gloucestershire

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol City 2

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One of my favourite books in my embarrassingly large library of books about football is the Observer’s Book of Association Football, a handy pocket-sized publication which is invaluable whenever I want to pretend it is still the early 1970’s.   The page on Bristol City begins with the sentence “Nothing they have achieved since can compare with Bristol City’s performances before the First World War”.   Unfortunately, for the club from what before 1st April 1974 was the biggest city in Gloucestershire, despite the Observer’s book of Association Football now being over fifty years old this sentence still holds true, and Bristol City have an even emptier trophy cabinet than Norwich City.  Tonight, Ipswich Town play Bristol City at Portman Road, and after five consecutive victories for the Town I have been increasingly looking forward to the match, safe in the knowledge that all Bristol City’s best players must by now be at least one hundred and thirty years old.  Oddly enough, had he not died in 1971, possibly at about the time when I was first enjoying the Observer’s book of Association Football, today would have been the eve of my grandfather’s  one-hundred and thirty-fourth birthday, although as far as I am aware he was only ever associated with Shotley Swifts.

A week-night football match as ever makes the working day a little more bearable, and despite today otherwise being depressingly dreary and wet, my lunchtime was unexpectedly and inexplicably brightened by the discovery of the Bristol City team bus in the miserable, puddle-bound temporary car park on West End Road. I do like a team bus.  I escape work at a bit after half past four and head for the club shop to buy a programme (£3.50), noticing on my way a posse of   what look like nightclub bouncers at the back of the Sir Bobby Robson stand who wear coats bearing  the name Achilles Security.  It’s an odd choice of name for a security firm I think to myself, and one which doesn’t inspire confidence, suggesting as it does that despite being mostly strong, ultimately they also have a fatal weakness.  

Worrying about how much Ipswich’s purveyors of security services know about classical mythology I leave beautiful down-town Ipswich in order to spend a bit more than an hour drinking breakfast tea and discussing current affairs with Mick, who is sadly unable to get to the match tonight because he is convalescing after an operation on his right foot, although not on his heel.  Mick hopes to be fit enough to re-enter the fray of spectating from the West Stand in early April.  From the cheery parlour of Mick’s Edwardian, suburban home I proceed to ‘the Arb’ to practice the all-important pre-match ritual of drinking, albeit on my own, sad and friendless as I now am.  Shockingly, there is no Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride on the beer menu tonight, so it is a pint of Lacon’s Fireside (£3.96 with Camra discount) that I clutch in my cold right hand as I head for the beer garden, where I sit alone and read my programme whilst waiting for a dish of “Very French” thick-cut chips (£8.00), which come doused with bacon, brie and onion marmalade as if I and they were in Le Chambon-Feugerolles or Fontevrault-l’Abbaye.  Having eaten my chips and sunk the Fireside, I again make for the bar for a pint of Moongazer Harewood porter (£3.96 with  Camra discount). Returning to the beer garden I discover that the table where I had been sitting has been taken over by two women and three men who engage in witty conversation about nothing in particular and what they’ve watched on the telly.  None of them seem to have watched S4C’s Sgorio, so I lose interest and return to my programme and the haven of my private thoughts.

I leave for Portman Road at about twenty to eight , politely returning my glass to the bar as I depart. It’s a cool and damp evening and at the bottom of Lady Lane a young woman stands on a tree stump like an animated statue, gazing  out across the adjacent car park looking for someone who she is speaking to on her mobile phone.  Hoping this is a new art installation, I break my stride for a second,  but then walk on,  realising I am more drawn by the lights of Portman Road than the promise of the Avant-garde.  Portman Road is busy with queues for the turnstiles.  Two policemen gaze down at their mobile phones, probably watching the girl on the tree stump on tik-tok when they should be watching for football hooligans and people needing to know the time. I join the queue at turnstile 62; next to me in the queue for turnstile 61 is a man I know called Kevin, who asks “Why turnstile 62?”, and then tells me he uses turnstile 61 because it was the year in which he was born. 

The queue at turnstile 62 moves quickly, although not as quickly as that at turnstile 61,  but before I know it I’ve drained my bladder , waved to a woman I know but whose name I can’t remember and am hearing Pat from Clacton say “Here he is” as I shuffle to my seat next to Fiona, next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game.  With the game on Sky TV tonight we are treated to erupting flames and momentarily warmed faces as the teams and their acolytes stream onto the pitch.  I half expect to detect the smell of singed hair and melted polyester but fortunately never do.  Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams and as ever almost gets half way through the team before he gets out of sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard. I shout the surnames out as they appear on the screen nevertheless, pretending to be French. If there was a lycee or Conservatoire for stadium announcers Murphy would be in the remedial class.

At last the game begins, Town having first go with the ball and mostly directing it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow fanatical ultras in our cheap, mass produced blue and white knitwear.  Town are of course in blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Bristol City are also wearing their traditional signature kit of red shirts and white shorts, although their shirts are adorned with white stripes, which are too thick to be pinstripes and too thin to be real stripes.  With their goalkeeper in all black with multi-coloured day-glo squiggles, there is vague 1990’s vibe to their couture.

The game seems slow to start and I miss nothing when Fiona hands me a birthday card to sign for Adam in the row in front, who turned eighteen earlier in the week.  “Many Happy Returns to Portman Road” I write, confusingly.   Town win an early free-kick, but it is poor and easily forgotten. Nine minutes elapse and Bristol look like they have the games first corner, provoking a single chant of “Come On You Reds” from the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand , but it’s not a corner and they’ve wasted their breath on a mere throw- in.  But Portman Road is cacophonous as Blue Action in the Cobbold Stand and two sections of the Sir bobby Robson Stand all seem to be singing different songs.  But all the same, it sounds better than the usual “When the Town go Marching In” dirge.

Seventeen minutes have gone forever, and all Town have done so far is have a hopeless free-kick, which I haven’t forgotten after all.  From the stands, the songs sound sort of slurred as if everyone’s been in the pub all afternoon, perhaps they have.  Five minutes later, Towns first shot on goal sees Sam Morsy put Keiffer Moore through, but the ball dribbles weakly to the goalkeeper.  “Carrow Road is falling down” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand,  which in terms of wit and cutting humour is on a par with “Jingle Bells, Delia smells, The canary laid an egg”, which I actually prefer.

It’s the twenty-eighth minute and Bristol City win a corner, hastily pursued by another, and the Bristolians chant “Come On You Reds” just once, as if it’s rationed.  “We’ve got super Keiran Mckenna, He knows exactly what we need” sing both ends of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, but not at the same time so it sounds like they’re singing rounds, which in fact would be really good if they could pull it off.  Drizzle is falling,  appearing through the beams of the floodlights like  a fine cascade over the roof of the stand.  Occasionally I feel a drop on my face and hands.  “You’re quiet tonight” says Pat from Clacton, and she’s right. “There’s not much to make a noise about” I tell her to my shame, believing that that’s exactly when crowds should make most noise.  On cue, Town win a corner and I’m able to bellow “Come On You Blues” repeatedly from the time Leif Davis begins to walk to the corner flag until his kick falls disappointingly short of the near post and is easily cleared.

