, Sgorio and daffodils; but that’s as Welsh as I am see. I wouldn’t normally mention it but today Town play Swansea City, and I’ve written this first paragraph in a Welsh accent.

At the railway station it’s another gloriously warm, cloudless day and sunlight glints off the tracks. The only travellers are all bound for Ipswich and the match; the train is on time. The carriage is sparsely populated and I share it with a hard looking woman and two young children, a girl and a boy. As the train arrives into Colchester she scolds them in a harsh voice that sounds like a man’s. “Drake, McKenna get away from the door”. I can’t help but derive amusement from the names of children nowadays, it’s my age. The children seem almost to roll their eyes as she speaks. Pleasingly they leave the train at Colchester and twenty five minutes later I arrive peacefully in Ipswich.

Ipswich is best under a blue sky and everything is beautiful as I walk up Princes Street and past the peeling paint of Portman Road with its ragged club flag to St Jude’s Tavern, which is dingy and the customers are reassuringly as old and ugly as ever. I order a pint of the Match Day Special (£2.50) Nethergate Venture. At the bar I meet Kev’ who I know from my days with Wivenhoe Town. Kev’ is wearing a dark flat cap which in the gloom of St Jude’s looks like a beret. I am wearing my “Allez les bleus” T-shirt today and tell him I thought the French had come to take me “home” to where I imagine I belong – that’s France, not Wales. I sit with the regular old gits who assemble here on match days. I talk to one of them (Phil) about statues of footballers and tell him that even Carlisle United has one, although I can’t remember who it is a statue of. Phil suggests it’s not a footballer but one of the Hairy Bikers because he knows one of them is from Cumbria. I tell him the Hairy Biker he’s thinking of is from Barrow In Furness, where the nuclear submarines come from. I drain my glass and fetch a pint of Butcomb Gold (£3.60), which seems livelier than the Venture even though I can’t help thinking Butcomb might be a West Country word for anus.

With the big hand heading up the clock face towards the figure eight, the pub empties and carried on a gentle human tide I soon find myself back in Portman Road. A selection of people are hawking copies of the Turnstile Blue fanzine where Portman Road meets Sir Alf Ramsey Way and I buy one (£1); it’s issue 20 and it’s much like the previous nineteen in its tone, but it’s nice when things are familiar. Unusually there are queues to get into the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand; not because of weight of numbers but because not all the turnstiles are open. Nevertheless, despite my desire to be French I like a good queue to get in the ground; it carries a faint hint of the ‘big match’ atmosphere, which is the best 17,247 people can really hope for in a 30,000 seat stadium. I enter turnstile number seven and wish the bespectacled female operator a happy Easter as she returns my freshly scanned season ticket card to me. She looks up, surprised as if she’d forgotten about the resurrection.

Bladder drained, I occupy a seat near ever-present Phil who never misses a game and just along from Pat from Clacton. Pat is fed up because a large man in a red hat is sat directly in front of her today and she’s only short; whichever way she looks a big red head is in her field of vision. We sit and wait for the teams to appear from the tunnel.

Town have been officially relegated for over a week now and today’s match is amongst the most pointless they have ever played, childishly I live in the hope that they will therefore treat it as a bit of fun, a bit like testimonial games are supposed to be. Would anyone be bothered if the two teams each agreed to play a 2-3-5 formation? I am not optimistic for this however as professional football tends to take itself much too seriously, like many of the fans, as the drivel that appears on social media testifies. The teams are announced and my hopes of football for fun are dashed.

The flags of tiny mascots and larger furry mascots sway to an amplified soundtrack of swirling music giving an undeserved aura of grandeur to the two teams as they walk out for this meaningless encounter, but I stand and applaud nevertheless, swept up with the lie that this match is bigger than really it is. As the game begins the noise level simmers down and a degree of reality returns. Town are hopefully aiming at the goal just to the left of me, ever-present Phil and Pat from Clacton; they inevitably wear blue and white shirts adorned with the unwelcome red adidas stripes and that nasty sponsors’ logo. In crisp white shorts and black shorts Swansea look like Germany, they are the Teutonic Taffies.

“One Dylan Thomas, There’s only one Dylan Thomas” sing the male voice choir from Swansea from the top corner of the Cobbold Stand, or perhaps they don’t. A serious looking steward collects blue and white balloons that have drifted from the stand, thereby suppressing someone’s expression of joy; no doubt the balloons had strayed dangerously close to the pitch. I like to think that as part of the club’s Community programme the balloons will later be released at the birthday parties of deprived children. Next to me Pat from Clacton continues to glower at the big red hat on the big head of the big man sitting in front of her. On the touchline Paul Lambert is celebrating Easter with a new jumper, a grey one, an infinite number of shades lighter than his usual black one, and people still accuse Scots of being dour.

