Ipswich Town 0 Queens Park Rangers 0

December 30, 2023December 30, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Matches between Ipswich Town and Queens Park Rangers don’t register very high, if at all, on my imaginary list of the memorable events in my life. I don’t recall anything about the first time I witnessed the fixture back in April 1974 (a one-all draw), nor do I remember the most recent fixture at Portman Road in October 2018, when QPR won 2-0. The only thing I recall of any of the near thirty games I’ve seen between the two teams at Portman Road is some mild crowd trouble back in the 1980’s, when some youths with their jumpers fashionably tucked into their stonewashed jeans spilled onto the pitch to goad and then run away from each other before anyone could say anything derogatory about their ‘girly’ haircuts.

Tonight is a rare Friday evening fixture at Portman Road, and happily, after the debacle of Boxing Day, public transport exists again and I can catch the busy, stiflingly hot train to Ipswich. A bloke sits next to me who talks to his friend across the gangway; he has a deep voice and an estuary accent, but he doesn’t say much, mostly “yeah”, which he elongates rather weirdly, a bit like a less well-educated Jeremy Paxman. Their conversation is about football. I would switch off and look out of the window, but it’s dark outside.

Arriving in Ipswich, it’s a Raymond Chandler evening and the pavements are all wet. It must have rained recently and large drops of water cling to car bonnets and windows, held there by pre-match surface tension. On Portman Road the ground is not yet open but the club shop is, I venture in to buy a programme for the Norwich match (£3.50) , which I didn’t do at the time, and one for tonight’s game too (also £3.50); I am told I have £1.75 on my club card, so I ask that it is deducted from the total. As I thank the sales assistant, pick up the programmes and turn to leave he entreats me to enjoy the match, which is nice. As I head off towards ‘the Arb’ I feel my heels rubbing painfully against the backs of my shoes, which is very odd as the shoes aren’t new and it’s never happened before.

Arriving at the Arb, I find Mick already here and waiting to be served at the bar. He buys a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for himself and very kindly, a pint of Nethergate Blackadder for me. I had originally asked for a pint of Suffolk Pride too, but changed my mind as I do enjoy dark beer in the winter. The bar is warm and quite noisy, and we retire to the cool and calm of the beer garden where fortunately there is a single free table in the shelter where we sit and talk of houses of multiple occupation, rogue landlords, television comedy, my impending trip to see Town play Wimbledon in the FA Cup, the dip in the number of funerals over the Christmas period and what we did on Christmas Day. I buy a further pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a Jameson Whisky for Mick and we talk some more, this time about tonight’s match and Town’s weakened team. By the time we depart for Portman Road the bar has emptied out, leaving only those people not going to the match.

Mick and I bid one another farewell at the junction of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, until the next match, the awkward five-thirty kick off on January 13^th; I might have to have dinner at about 9 pm that day. There are queues at the turnstiles in Portman Road, but no queue at all at my beloved turnstile 62, where I wave my season ticket about in the usual confused manner and walk right in. After syphoning off excess Suffolk Pride, I find myself at the portal to another world, at the foot of the steps up into the stand. Of course, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood are all here already; if I didn’t see them leave at the end of each match I might think they were here all the time. Apart from the blisters on my heels, things have been going well but then I hear stadium announcer Murphy is back after not being here for the Boxing Day game; like Wizzard I wish it could be Christmas everyday. Murphy makes his usual botched job of reading out the team, failing hopelessly to synchronise with the images of the players on the electronic scoreboard as he races to his climax like an inept lover; and I give up being French for another day.

The game begins and QPR get first go with the ball which they are mainly trying to send in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. Town are as ever in blue shirts ad white shorts whilst the QPR team are all dressed as Dennis the Menace. I look for Gnasher in the dugout but can’t spot him. The QPR fans are quick to tell us that somewhere, presumably the bit of London where they are from, is wonderful. According to their song it is “…full of tits, fanny and Rangers”, although I haven’t been able to verify this on visitlondon.com website.