There are eight minutes left of the first half. “What a save!”  exclaims the bloke beside me, and a second later so does Adam in the row in front of me, meanwhile Vaclav Hladky has just caught a diving header.  Just four minutes until half-time now and there is a prostrate Bristol player thumping his hand on the lush Portman Road turf, using what has become international sign language for “Pay me some attention, I’m hurt, but I’m only putting it on really”.  I tell Fiona how last night I saw a David Attenborough programme about animals and sound, and how Kangaroo Rats will thump their feet on the ground to ward off snakes.  Fiona hopes there aren’t any snakes on the Portman Road pitch. 

The game resumes and from the far end of the ground comes an Oasis song which I can’t recall the title of, and then a chorus of “Lala, lala, lala, lalalala, la, Keiffer Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Moore” to the tune of “Baby give it up”, a song in which in the original lyrics the singer seems to be pestering a pretty girl for sex.  It was a UK number one for KC and the Sunshine Band in 1983.  Just when it seems the half will end, Murphy announces that there will be at least another four minutes, close to the end of which Bristol win another corner after Town carelessly give the ball away and once more there is a solitary chant of “Come on your Reds” from up in the Cobbold Stand .

The break in play is a relief, after one of the less enjoyable halves of the last two seasons.  Ray and I analyse the reasons for this and decide upon Bristol’s constant harassment of Town players and a weak referee, who doesn’t know a foul when he sees one.  We’re not unduly bothered though as Ipswich pretty much always seem to win in the end, whatever happens.  As we chat, two boxers ponce about on the pitch and one of them reveals that he is wearing a Norwich City shirt, which is what can happen if you get punched in the head a lot.  Quite a few people are hurling vitriolic abuse at the poor man, seemingly having missed the point that they’re part  a pantomime for grown-ups.

Despite having welcomed half-time,  I’m now pleased to have the football back, although things don’t improve much, with repetitive chants of “Red Army, Red Army” from the Stalinist Bristolians and I decide that Mr Webb is  spoiling the game by allowing their teams gulag-style rough house  tactics.  Then, with nine minutes of the half gone things get even worse and Bristol score, as their number eleven Anis Menmeti is allowed to run at the goal until he’s close enough to easily shoot past an indecently exposed Vaclav Hladky.  Worse almost follows five minutes later as Bristol’s  Sam Bell strikes the Town cross bar and some other bloke in a red shirt misses an easy looking header as he follows up.   Town’s response is quick and decisive with the biggest mass substitution ever seen at Portman Road as Jack Taylor, Wes Burns, Ali Al-Hamadi and  Jeremy Sarmiento usurp Massimo Luongo, Omari Hutchinson, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Keiffer Moore and Marcus Harness.  Bristol make a substitution too but nobody notices before Leif Davis shoots and Ali Al-Hamidi flicks the ball over the goal, line possibly with a deft touch, or possibly because he simply couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough. Town are level.

Bristol resort to even more blatant fouling as Wes Burns is steamrollered, although Mr Webb refuses to reach for his yellow card and I am reminded of the previous two season’s games against Cheltenham Town, who like Bristol City are from Gloucestershire, wear red and white and are also known as the Robins; Bristol City it seems are just a slightly upmarket version.  “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand summoning the combined powers of Harry Belafonte and Boney M, which earns Town a corner before Murphy announces tonights’ attendance of 28,001 including a fairly meagre 410 Bristolians.

Things have taken a turn for the better with the the arrival of Wes Burns and Ali Al Hamadi, who are running at the Bristol defence. But just as I start thinking all is right with the world again Anis Menmeti hits the Town cross bar and only moments after Harry Clarke replaces Axel Tuanzebe, Leif Davis misjudges a punt forward allowing it to bounce up for Eric Sykes to stretch and hook over to Russ Conway who appears from the subs bench to loop a header into the top corner of the Town goal.  Only thirteen minutes of normal time to go and we’re losing again. 

With ten minutes of normal time left however, and following a foul on Al-Hamadi, which must have been a really bad one because Mr Webb books the perpetrator, Leif Davis crosses the free-kick to the near post and Conor Chaplin heads a second equaliser.  The roar from the crowd is the sort to lift roofs and worry any passing Tyrannosaurus.    Pat from Clacton begins to look forward again to her pre-bedtime snack of Marks & Spencer cheesey Combos and then Town have a penalty as Wes Burns is fouled by someone called Pring.  After much debate, standing about on the penalty spot, and a booking for the Bristol goalkeeper, Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to take a very poor penalty, which the miscreant goalkeeper undeservedly saves.  There’s no time to be disappointed or down-hearted however, and, because we are watching Ipswich Town, it isn’t really a surprise when three minutes later the ball goes forward, is nodded on and Leif Davis runs onto it,  dodges a burly Bristolian and shoots past the Bristol goalkeeper; there’s another Bristolian on the goal line to get the final touch, although he needn’t have bothered, it was going in anyway. At last, what we had  all expected, Ipswich are winning and I’ve not known celebrations like it at Portman Road since the play-off semi-final against Bolton Wanderers twenty-four years ago.

Added on time sees Town win two more corners, narrowly lose a game of bagatelle in the Bristol penalty area, have Jack Taylor hit a post with a shot, and have shots from Sarmiento, Chaplin, Burns and Al-Hamadi all blocked or saved as Town pack a game’s worth of attacking intent into just eight minutes.

 The final whistle brings relief and glory and a realisation that this has been one of the most extraordinary games I’ve ever seen.  Bristol City might have run Town close for eighty-four minutes tonight, but happily there’s still no reason for anyone to re-write their page in the Observers book of Association Football just yet.

IpswichTown 4 Forest Green Rovers 0

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I hadn’t realised that Ipswich Town were playing Forest Green Rovers today until perhaps Tuesday evening of this week, when after casually noting Town’s goalless draw with Bristol Rovers, I idly wondered whom the football team I claim to follow were playing this Saturday.  Since then, I have been looking forward to the fixture with an increasing sense of anticipation.  I have often seen people state on social media that they are eager for Ipswich to get out of what they refer to as this ‘damned’ or ‘shitty’ or ’terrible’ league, but personally I rather like the third division and if we weren’t in it we wouldn’t be meeting interesting clubs like Forest Green Rovers.