On the pitch referee Mr Darren England, which seems a good name for a football referee, makes himself unpopular with the home support by seemingly giving fouls against Ipswich players and not Swansea ones. “You’re not fit to referee Subbuteo, you tiny little bugger” bawls an incensed voice from somewhere behind me, failing to notice that being tiny is actually one of the main requirements of being a Subbuteo referee along with being made from brittle plastic and glued into a circular base. The game is rather boring and Swansea are hogging the ball; like every other club that has been to Portman Road this season, they have the better players. into the Swansea penalty area and wins a corner. Will Keane misses a header and scuffs the ball against a post, the ball bounces about like it’s made of rubber bands before Trevoh Chalobah sends it flying past the other post into the stand. Sixty seconds later, give or take, another corner is won and Toto N’siala heads Alan Judge’s kick solidly over the cross bar. The supporters behind the goal are getting almost as much possession of the ball as Andre Dozzell. Pat and I are breathless at the sudden burst of attacking football from Town and are glad for the rest that half-time soon brings.

I use the facilities beneath the stand, eat a Panda brand liquorice stick and catch up on the half-time scores. A young man in a shirt and tie and smart trousers compliments me on my ‘Allez les Bleus’ T-shirt, “Cool T-shirt” he says brightly. He’s not wrong. The match stats on the TV screen above the concourse are blatantly wrong however, claiming Ipswich have had eight shots to Swansea’s six; it’s as if the stats are being reported by Donald Trump or the Brexit campaign. I return to the stand to talk to Ray who confesses to being underwhelmed by the first half.

At six minutes past four the game resumes. I laugh when Gwion Edwards stretches to head the ball by the touchline then tumbles out of sight over the perimeter wall; “well for me” to quote Mick Channon, it’s the best move of the match so far. Happily, Gwion quickly bounces back up and plays on, but that’s the sort of entertainment end of season games need. Minutes later Dean Gerken makes a quite spectacular low, diving, ‘finger-tip save’ from a Daniel James shot before the very tiny, thirty-four year old Wayne Routledge, whose shorts almost reach his calves, runs the ball over the goal line and is met with jeers and guffaws from the appreciative crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. But Wayne has a friend in fate today and within a few minutes a shot rebounds off Town’s right hand post and straight onto the turf in front of Wayne who is quick enough not to miss an open goal and Swansea are winning.

The attendance is announced as 17,247 with 557 of those being from Swansea; Collin Quaner and Kayden Jackson replace Andre Dozzell and Will Keane. Wayne Routledge is replaced by Nathan Dyer. “I can’t believe we’re losing again” says Pat from Clacton. I make a sympathetic humming noise in reply, I couldn’t think of any proper words to say. Behind Pat sit two large middle aged women. “We don’t really get the sun here, do we” says one obviously engrossed in the game, before adding “Coronation Street’s on tonight”.

Town struggle to equalise and Pat and I are a little despondent, “I don’t really enjoy coming here anymore” she says “It’s not like it used to be”. We are Ipswich’s spoilt generation who remember the 1970’s and early 1980’s. But Pat is already planning to renew her season ticket and might get one for her young niece too. Of course, I am going to renew mine as well, as will ever-present Phil who never misses game; I’m looking forward to the big discount when the other 13, 996 sign up. Pat takes a photograph using the 20x zoom lens on her compact Sony camera and picks out her brother stood in the North Stand, it’s one of the most impressive things I’ve seen all afternoon.

Time drifts by under a hazy blue sky and at last the stadium clock turns nine minutes to five. It’s been a disappointing hour and a half of football and to add insult to injury we are forced to sit through six minutes of time added on; as if relegation wasn’t bad enough we are now all in detention. Hopes are raised with a last minute corner and Dean Gerken leaves his goal to join in the penalty area melee at the far end; I stand up and lurch forward as if to join him too, but realise just in time that that sort of commitment is generally frowned upon nowadays. Little Alan Judge’s corner kick is poorly judged and sails away over everyone’s heads anyway. Finally Mr Darren England makes a belated and vain bid for popularity by blowing the final whistle.

Normally the team does a lap of honour or appreciation around the pitch after the last game of the season, but because the last game of this season will be against Leeds United, that lap is occurring today. Having been relegated, the Town players don’t want thousands of oafish Yorkshireman flicking v’s at the them and screaming at them from the Cobbold Stand to “Fuck Off” as they wander round clutching assorted babies and toddlers and waving nicely. The players re-emerge from the tunnel without delay and I slavishly applaud as they drift by beyond a wall of stewards; within a couple of minutes I go home for my tea.