After just three minutes QPR win a corner. “Come on you R’s” chant their supporters quite a bit more enthusiastically than most Town fans ever sing “Come on you Blues”. Fortunately, it makes no difference however, and three minutes later a peachy through ball releases Freddie Ladapo into the QPR penalty box. But in the time it takes for Freddie to think “ooh, this is good, just the goalkeeper to beat, now where shall I aim the ball” a defender blocks his view and he has to lay it back for Marcus Harness to shoot straight at goalkeeper Asmir Begovic, who I seem to remember once played a few decent games on loan for Town back in 2009 and is the only member of the QPR team who hasn’t come in fancy dress as Dennis the Menace.

Eight minutes have passed and the QPR fans are singing “You’re support is fucking shit” in the time honoured fashion and then Freddie Ladapo is through again thanks to a precision through ball from Marcus Harness. This time Freddie shoots but the ball strikes Begovic and balloons into the air descending to earth just the netted side of the cross bar. From the corner Dominic Ball shoots at Begovic. With less than ten minutes gone, Town have possibly already had their two best chances of the game although no one yet knows that yet, which is just as well because knowing what people are like, a lot of them would probably clear off home.

QPR win another corner; their fans ask “Is this a library?” and “Where were you when you were shit?” All these questions, it’s like watching a game in front of a stand full of toddlers. QPR win another corner and are selfishly keeping the ball to themselves much of the time, although without ever managing a shot at goal. Omari Hutchinson runs down the wing when he can and pockets of Town support sing an overly wordy song that ends in Ole, Ole, Ole but doesn’t provide the inspiration the team seems to lack. We need a Marseillaise, but all we have is God save the King.

On twenty-two minutes there is applause and I wonder why. Fiona tells me it is for a Town supporter who has died; he was just twenty-two years old. “Oh” I say, and Fiona tells me that there will be another applause in the sixty-sixth minutes for another Town fan who has died, who was sixty-five. As sad as death is, I find these applauses mawkish and a bit weird, I also worry that when my mother dies we are going to need extra time, because she’s already ninety-eight. Fortunately, she’s not a football fan, so I don’t think she’ll be too bothered.

Three minutes later and the QPR fans are taunting the Town fans with chants of “No noise from the Tractor Boys.” The Town fans’ response is a stony silence. Then Hutchinson breaks down the left again, Williams makes a run in to the box, but Hutchinson is tackled. “I hope Williams didn’t swear then” says Fiona. “I think he did” says the man in the row in front, whose name is Kevin.

QPR win yet another corner and from my vantage point over 100 metres away it looks very much like Town almost concede an own goal, although QPR might have hit a post, but either way I’m not too bothered because the QPR score remains ‘nil’, although so does the Town score, and an Omari Hutchinson shot being tipped over the cross-bar by Begovic for a corner does not alter matters. Only ten minutes of the first half remain and I bawl “Come On You Blues” for all I’m worth. “Three of us singing, there’s only three of us singing” sings Pat from Clacton sotto voce. The corner is cleared and Conor Chaplin is the first player to be booked by referee Mr David Webb, who I think I remember playing for QPR in the 1970’s. The booking is probably for a well-conceived foul, although as Fiona points out Chaplin seems to be the only player on the pitch who is shorter than Mr Webb, so it might just be bullying.

The teams exchange more corner kicks to more chants of “Come On You R’s” and I once again bawl “Come On You Blues” raising the fever pitch in the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand to something like sitting in a bucket of cold custard. The corners come to nothing as ever, and then as Hutchinson is flagged offside, a QPR player applauds the linesman, I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic or if this is genuine expression of appreciation of a job well done, in which case he’s being patronising.

A minute of additional time is added in which the QPR fans sing cheerily of football in a library and people start to leave their seats for the underworld beneath the stand. “Dire that, innit” says a bloke as he passes by. “Not good” says his companion, possibly commenting on his friend’s grammar as much as the match. With half-time, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and I agree that we haven’t played as we would have hoped, and I then nip to the front of the stand to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison about what I was given for Christmas. When I return to my seat I eat a Nature Valley Oat and Chocolate Crunchy bar, but the start of the second half is delayed for some time by what Murphy tells us is a ‘medical emergency’ in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand lower tier, and in due course the crowd applauds the team of paramedics and the sight of a departing stretcher party, which is thankfully, but somewhat chillingly screened from our gaze.