It’s been a grey morning, with the occasional unfulfilled threat of Spring sunshine. Parking up my planet saving Citroen e-C4, I step out across Gippeswyk Park for Portman Road. The beer garden of the Station Hotel is conspicuously free of Forest Green Rovers supporters, but in Portman Road their team’s white liveried coach is backing up behind the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  On the bus windscreen, in fancy white lettering it reads ‘KB Coaches’, I wonder what KB stands for and quickly decide that Kate Bush has moved into luxury coach travel in the face of dwindling album sales. I then wonder why Forest Green Rovers don’t travel by train to reduce their carbon footprint. Forty-three years and three weeks ago I recall travelling up by train from Brighton and alighting at Ipswich station along with Alan Mullery and Mark Lawrenson and the rest of the Brighton & Hove Albion first team squad. As we left the platfrom and handed in our tickets I wished them luck in the next day’s game, though I later wished I hadn’t as Gary Stevens equalised for the Seagulls in the final minute of the match. Some things never change, others go backwards.

I buy a programme (£3.50) in the modern cashless manner and spot an FGR fan wearing what I can only describe as a magnificent psychedelic cardigan. If I were some sort of deity responsible for creation, I would make all FGR supporters look a bit like him.  The sniffer dog outside the Cobbold Stand is likely sniffing for dope today, not pyrotechnics.  Arriving at the ‘Arb’ I order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.51 with 10% Camra discount) and head for the beer garden where to my surprise and pleasure I find my friend Gary sat at a table with a pint of an unidentified lager, although I suspect it’s something created in a vast factory and given an improbably exotic foreign name.  Our conversation begins with death; Gary had returned this morning from Slough where he had attended a funeral, and carries on through the whereabouts of Mick, TV comedy, pensions, the dissolution of the ’Postman Higher Grade’ within Royal Mail, Colchester pubs and how enjoyable it has been watching Ipswich Town this season.  So good is the conversation that Gary kindly buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride and a half of lager for himself.  A bit after twenty-five to three we depart for Portman Road.

Gary and I part in Sir Alf Ramsey Way where he enters a turnstile for the Magnus West Stand whilst I dodge between the supporters’ buses from out of town as I make for the Constantine Road entrance and am pleased to find turnstile number 62 open.  “My favourite turnstile” I tell the lady operator “The year we won the League”, and she says “Yes, we’re going to win today” and I believe her.  In the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I edge past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to sit next but one to the man from Stowmarket and a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood.  As Stephen Foster reads out the Town team I join in, shouting out their surnames like football crowds in France do.

When the game begins Town, in blue and white get first go with the ball and are aiming it mostly in the direction of Pat, Fiona, me, Phil and Elwood.  FGR are in an unnecessary change kit of pink with black tiger stripes; it is probably one of the most bizarre football kits I have ever seen, but it contrasts nicely with the leaden grey cloud above us and as I will remark to prog rock fan Ray at half-time it makes me think of the 1971 album by Caravan ”In the land of grey and pink”.

Within 40 seconds of the game starting Town almost score as Wes Burns’ run and cross ends with Conor Chaplin’s shot being saved.  Despite the early excitement, the crowd is largely silent  but for a drum in the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Two minutes later and despite the lack of support from the fans, Town lead as Conor Chaplin scores from close range  after a move which cuts through the FGR defence like a hot knife through butter  or any sharp implement through the soft substance of your choice.  Joy abounds for several minutes, but people soon recover.

“Warm isn’t it?” says Pat from Clacton explaining that she’s not wearing an excessive number of layers of clothing. I agree and Pat raises the possibility that I might be going through ‘the change’.   “Addy, addy, addy-O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand lower tier briefly and the bloke behind me says “There’s a team that always finishes strong at the end of the season and we need to be that team”.  Three seagulls are sitting on the girder from which the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson stand is suspended, they appear to be watching the match.  FGR win a corner. “Rovers! Rovers!” chant their supporters up in the Cobbold Stand,  but without results. “Ipswich Town v Accrington Stanley,  Buy Tickets” announce the digital advert displays around the edge of the pitch boldly in glowing blue and white, lending the fixture an allure I normally only associate with cheap global brands like Coca-cola and McDonald’s .

Town win a corner and Pat, Fiona and I talk about veganism as ever-present Phil chants “Meat pie, Sausage roll, Come on Ipswich score a goal!” .  Fearful of offending any vegans I provide an alternative lyric of  “Thomas Wolsey, Peggy Cole, Come on Ipswich score a goal”, the impact of which is lost a little I feel because I have to explain to Pat from Clacton who Thomas Wolsey and Peggy Cole were.  The crowd is still quiet despite ever-present Phil’s best efforts and I introduce a few quiet “Come on You Blues” which are meant rise to a crescendo but the impact is almost instant and another decent passing move ends with George Hirst striking a shot against the angle of goal post and cross-bar.  “Burns is always off the pace” says the bloke behind me as a pass runs ahead of Burns and into touch.

The first half is half over and Nathan Broadhead produces a superb turn followed by a shot which isn’t as good and is directed straight into  the arms of FGR goalkeeper Ross Doohan. “Come On Rovers!” chant the FGR fans probably sensing that their team isn’t doing much that is likely to change the current scoreline in their favour.  The lovely smell of damp turf caresses my senses – but mostly my sense of smell.  It’s nearly half past three and it’s time for a break as an FGR player goes down and every one else congregates by the dugouts for drinks and a chat. With the game underway again it’s Wes Burns’ turn to shoot at the FGR goalkeeper. A slightly half-arsed chant of “Ole, Ole, Ole” rolls down the pitch from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but is beaten back by nothing in particular and Town win another corner and then another and I smell damp turf again .  Corners gone, Harry Clarke and Luke Woolfenden pass the ball between them six times just outside the Town penalty area. It’s just gone twenty to four and Town win another corner and after a low cross to the near post Nathan Broadhead emerges from the mass of other players into space where he receives the ball and passes it beyond Doohan to put Town 2-0 up. It looks so simple you wonder why we hadn’t done it several times before.

For the few minutes until half-time it seems like the crowd might be enthused as they suddenly and unexpectedly roar on Sam Morsy as he dawdles on the ball.  Stephen Foster tells us there will be four more minutes of play at least,  which is enough time for another corner, but then it’s time for applause and a rest.  It’s been a decent half, but FGR aren’t putting up much resistance.

I speak to Ray and his grandson Harrison, and hand Ray a piece of paper; we joke in the voice of Neville Chamberlain about peace in our time, but in fact the paper has printed on it the details of the solar panels on my house and how much electricity they have produced in the past year. How appropriate that Town should be playing FGR, the EFL’s greenest team today, even if they have chosen to play in pink. I tell Ray about how I thought of “In the land of grey and pink”, and he tells me that Caravan are still touring, although perhaps only one of the original members is still alive; Ray’s favourite track on the album is the 7 minute 46 second long “Winter Wine”.