When the match resumes at about ten past nine it is with added gusto, both on and off the pitch, as if the events of half-time have sharpened our appreciation of, and our lust for life, as well they might. “Blue and White Army “chant the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand a good four or five times in succession, and then, after not too long a delay, they do it again. A couple of minutes later they do it yet again. “Sit down if you shag your mum” respond the QPR fans, boldly recycling humour popular in year seven throughout the comprehensive schools of West London.

The first half was lack lustre, but now the match is fast and furious, which makes it more exciting but no easier to watch. If I could lip read and knew what ‘purists’ looked like, I am sure I would see them saying to themselves “this isn’t the game for me”. Luke Woolfenden is booked for a doomed attempt at winning the ball and Freddie Ladapo heads wide of the QPR goal. The QPR supporters tell us that QPR are “by far the greatest team the world has ever seen”, but I’m not inclined to believe them any more than I would Boris Johnson. “Come on Blue Eyes” says Pat to the dreamily blue-eyed Marcus Harness, and he almost obliges with a shot which looked to me like it was saved, but for which QPR get a goal-kick.

“Come On Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chants the crowd sounding increasingly desperate and as if sensing this a triple substitution follows with Harry Clarke, Kayden Jackson and Jack Taylor replacing Williams, Ladapo and Ball. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand possibly having heard the question on last night’s University Challenge about the Harry Belafonte and Boney M recordings of Mary’s Boy Child. Town win a corner and twenty-five minutes of the match remain plus any time added on for bad behaviour and injuries.

Tonight’s attendance is 29,100, with 1,698 supporting QPR we are told. Thank you for your “magnificent support tonight and all year” announces Murphy, toadying to the public. “Ere for the Rangers, You’re only ‘ere for the Rangers” chant the QPR supporters as if singing about Vincent Van Gogh. Twenty minutes remain and things are so desperate Pat from Clacton gets out the masturbating monkey charm along with several others that she carries in her purse, including a random owl and the Hindu deity Ganesh. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.

Thirteen minutes remain, and QPR’s appropriately named Ilias Chair sits down near the far touchline; he is ignored, and the game carries on before he is eventually substituted. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” chant the home crowd. “Fuck off Ipswich” reply the away crowd, employing what possibly passes for an exchange of pleasantries in places like Willesden. “Lovely feet” says the bloke behind me as Vaclav Hladky checks his stride to fool an opponent and then clears the ball. Begovic is booked for time wasting and QPR win two more corners in a rare second half attack. “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna…” chant the home support, relieved that the ball has been cleared, before a final switch sees Blue Eyes and Hutchinson replaced by Sone Aluko and Gerard Buabo, who nobody seems to have ever heard of.

The announcement of eight minutes of added on time comes as a bit of a welcome surprise; Fiona thinks it’s because of QPR’s time-wasting ‘tactics’. The added time passes all to quickly however and despite angry, desperate calls and shouts Town cannot score, although more happily they don’t concede either. After such a marvellous twelve months at Portman Road it is a disappointing match with which to end the year, the only home league game in which we haven’t scored since October 2022, but it is also the only match in which all five of our five best attacking players have not been available to play; it has been the sort of team selection we would more usually expect if playing a first round League Cup tie against Sutton United or Crawley Town.

Disappointed, but not downhearted, or even that bothered I leave the stadium and hobble to the railway station. It feels like old times, comfortably yet uncomfortably familiar. This is what football used to be like before we started all this winning malarkey, this is what real football is about, as lovely as the success is. I’m sure we will return to winning ways when the missing players return, but for now I’m going to enjoy listening to and smiling at the wailing and gnashing of teeth of supporters who haven’t benefitted from having had a season ticket every year since 1983.

Ipswich Town 6 Charlton Athletic 0

April 16, 2023April 17, 2023 / martinpbrooks / 3 Comments

After working just four days last week, I have had the pleasure of working just three days this week and now, once again, it’s time for more football. Can life get any better?

Once again I park up my planet saving Citroen eC4, but because I am a little late today I take a brisker walk than usual across a freshly mown Gippeswyk Park beneath blue skies and puffs of white cloud. A loan magpie hops across the grass and fellow walkers converge on the gate onto Ancaster Road. The Sir Bobby Robson Bridge follows Ranelagh Road and Ancaster Road just as expected and finally after Constantine Road and the Corporation tram depot I reach Sir Alf Ramsey Way and finally Portman Road. It’s safe to say I would have been surprised, not to say a little worried if it hadn’t been so. Relieved, I buy a programme (£3.50) at one of the dinky blue booths. In front of me two men discuss how many programmes they need and pay by card. The large man in the booth very carefully, almost too carefully perhaps, counts out three programmes and hands them over, and then it’s my turn. I also pay in the modern cashless manner but the touch screen doesn’t work and I have to type in my pin number.

Tucking my programme away in the inside pocket of my twenty year-old Ipswich Town branded fleece, I walk on to The Arb where Mick’s bike is chained to the railings outside the art gallery opposite. It’s not a shock therefore to find Mick stood at the bar when I burst through the door in the manner of Kramer in the TV comedy Seinfeld, except of course I only do that in my imagination. Mick kindly buys me a pint of a limited edition Belgian dark ale from the Moon Gazer brewery, it has a two word name, the second word is ‘Haas’, I don’t recall the first word, I have no idea how much it cost either. We repair to the beer garden and have to sit in the ‘overflow’ that used to be a very small car park. I suggest sitting in the shade, but Mick prefers that we sit in the sun, I tell him okay, but that I haven’t brought my sunblock; I notice a woman smile as I say this, but I do have fair skin. Once we are sat down Mick tells me of how he fell whilst lifting a large pot and has badly bruised his hip and of his recent trip to Antwerp. We discuss how we both much prefer Gent (or is it Ghent?) to Bruges, about Mick’s former partner getting married in Las Vegas later today (we will both watch the ceremony on-line), the pitiful and worrying state of American politics and I tell him about the mysterious grey and black ice cream van that plies its trade in the street where I live; Mick immediately ‘gets it’ that these are not ice cream van colours.

After last week’s long queues at the turnstiles to the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, we leave a little earlier than usual and feeling pessimistic as we reach Portman Road, I walk the long way round along Sir Alf Ramsey Way and Constantine Road and Russell Road just in case there is a queue again, but happily there isn’t. The access to the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand is a guarded by a row of bouncers all dressed in black, I walk round the end of their line and towards turnstile 62. Half way to the turnstile another bouncer raises a loud haler to his mouth, but as I’m the only person here he seems to think better of it and simply tells me to walk on to the far end, which oddly I was already doing. At the turnstile I am given instructions on holding my season ticket card up to the reader and pushing my way through the turnstile when the screen says ‘Enter’. As the word ‘Enter’ appears I receive a small, encouraging shove from my instructor as if he may be thought I didn’t know that to move through the turnstile I would have to take a step forward.

Having drained off some of the ‘Belgian’ dark ale and washed my hands I enjoy the force of the new hand dryers before arriving on the lower tier of the stand where Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, young Elwood and ever-present Phil who never misses a game are all here; it’s a ‘full house’. There are four minutes to go until kick-off; I am pleased that I haven’t arrived too early despite cutting short our time at The Arb, but can enthusiastically assist stadium announcer Stephen Foster read out the teams, bawling out each of the Town players’ surnames like French football crowds do.

A young boy called Hughie, or possibly Huey screams “Come On You Blues” into the smartly dressed Stephen Foster’s microphone and we all join in with a rendition of The Beatles’ Hey Jude. As John, Paul, George and Ringo fade away the game begins, and Town and more specifically Conor Chaplin get first go with the ball and are sending it mostly in my direction, although hopefully a bit off to my right where the goal is. Town are of course in blue and white and today’s opposition Charlton Athletic are wearing white shirts and black shorts, a bit like a poor man’s Hereford United , but of course they should be wearing their proper red shirts because as every owner of a Subbuteo Table Soccer Continental Club Edition knows, blue and red do not clash, even if you’re colour blind.

Town start the match in a blur of attacking play and win corner after corner after corner, all accompanied by chants of “Come On You Blues” from me and from ever-present Phil and even from some other people whose identity I don’t know. Pat from Clacton admits to feeling nervous, but from the very start this seems like fun today. Up goes a shout of “Handball” from what sounds like a good fifteen thousand voices as Nathan Broadhead dribbles through the Charlton defence. “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” chant the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand in a mood of anticipatory celebration. It’s all Ipswich, but after four minutes Albie Morgan, who sounds like he could have played for Charlton in the 1920’s, dares to have a shot at the Ipswich goal which Christian Walton needs to catch.