At six minutes past four the football resumes and within two minutes Town have a shot cleared off the goal line.  I look up at the stands and think of the quiet surrounding streets of the town and how great it is being here with 20,000-odd others on a winter Saturday afternoon. I am shaken from my reverie by Conor Chaplin jinking and making a marvellous pass to Wes Burns, whose cross is blocked to give Town yet another corner.  There are more seagulls watching the game from on top of that girder and the cloud that hangs over the pitch is still fashionably grey; if only the render, horizontal boarding and grey window frames that people like to stick on their houses looked half as interesting.  Pat from Clacton shows Fiona and me the entries in today’s guess the crowd competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus.  There are guesses from both the squirrel and the blue tit who frequent Pat’s back garden, although the squirrel’s guess is over 27,000 so he seems unlikely to win. I tell Fiona and Pat that I hadn’t realised squirrels were so optimistic.  Fiona says any squirrels  in her garden have to contend with two dogs, so I guess they’d need to be optimistic if they were going to hang around for long, or very quick, which of course squirrels generally are.

Despite thoughts of squirrels and blue tits, time hasn’t stopped draining away, unsurprisingly, and with nearly an hour played FGR win a rare corner and then another and I think of the hope kindled amongst their supporters by these brief interludes. Soon after, the substitutions begin as Massimo Luongo replaces Cameron Humphreys.  Weirdly, Harry Clarke takes a pace or two towards the touchline as the fourth offical raises the substitute board, as if he half expects he might be substituted.  Then Town score for a third time, Conor Chaplin shooting crisply and accurately as ever, after a low cross from Leif Davis; it’s no more than Town deserve and FGR are definitively beaten.  The goal inspires a burst of high-pitched noise from the family enclosure up in the West Stand. Pre-pubescent voices en masse somehow always sound so well spoken, it’s like they all still watch Valerie Singleton era Blue Peter .

The main batch of mass substitutions takes place for Town to much applause and then Stephen Foster announces  that there are 24,804 of us are here today with 225 of that number supporting FGR. Many in the crowd seemingly  applaud themselves whilst others raise their clapping hands towards the visitors from rural Gloucestershire who deserve something for following the team that is bottom of the third division to the far side of the country, although I happen to know at least two of them actually live in Ipswich.  “I’m Rovers til’ I die” they sing. What happens then I wonder?

The game is won and it’s just a matter of whether Town will score more goals or will they give away a consolation to FGR?  As it happens Town score a fourth, Freddie Ladapo heading in a headed pass from Cameron Burgess after Kyle Edwards is fouled whilst the crowd applaud the seventy-ninth  minute to commemorate Bobby Robson leading Town to FA Cup glory in 1978.  It’s a fittingly inaccurate celebration to mark the birthday of a man who would have been 90 years old yesterday if he hadn’t gone and died in 2009.  A fifth goal would be nice and it almost happens as a Leif Davis shot hits a post in the eighty-second minute as the crowd now applauds Town’s UEFA Cup win under Sir Bob back in 1981. In France, supporters of Montpellier HSC applaud the 73rd minute of every match to mark the age at which their forner chairman Louis Nicollin died. In future it might be more meaningful if Town fans did the same in the 76th minute of every match, although we should also do the same for Sir Alf Ramsey who is always ignored, probably because he committed the terrible sin of trying to ‘talk posh’.

The FGR consolation goal never looks likely but in the 87th minute Cameron Burgess stretches for, but can’t quite reach a through ball from Charlie McCann; Tyrese Omotye chases the pass, he’s one on one against Christian Walton, he shoots, he misses and is offside in any case.  The attacking prowess of FGR summed up in one incident too late in the game to have had any impact on the result even if he had scored.

With the final whistle the crowd is appreciative; recent failures to win seemingly instilling gratitude in the home fans for a victory that has been everything it needed to be.  Town are back on the road to salvation and an exit from the third division, at least until the next time they don’t win.

Forest Green Rovers 1 Ipswich Town 2

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The wonder of Google Maps tells us that from my house it’s a three and a quarter hour, 280 kilometre drive to the Forest Green Rovers park and ride car park at Woodchester, but from my step-son’s house in the silvan suburbs of Basingstoke, the same destination is less than 125 kilometres away and can be reached in under 90 minutes.  With these statistics in mind, I have adopted the excuse of ‘seeing the grandchildren’ in order to get free board and lodging and to break up the journey for what will be the first time I have driven to an away match since Town’s 5-2 win at Rotherham in 2015, back in the heady days of Brett Pitman, Jonathan Douglas and Kevin Bru.

Leaving the house at a civilised 11:30am, the journey down the M4, up the A419 to Cirencester and along the A46 to Woodchester is a breeze, and the good karma continues when the park and ride turns out to be free today because the organisers aren’t sufficiently organised, although as the very nice man at the gate tells me this isn’t good really because the takings would be donated to local schools.  The white bus, reminding me of the 1967 film debut of Anthony Hopkins, is already waiting and after waiting a bit longer to fill up with a full load it lurches off along the valley into Nailsworth before turning right in the town centre and struggling up Spring Hill and Nympsfield Road to the New Lawn, the current home of Forest Green Rovers. “Not very environmental” says the Forest Green fan sat in front of me on the bus “Must use about four ‘undred quid’s worth of fuel getting up ‘ere”.  Ironically, the all-white bus is operated by a company called Cotswold Green.   What they need are trolleybuses.

Thanking the lady bus driver, who to my shame makes me think of Diane the community service supervisor in the BBC tv series The Outlaws, I alight from the bus with the other sixty-odd park and riders. The New Lawn is every inch a typical non-league ground sitting in a field at the side of the road and is mostly all the better for that. I visit the club shop, a portacabin, but the array of souvenir toot is sadly disappointing, although I do meet ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood there; Phil has bought a shirt for his collection; it won’t fit him, but it had been reduced to a tenner. I take a wander and find the Town team bus, a lovely view over some fields, the dressing rooms, which remind me a bit of somewhere like Kirkley & Pakefield or Haverhill in the Eastern Counties League, and a bar called the Green Dragon.  Feeling thirsty after my drive and my bus trip, I decide to go in. “Is it okay to go in?”  I say not verbally, but with my eyebrows and general expression to the steward outside as I reach for the door.  “Home or away?” he asks suspiciously.  Thinking quickly, but not really having to because my seat today is with the home supporters, I feign my best insouciant Gloucestershire accent by rolling my ‘r’s and pursing my lips slightly over the ‘o’ and answer “err, home”.