“Four-two and you fucked it up” chant the Charlton fans living in the past and reminiscing about last October when their team was becalmed in mid-table just like it is now. Continuing to struggle to find anything positive to sing about their team, the south Londoners proceed to let us know to the tune of Sloop John B that “Ipswich is a shithole, I wanna go home.” It must be tough coming to a town like Ipswich with its historic dock, medieval churches, river and adjacent SSSI’s, large parks and hundreds of listed buildings when you come from Plumstead or Sidcup, which of course are regularly compared with the likes of Barcelona, Paris and Rome as ‘best places to live’.

By way of punishment for dissing Ipswich , fate decrees that after just eight minutes the ball is played in from the left to Sam Morsy, who passes it forward to Conor Chaplin, who as ever, unerringly finds the goal net with a neat shot and Town lead 1-0. A loud chant of “ E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go” rolls around the ground. Charlton supporters will not dare abuse Ipswich again, but although we do not yet know it, their punishment is not quite complete.

As my blue and white scarf suddenly seems to try and make a break for it having become dangerously lop-sided across my shoulders in all the excitement, chants of “ Norwich City, we’re coming for you” ring out followed by the inevitable out of season rendition of Harry Belafonte’s “ Mary’s Boy Child” which does something to almost make Wizzard’s 1973 wish that it could be Christmas every day come true. Nearly fifteen minutes of the game are now in the past and I notice that not only is the Charlton goalkeeper wearing a kit of pale yellow but he is also wearing a mask, he looks like a somewhat weird super-hero, ‘Primrose Man’ perhaps. Seagulls wheel above the pitch and settle on the cross-girder of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and then Town lead 2-0, Conor Chaplin being put through with space and time on his side to score comfortably. “It’s that man again” announces Stephen Foster, obscurely referencing a BBC radio comedy show from 1940’s which starred Tommy Handley; no wonder BBC Radio Suffolk retired him.

There’s barely a cloud in the sky now and the afternoon has turned blue all over. Twenty minutes have passed and it’s time someone went down injured so that the players can get some remedial coaching and a drink. The oddly named Macauley Bonne, who is today wearing the number eight shirt for Charlton obliges and everyone else heads for the touchline. When play resumes I notice the Charlton number four George Dobson, who has slicked back hair in the style of someone who would probably remember Tommy Handley. Odd.

The match is heading into its second third and Town’s initial impetus and energy has dissipated a bit and the ball is less frequently being propelled at the Charlton goal. The situation has changed so much that the oddly named Macauley Bonne forces a very smart and essential save from Christian Walton with a header, and another former Town player, Scott Fraser has a shot which goes not very far past a post. Charlton have gained in confidence but waste it in over-zealous tackles, although when the 1940’s crooner Dobson goes through fetlocks of Conor Chaplin it amazingly rings no alarms with referee Mr Samuel Barrott who incredibly waves play-on as if physical assault was a natural part of the game.

When Charlton’s Michael Hector fouls George Hirst a few minutes later there are the inevitable ironic cheers, which are even more ironic because Hirst was actually grabbing hold of Hector around his back at the same time. The Sir Bobby Robson stand lower tier are in ebullient mood and begin to chant “Stand up if you’re going up”, which is all very well for them because they never sit down, but it’s a bit of a chore for us over-sixties in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand. A lad in the row in front has been relaying the latest scores from the exotic sounding Pirelli Stadium, Burton-On-Trent, where Sheffield Wednesday had been trailing by two goals to one. The lad turns around to tell us that the score is now 3-1 to Burton. “No, stop it” says Pat from Clacton, still feeling anxious.

The final minute of the half brings another corner to Town and a final chance to sing “Come On You Blues” with the players in close proximity. The chants fail to make a difference and with two minutes of added time Mr Barrott books Luke Woolfenden for handball when the ball bounces awkwardly up at him in the no-man’s land of the centre of the Town half. Mr Barrott is proving to be deserving of any jeers which find their way through the applause for the Town as everyone vacates the pitch for half-time.