Inside the Green Dragon, which despite the pub name has the charm and character of a works social club or village hall, I queue a good ten minutes for a pint of Stroud Brewery ‘Budding’ (£4.80), and very tasty and refreshing it is too,  even if the price is exorbitant; presumably however  it would cost even more if there wasn’t just one very pleasant lady serving the drinks and one operating the till.  Beer consumed I decide to enter the stadium, I walk towards turnstile number four only to see the turnstile operator climbing over it; quickly assessing the situation I head for turnstile number three and show my ticket to a lady steward, who becomes the second woman to remind me of tv’s Diane of The Outlaws today. Diane 2 simply ushers me through an open gate into the stand.  I like to think this is my reward for responsibly asking her where I can dispose of my environmentally friendly plastic beer mug; in the bins inside the stand, she tells me without hesitation.

Inside the ground there is a long queue for vegan food at the oddly named “Oh, it’s you again” food outlet; most people seem to favour chips with curry sauce, but there are a few quite tasty-looking Quorn pies in evidence too. If I hadn’t lost time enough from my life already by queuing for beer, I would have tried one.  Instead, I find my seat  (£23.00) and wait for kick-off, absorbing the rustic non-league ambience of this most bucolic and lovely of Football League grounds. The cars parked up on a meadow at the back make it look like there could be a country fair or festival going on.  At the back of the covered terrace off to my left a man in a cage and wearing a flat cap bangs a drum.

The players soon enter the pitch from the dressing room block in the corner and a terrifying, green but otherwise indescribable club mascot marauds towards the stand making a young woman cower in fear. After an unannounced, mystery 15 second ‘minute’ silence and subsequent applause, the game begins with Forest Green Rovers, wearing lurid green shirts with black tiger stripes and lurid green shorts and socks, kicking off in the direction of Stroud, whilst Town model their traditional blue shirts and socks with white shorts, and kick towards nowhere in particular except the Forest Green goal and that drummer in the flat cap. Apart from the Town players I have no idea who anyone is because Forest Green Rovers do not print a programme or even a team sheet and have only a rudimentary scoreboard.   I would expect them to e-mail club members and ticket holders an e-programme as St Etienne in France do, but they don’t, which to coin a phrase that seems popular amongst Town fans on-line, smacks of being  ‘tin-pot’. 

Town soon win a corner. “Come On You Blues” chant a good number of the Ipswichians on the open terrace on the far side of the ground beneath the meadow with the cars on it. Town’s Marcus Harness has a shot, which isn’t very good and so far his touches on the ball have been poor; between the away terrace and the stand at the Stroud end of the ground I notice an ice cream van parked up on the Nympsfield Road, which sports a huge cone on the front.   A couple of blokes are watchng the game for free over the fence. Nine minutes pass and Forest Green have their first shot, which swerves wide and high of the Town goal.   The bloke in the flat cap bangs his drum and those around him sing “Campiones”, because Forest Green Rovers are indeed the reigning fourth division champions, even if it is of England and not Spain or Argentina as their chant implies.

Twelve minutes gone and Marcus Harness attempts a half-volley which is on target, but frustratingly it’s execution can’t match the satisfying rhyming quality of his first name and surname.  “It needs a goal” says the woman sitting next to me. “I’m not coming again if it’s nil-nil.”  Five minutes on and Town win their second corner. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant a good number of Ipswich fans channelling their strange love of Boney M Christmas hits.  Marcus Harness tries his luck on the right-hand side of the pitch but unfortunately his touch is as uncertain as it was on the left.  The woman in the seat next but one from me cheers Town’s corner and I tentatively ask if she might be a Town fan too; she is, in a manner of speaking; she is here because Ipswich is her home town and it turns out she and her brother went to the same schools in Ipswich as my sister and I did; she now lives round the corner from The New Lawn and has simply turned up to support her hometown team, as any person with a soul would.

Twenty minutes of the game have gone and Town captain Sam Morsy has a header well saved by whoever the Forest Green goalkeeper is. The woman next to me expresses her admiration for Morsy. “He’s fiery, that’s what you want” she says, before adding in a thoughtful manner redolent of Pam Ayres with her rolled r’s “In a controlled manner”.  Soon afterwards Freddie Lapado turns and shoots to force a flying save from the home goalkeeper. From the corner Wes Burns misses the ball and then Lee Evans loses it, allowing the Rovers to break away down the right and the resultant cross is hoofed away by George Edmundson for Rovers’ first corner. It is a stark warning to Town that by dominating possession they can be vulnerable to such quick breaks which can happen almost by chance.

In crossing the ball in that breakaway the Rovers’ number twenty-two is injured and is replaced by number three, a player who the woman next to me had commented upon as he warmed up,  due to what she referred to as his “1970’s shorts” which look shorter than those of the other players; she speculates as to whether he has tucked them up into his pants.   Number three enters the field of play and very soon the woman next to me says “He’s annoying me with those shorts”, and she’s right, so much thigh does look a little ridiculous, a bit like Alan Partridge in his running shorts.   I like that according to his shirt this player is called Bernard, I think it suits his 1970’s vibe.  A third of the game is now forever lost in the mists of time, and Conor Chaplin shoots,  but it’s an easy save for the Rovers’ goalkeeper. “Come on Rovers” chant the supporters to my left, the Town fans have fallen silent, sapped perhaps by standing out in the heat of the afternoon sun.

With less than ten minutes until half-time,  Rovers almost score as a low cross from the right  somehow only produces a goal-kick for Town when the defence looked breached. Typically however, a missed opportunity at one end sees a goal soon after at the other,  and in the thirty-sixth minute a ‘rifled’ snap-shot from Marcus Harness hits the top left hand corner of net and Town lead.  After a prolonged period of silence, the Town’s fans can now burst into song again and begin a musical conversation with the Rovers fan which has me thinking of the song ”Anything you can do (I can do better)” from Irving Berlin’s 1946 musical Annie Get Your Gun.  “Sing when you’re winning you only sing when you’re winning” chant the observant Rovers’ fans. “1-0 to the Tractor Boys” reply the Town fans as if to prove the point.  “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here” reply the Rovers’ fans although they are blatantly lying because it was only a minute ago they were chanting about Town fans only singing when they are winning. “Here for the Ipswich, you’re only here for the Ipswich” is the sneering response from the away support,  which they then cap with the withering put down  “No noise from the Vegan boys, no noise from the Vegan boys” to which the Vegan boys either can’t think of anything to sing in response or they no  longer care, and would rather eat some more chips with curry sauce.

Town end the half as much the better team as first another slightly weak Marcus Harness shot is saved by the mystery goalkeeper and then in the four minutes of time added on, a move down the left ends with Sam Morsy placing a perfect arc of a shot into the top right-hand corner of the Rovers’ goal for a 2-0 half-time lead.

Half-time passes talking to the women beside me, discovering that sitting behind the woman originally from Ipswich are two old boys who are also Town supporters and listening to an eclectic and enjoyable mix of music over the PA system including John Barry’s theme from Goldfinger sung by Shirley Bassey and David Bowie’s Starman, songs that somehow seem appropriate at a club where the owner is a New Age traveller turned eco-energy entrepreneur. It makes supporting a club owned by an American pension fund seem very dull indeed, regardless of the cash that has been splashed.