As ever, I spend half-time speaking with Ray and his grandson Harrison. Ray thinks the oddly named Macauley Bonne is a decent enough player; I’m less enthusiastic, but Ray does concede that in the first half of last season the ball did just tend to fall for him. Bluey the mascot is wandering about near us and I encourage Ray to have his photograph taken with the strangely proportioned, luminously white equine bi-ped, but disappointingly he’s not keen.

The football resumes at five past four and Wes Burns is soon receiving treatment but happily recovers whilst Charlton fans sing something undecipherable about a ‘shit Ed Sheeran’. It’s a controversial view in this world of all-pervading pap-pop, but I didn’t know there was any other sort. I imagine, however, that they were probably serenading a Town fan with ginger hair in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, because that is how football fan ‘humour’ works.

Town win a corner, even Cameron Burgess has a shot but although he has wandered up from what is kind of ‘left-back’, his shot says he’s no Mick Mills. Mr Barrott gets to be Achilles as he books Hector who has hectored Massimo Luongo too much, and then the substitutions begin with Stephen Foster seemingly introducing Charlton’s Steven Sessegnon as Steven Sessessignon, which is easily done. The oddly named Macauley Bonne is replaced to applause from the home crowd. Half an hour remains and Town should make the result certain as Conor Chaplain sets up George Hirst, but he sweeps the ball beyond the far post despite having a vast expanse of open goal to aim at .

Pat from Clacton is still a bag of nerves and a third goal would prove handy as Jesurun Rak-Sakyi escapes the attention of Leif Davis and runs into the penalty area before falling to the ground and busting a couple of break dance moves as he bounces back up to protest that he should have been awarded a penalty. A new edginess has entered the game and there is soon a fracas with pushing and shoving amongst a whole gang of players; the upshot is that Charlton’s Dobson is booked, possibly for trying to flick Brylcreem at people. Janoi Donacien replaces Harry Clarke, Mr Barrott adds to his collection of names with Charlton’s Ryan Innis, who is nowhere near as good value as Neil Innes was. A minute later the long awaited third goal arrives as Conor Chaplin claims a hat-trick after tucking away a pass from Nathan Broadhead after Massimo Luongo had dinked in a subtle cross to the far post.

The game is now won and the usual mass substitutions follow. As soon as these are complete Town score a fourth with Sam Morsy winning a tackle, striding forward and playing a wide pass to Freddie Ladapo who scores with probably his first touch of the ball. Town win another corner and I say to Fiona that we haven’t scored five goals in a game this season. Stephen Foster announces the attendance as 29,011 with an ‘away contingent’ of 1113. “Oh when the Town go marching in” sings the crowd a little more joyfully than usual and for a moment the volume is enough for the sound to echo around the stands.

The eighty-fourth minute brings a fifth goal as Freddie Ladapo cuts the ball to one side and lashes it into the top left hand corner of Charlton’s goal and as the back pages of newspapers sometimes said, Town ‘Go knap’. Football supporters are nothing if not greedy for goals and I think of past thrashings of hapless visitors when Town would score a hatful and the crowd would chant for more. “We want six” I think to myself, but I don’t shout out my thought fearful that anyone nearby could be afflicted with a ‘Carry On’ or 1970’s sense of humour and snigger “We want sex” and I don’t, not in front of all these people. Two minutes later and Freddie is through on goal again and seeking a hat-trick, but Innis sacrifices the final few minutes of his participation in the game as he knocks Freddie over and faces the not necessarily inevitable sight of Mr Barrott’s red card; happily Mr Barrott adds to our entertainment for the afternoon; five goals and a player sent off, it could only be bettered if the opposition were Norwich City. The free-kick sails above the Charlton cross bar and four minutes of additional time appear over the horizon. Four minutes isn’t long, but it’s enough to let Kayden Jackson run and pull-back a low cross, for Kyle Edwards to send it against the far post and for Leif Davis to thrash the rebounding ball into the roof of the Charlton net.