At seven minutes past four the game resumes, this time with Town getting first go with the ball, although it is Rovers who look most effective early on and they soon earn a corner. “Rovers (clap, clap, clap,) Rovers,(clap, clap, clap)” is the steady, traditional sound emanating from the locals and even some in the ‘posh’ twenty-three quid seats around me join in .  The corner comes to nothing and soon Freddie Ladapo is teed up to hit a shot very high and very wide; then Town win a corner and then another courtesy of the energetic Conor Chaplin who looks like he’s enjoying himself.  The Town support is waning however and the chants of “Come On  You Blues”  before the corner are rather feeble, as if all that lunch time drinking outside in the sun is now taking its toll. On the hour there is a drinks break for the players before Forest Green make a double substitution,  and the effects of the Lucozade and fresh legs are almost immediate as on 64 minutes the Rovers’ number 28 knocks the ball into the Ipswich goal from close range in the sort of goal mouth melee which Ipswich are generally incapable of even creating let alone scoring from.

This is the home team’s moment, and for a  good five minutes they effortlessly drift past the Town defenders who  look as if they have been dazzled by the glare from a judiciously angled solar panel.  The 68th minute sees Rovers put the ball in the Town net again via a towering head from a corner, but the lurid day-glo green shirts make it easy for the assistant referee to spot that a couple of  the Rovers players were offside. 

Town need to shore up their defence and Greg Leigh replaces the crocked Lief Davis,  but still Christian Walton is forced to make a save to keep Town’s lead in tact. Twenty minutes of normal time remain and Conor Chaplin and Marcus Harness are replaced by Tyreece John-Jules and Sone Aluko.  Town seem to have weathered the worst of what Forest Green can do and a shot on the turn from Sone Aluko almost seals the result.  Another feeble chant of ‘Come On You Blues’ emanates from the sun struck recovering alcoholics on the far side of the ground.  With time ebbing away tempers fray and Sam Morsy seems to be the target for some winding-up.  He gives as good if not better than he gets but then stays down on ground to eek out some more time. “Wanker” calls out a rustic and slightly inebriated  voice from somewhere behind me, it’s the most impolite thing I ‘ve heard all afternoon.

Six minutes remain and Kayden Jackson and Kane Vincent-Young replace Freddie Lapado and Wes Burns. The woman next to me has only just been convinced that the score isn’t two-all.  The final minute arrives and Town’s Cameron Burgess is extremely lucky not to be sent off as he pulls back an opponent who appeared to have a free run a goal from about 20 metres out. “You don’t know what you’re doin” chant the home fans at the orange shirted referee, and they have a point, but he’s not alone as the fourth official holds up his electronic board showing a staggering nine minutes of added–on time.  It sounds like long enough to lay down another strata of Oolitic Limestone, but it passes surprisingly quickly which is a probably a measure of how much Town are on top.

With the final whistle I bid farewell to the two women and make an unauthorised exit up the steps and through the hospitality area behind  me, leaving the stand via the ‘grand’, carpeted central staircase before dashing off to join the queue for the white bus.  I’ve had a lovely afternoon as I had thought I would. The win helped of course, but for a country lad The New Lawn has lived up to expectations, despite the obvious short comings such as no programmes, no decent,  pointless souvenirs and inadequate staffing in the bar, but there’s more to life than collecting stuff and getting served quickly.  The Football League needs more clubs like Forest Green Rovers.

Further reading:

 ‘How Steeple Sinderby Wanderers won the FA Cup (1975) by  J L Carr

 Cider with Rosie (1959)  by Laurie Lee

Colchester United 0 Forest Green Rovers 3

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment


It’s been a foul March day; blustery, wet and cold; at times the word very has been in front of those adjectives.  Now it is gone seven o’clock, the sun has gone down and it’s mainly miserable and dark, particularly at the Colchester Park & Ride car park, an exposed expanse of dimly lit tarmac next to the A12, adjacent to a petrol station and a McDonald’s. Colchester is Britain’s oldest recorded town.

Across the A12 the lights of the Colchester Community Stadium, currently known as the Jobserve Community Stadium and formerly the Weston Homes Community Stadium, which I like to call ‘Layer Road’, shine, but not enough to satisfactorily illuminate the ticket machine at the edge of the car park.  The machine  asks for at least three digits from my car number plate, then changes its mind and asks for all of them and then tells me to pay with coins; I don’t have any.  I trudge the 70 odd metres to the typically streamlined Park & Ride waiting room building and change a fiver into coins with the help of another machine. I ignore the queue of other people buying tickets at the machines there and trudge back to the dimly lit machine.  A kind man illuminates it with his mobile phone and after the machine first claims ignorance of my car registration it eventually allows me to purchase a ticket (£3).  

I walk to the football ground between bright lights planted into the ground that don’t actually illuminate the path only give me a clue where it might be.  I turn left onto Boxted Road and traverse the bridge over the A12 with its high metal sides presumably there to prevent suicidal football supporters from jumping down onto the highway; I turn left into United Way and arrive at another open expanse of tarmac upon which here and there are painted the words BUS STOP.  A white Mercedes Benz is parked partly across the word STOP.  I shed a tear for the shuttle buses which no longer ply their way to the stadium and were the only thing that made this god forsaken location for a football ground even faintly viable. I have probably watched Colchester United play well over 300 times in the last 35 to 40 years but have not been to ‘Layer Road’ since the shuttle bus service stopped running, until tonight. Tonight I have come to see Forest Green Rovers play Colchester United because I want to see Forest Green Rovers, the Football League’s only vegan football club, the only Football League club owned by a former ‘New Age’ traveller.  The irony that I have had to drive to watch this club famed for its ‘green’ credentials is not lost on me.

The Community Stadium is as bleak and lonely as it ever was, surrounded by a car park and nothing much else.  The Forest Green Rovers team bus sits up a corner by the main stand, disappointingly it looks like a regular team bus, not powered by methane or biofuel or anything other than dirty old diesel. I take a look in the well-stocked club shop, where trade is slow; toy bears stare out into the car park but no one is buying.

I queue at the turnstile for what feels like seconds wishing I had a bag for the steward to look into to make this experience more interesting.  Inside the ground however things look up, the programmes are free! This is like being in a civilised country like France where free football programmes are de rigeur and fleetingly I am transported to the imaginary Rue de Layer where Unifie de Colcestre are about to take on Nomades de Foret Vert in the Ligue National.   The sight of Pukka pies not baguettes and Carling instead of espresso coffee returns me from my reverie.   I spot a former work colleague called Mark, which is nice, and we shake one another warmly by the hand; he introduces me to his friend Darren who like me is really an Ipswich Town supporter.  Mark tells me this should be a good game, although Colchester United tend to either ‘do alright’ or lose 3-0.  Up in the South stand I take my seat,  I am sat behind a man and woman who I recognise from the Barside at Layer Road from over thirty years ago, they look much the same, just slightly shrivelled with age.

The U’s soon kick off towards me in their customary blue and white stripes, although from behind their shirts are all blue with white sleeves as if they couldn’t really decide if they want to be in stripes or not.  Their white socks have just two blue hoops as if they couldn’t decide if they should be hooped or not either.  There are no such uncertainties with Forest Green Rovers’ kit of overly dark bottle green with lurid day-glo green trim.

Colchester dominate the start of the game taking on the role of 6th placed promotion hopefuls eager to cement their place in the play-off positions, as someone on Sky Sports TV might say.  Ninth placed Forest Green defend capably.  “It’s a long way on a Tuesday, innit?” says the bloke behind me and is not fully understood by his companion.  He explains that it’s a long way for Forest Green supporters to travel from wherever it is that Forest Green is, “Somewhere down Portsmouth way, I think”.    Forest Green Rovers actually play in Nailsworth in Gloucestershire, so they’re more Laurie Lee than Lord Nelson, but I don’t turn round and tell him that.

The Forest Green number 23 Joseph Mills is the first player to make an impression; he is wearing his hair in a bun.   “You’ll never make it Ward” says a voice at the back of the stand, seemingly attempting to goad the Forest Green goalkeeper Lewis Ward who is dressed all in pink.  From the middle of the stand directly behind the goal a chorus of “Ole, Ole, Ole” rises or perhaps it’s “Allez, Allez, Allez”; it’s hard to tell, it could be both.  After twelve minutes Colchester win the game’s first corner.

Twenty minutes have passed, Colchester are doing okay just not scoring.  Forest Green cross the ball from the left to Lloyd James, he quickly shoots and scores from a good 18 metres or so from goal. No one was expecting that, it’s probably the first shot on target.  “Come on Col U” chant the understandably disappointed but not unduly upset occupants of the South Stand.  But things change, the crowd becomes more vociferous, less happy, more angry.  Colchester win another corner to no avail and Forest Green players spend time sat on the turf looking pained.  “Get on with it, you bloody…” shouts an angry man so irate that he can’t think of a word to finish his sentence.  It’s nearly twenty past eight and Forest Green break away down the right, one pass, another pass and number ten Reece Brown side foots the ball past Colchester’s slightly exotically named goalkeeper Rene Gilmartin.  Forest Green lead 2-0. Colchester’s number forty-five Frank Nouble kicks Lewis Ward out of spite and becomes the first player to be booked by the slightly portly referee Mr Alan Young. Colchester rather pointlessly win a third corner and Lewis Ward is booked for mucking about.

After three minutes of added on time comes the half-time whistle and I head downstairs for a pounds worth of PG Tips in a plastic cup and to check the half-time scores, but mysteriously all the TV sets are on their sides; perhaps the Sky subscription is cheaper like that; it would be okay if you could lie down on a sofa to watch it.  Ipswich are losing.

The second half is much like the first, just a bit colder.  The breeze is getting stronger and there are a few spots of rain in the air.  In the West Stand a man in a blue and white wig and bath robe reclines against his seat looking bored.  Perhaps like Bobby Ewing he will later step out of the shower and find it was all a bad dream. Colchester press forward but Forest Green defend well, blocking every shot, thwarting every move, frustrating the spectators.   The crowd begin to blame Mr Young for a lack of free-kicks to Colchester or too many free-kicks to Forest Green.  “You are kidding” shouts an exasperated man at Mr Young and drawing out every word.  “What is wrong with you referee?” asks someone else.  “Show some flair referee” says another rather more obscurely “Show some bollocks” replies yet another, a little crudely.  I for one want Mr Young to keep his shorts very definitely on.  A few rows in front of me a young woman, or very high pitched man shouts viciously, rendering herself or himself incoherent with vented spleen.   The atmosphere is unpleasant and it’s no wonder Boudicca sacked the place back in AD60 if the inhabitants were as narky as this.

Despite Colchester’s dominance of possession and shots it takes until gone ten past nine for Lewis Ward to make a decent save as he dives away to his right like a flying raspberry blancmange to give Colchester another pointless corner kick.  The final ten minutes begin and Forest Green show that they can keep and pass the ball very neatly, so much so that they end up passing to an unmarked Christian Doige who despite a suspicion of offside amongst the home supporters scores a third goal.  The names Shephard, Brown, Doige appear as verse on the scoreboard.

With the game lost its time for two youths to run onto the pitch, probably as their tribute to recent televised pitch incursions at Arsenal and Birmingham.  They only look about fourteen.  One of them makes a break for it trapping himself at the back of the East Stand having athletically vaulted over several rows of seats. “Wanker, Wanker, Wanker” shout the South Stand. “Wanker!” shouts an angry man behind me a little belatedly, and sounding a bit stupid as a result.  He should have saved his shout for the equally silly Frank Nouble who rounds off an entertaining evening by committing a needless foul, getting booked for a second time and consequently sent off.

The crowd of 2871 are already heading off into the dingy car parks and wasteland outside before five minutes of added on time are announced.  A wildly bearded man in patched double denim rails at the team as others shuffle past. “Worst game of the season” a man says to me unintentionally referencing Comic Book Guy in The Simpsons as he raises his eyebrows and edges past me. I wait until the very end to get my money’s worth (£18.50) before also heading off into the damp and dark to walk to my car and travel home alone fondly remembering the days when we left the ground together sharing our misery in a crowded shuttle bus.

Ipswich Town 0 Fulham 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I had not originally intended to go to this match; I had thought that the game between Colchester United and Football League ‘new boys’ Forest Green Rovers was a far more attractive prospect. Looking ahead at the fixtures I figured Ipswich would probably be beaten if not embarrassed by Fulham and Forest Green Rovers, as their name implies are rather interesting. FGR are based in the smallest settlement to ever have a team in the Football League (Nailsworth, Gloucestershire, population 5,800 in 2011), the chairman is a former new-age traveller turned sustainable energy entrepreneur and the pies at their home ground are intentionally meat-free. But no one would take my Ipswich ticket off my hands and I am still suffering from early season inertia, so I have no ticket for Colchester and I end up on the train to Ipswich once again.
The train is on time and a well-built woman with a brood of children of various ages rudely bustles on whilst other people try to get off. On the train an ageing couple sit silently and then change seats in Colchester without speaking; as if they were communicating by telepathy. A woman in her seventies with blonde hair (yeah, right) clutches a plastic drink bottle to her mouth like a small child. It’s a warm, still, almost sultry late August afternoon and I can feel my T-shirt sticking to me slightly as I lean back on the dark grey moquette of the train seat.
The train hurtles along the tracks at a fair tilt and arriving in Ipswich on time I head for the St Jude’s Tavern as usual, responding to the rare promise of good draught beer. Ipswich Town Football Club tells us that they serve real ale but sadly it always seems to be Greene King. Portman Road is still fairly quiet, but a few Fulham fans are here already waiting for the turnstiles to open; the stall selling old programmes is almost set-up, the burger vendors have their griddles heated and a couple of early diners sit on a low rail and fold foamy bread rolls into their mouths with ketchup tainted fingers.


At St Jude’s Tavern I sit alone today and so have bought a copy of the programme (£3.00) to read. I drink a pint of Gannet Mild (£3.40) and twenty minutes later a pint of Nethergate Five Rifles (£3.00); it’s still only twenty five past two so I throw caution to the wind and down a third pint; Lacon’s Legacy (£3.20). The programme is not very interesting, as ever, full of the usual platitudes and cliché. There is an article about the young player Tristan Nydam, which labours under the weird and meaningless title of “Tris and Shout”.36839260615_e37db216a2_o It takes me a few seconds to twig that this is an attempt at a pun based on the song title “Twist and Shout”. Within seconds I come up with my own vastly superior choice of pun title: “Tristan’s Handy”, which actually means something, clearly relates to the player’s name and raises the tone by referencing a work of Irish literature, with which Mick McCarthy as former manager of the Eire national team will surely be familiar (that’s Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne…just in case).
Leaving St Jude’s I make my way down Portman Road, following three gentlemen36668891822_90b2dbac4d_o who have the appearance of a Last of the Summer Wine tribute act. Inside the ground the public address system is playing Bon Jovi, I head for the toilet to drain my bladder, but there is no escape from the dreadful, anthemic, 1980’s hair-rock, which is possibly being fed in through the cistern. Now in my seat I feel doubly relieved as the strains of Bon Jovi recede, the teams enter the field to a particularly bloated rendition of ‘My Way’ (Bobby Robson’s favourite song apparently) and it’s time for the game to begin; it is two minutes past three, we’re late.
Fulham take control of the game with indecent haste, barely allowing Ipswich a kick-of the ball. The home crowd settle down into their accustomed quietude and predictably the Fulham fans ask through the medium of song “Is this a library”? In places it resembles a chapel of rest as the demographic for Town fans becomes increasingly top heavy with those who remember the good old days. In lieu of the parachute payments enjoyed by other clubs who make it into the Premier League for a season, ITFC could probably make up the shortfall by offering their own funeral service.
There is little to excite the home fans and a when the female linesman (lineswoman?) appears to miss the ball going out, she provokes ire, setting back the cause of feminism by a hundred years. A shot from a Fulham player hits a post and I dare to think that may be Fulham will continue to completely dominate but will never score. It is twenty five past three and I don’t think Ipswich have had the ball in the Fulham penalty area yet. 36005304804_15826af0a9_oThe Fulham goalkeeper wanders about to keep awake and in the manner of a grizzly bear, rubs his back on the pole that secures the goal net; he is wearing a vivid all red kit the colour of a nationalised, 1970’s Eastern Counties bus.
Half past three goes by and Ipswich have their first shot in the general, but not exact direction of the Fulham goal. Five or so minutes later however, a deep cross from the left is met by the head belonging to Fulham’s Neeskins Kabano and Fulham take the lead. I am disappointed, Ipswich have won their first four league games, I had hoped for better, but I cannot deny being impressed by a bloke with the name Neeskins Kabano. I cannot begrudge a goal scored by a man whose name brings together the very best of Dutch football from the 1970’s and a spicy, Polish pork sausage. All power to his elbow and other joints and limbs.
Puffed up with the sense of self-love that football crowds seem to develop when their team is winning, the Fulham fans start to chant “Super Fulham, Super Fulham FC” which36701521662_8193909c95_o is a bit confusing as it sounds as if there are two teams, ordinary common or garden Fulham FC and then another team called Super Fulham FC. Unimpressed by such boastfulnesss, Ipswich manage their first shot on target. Then, for a second time in the space of a few minutes the Fulham physio is called on to attend to their evidently rather needy number 10 after he blocks a shot Ipswich’s from Martyn Wagstaff (Waggy).
Half-time. I wander about beneath the stand eating a Traidcraft chewy cereal bar. I look up at a floodlight above the stand, I look out into Portman Road through the gates guarded by men in hi-vis; long gone are the more generous, less uptight days of getting in free at half-time. I look towards the players’ tunnel and a point beyond which a sign tells me I am not permitted. The sniffer dog and his handler walk in from Portman Road; the dog has perhaps had a recreational break involving local lamp posts. I see a girl who looks a bit like Adrian Rabiot of Paris St Germain, I decide it’s her nose that’s the similarity but he’s better looking.
The second half releases me from my aimlessness and I return to my seat. The game is soon lost however as Ipswich’s Polish goalkeeper Bartosz Bialkowski, and therefore the player most likely to be familiar with kabanos, makes a brilliant one-handed save, only for some other bloke in a white shirt and black shorts to score from the rebound. Bugger. Fulham are streets ahead of Ipswich, as they were when they played here last season, but I shall put this result down to the law of averages; Ipswich were unbeaten and Fulham had yet to win so it was bound to happen. There is little enjoyment to be had from now on knowing the inevitable fate of my team. The first defeat of the season is always hard to take because I always harbour the hope that one day they will go the whole season without losing. Arsenal have done it; Preston North End have done it; The New Saints of Oswestry Town and Llansantffraid have done it so why not Ipswich Town?
I enjoy an advertisement hoarding for Red7Marine the “The marine partner of choice”, even though I would probably choose Aqua Marina from Stingray and I derive some amusement from the reaction of Fulham’s number 9 who, after colliding with one of the safety gates as he slid off the pitch, seems to complain to the referee about its existence as if expecting that the edge of the pitch should stretch off into infinity rather than there being stands around it. The attendance of 16,844 is announced, with 1,236 being with Fulham. I muse on the apparent baldness of David McGoldrick and whether, if the comb-over was still socially acceptable, he would as a professional footballer follow the lead of Bobby Charlton. Fulham bring on their substitute striker Aboubakar Kamara who I saw score for SC Amiens last season at the marvellous and yet dilapidated Stade de la Licorne,36872899585_2f4f6bde2b_o when Amiens played Gazelec Ajaccio in French Ligue 2. Happily Aboubakar doesn’t score today and in fact he doesn’t look very good.
The final whistle is a relief. On balance 0-2 is quite a good score from Ipswich’s point of view. A bloke a few seats along from me reflects on a couple hours of his life having past that he won’t get back. Well we can all say that, even the Fulham fans and players. I learn that Colchester United beat Forest Green Rovers 5-1 and my afternoon is complete.