After the sixth goal there’s no time for anything else other than the sound of Mr Barrott’s whistle to end the game. It’s been an awful lot of fun, we’ve truly had Charlton on the run. It’s been an afternoon full of oooohs and aaaahs and cheers and chants and it’s been bloody marvellous. I think it has laid the ghost of that 4-4 draw at The Valley in October, Charlton certainly weren’t going to come back for a draw in time added on today.

Cheltenham Town 1 Ipswich Town 1

April 12, 2023April 13, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I’m not sure I have ever been to Cheltenham before. If I did ever rock up here, most likely during a family holiday in the 1960’s or 1970’s, I don’t remember it, although for what it’s worth I know I have been to nearby Gloucester. Today however, I am definitely in Cheltenham after a roughly ninety-minute, 120-kilometre drive from Chineham near Basingstoke, where I have craftily engineered a weekend stay with step-son number three and his family in order to both make my wife happy and to ensure I don’t have so far to travel in Bank Holiday Monday traffic.

It’s been a pleasant enough drive in my planet-saving Citroen e-C4, despite Hampshire being wet and grey when I set off passing signs for Aldermaston and Greenham Common, locations that loom large in the history of British people bothering to protest about things. But by the time I was skirting Swindon, the sun was successfully dodging the clouds and as I descended Leckhampton Hill and the appallingly pitted, broken surface of the Old Bath Road, Cheltenham lay stretched out invitingly below. It’s only about a quarter past twelve, so having parked up in a street that could easily double for somewhere on Ipswich’s Gainsborough or Racecourse estates I visit the Cheltenham Town club shop to check out the essential club-branded pencils, rulers, teddy bears and fridge magnets. After not entirely unexpectedly bumping into ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and a man called ‘Cookie’, who gives me the news that he had to have his gall bladder removed, I leave the lounge-diner sized ‘boutique’ with its artexed ceiling, clutching a match programme (£3.00), and a pennant (£7.99) to add to the collection that hangs above the cistern in my upstairs toilet.

‘Cookie’ is heading off in search of a local chip shop, but having placed my purchases in the Citroen I make for the town centre in search of the elegant Regency architecture for which Cheltenham is known. Although Ipswich and Cheltenham are of a similar size, they mostly look very different. Whilst Cheltenham became fashionable in the late eighteenth century, after the visit of King George III to its spa, the ensuing years before the construction of the wet dock seemed to pass Ipswich by, and Lord Nelson even shipped his wife off to the town, probably because Ipswich was the sort of place where he and Lady Emma Hamilton and everyone else could forget about her. So, Ipswich stayed mostly medieval, whilst Cheltenham went all John Nash and Jane Austen, and so they remain. But whilst Cheltenham looks and sounds a bit ‘poncey’ on the surface, with its ladies’ College, tasteful terraces, and various festivals firmly aimed at a middle-class audience, like everywhere else it has its underside because someone has to clean the well-off people’s toilets, fix their Audis and deal their cocaine.

I discover that there are indeed plenty of Regency buildings in Cheltenham, but they’re not really to my taste, a bit too pretty and neat. I prefer the stained concrete of the 1970’s Post Office building to the warm Cotswold stone. I also prefer Marks & Spencer chicken and bacon sandwiches (£3.75) and a bottle of orange juice (£2.00) to chip shop fare. Having eaten the sandwiches and drunk half the juice, whilst sat on a bench under the plane trees on The Promenade, I wander idly about finding statues of Gustav Holst (born in Cheltenham) and a hare sat next to the Minotaur, (no idea why). After a while I decide it’s time to re-trace some of my steps and head back towards what is currently known as the Completely-Suzuki Stadium, but in simpler times was just the Victory Stadium or Whaddon Road.

Whaddon Road is a suburban street with a recreation ground, bowling green, a groovy 1960’s Evangelical Presbyterian church, a small parade of shops and a football ground sat amongst twentieth century houses. The football ground sits beyond a large car park and betrays its non-league roots with a cluster of modest, ugly, cheap-looking buildings set about what looks like a pre-World War Two main stand, although my copy of ‘Football Grounds from the Air, Then and Now’ tells us it was built as recently as 1963. Red painted signs and sponsors’ logos abound. I queue at Gate 2 and the QR code of my ticket is read by a friendly man with a mobile phone; I click through an aged red turnstile that must pre-date the swinging sixties. Inside the ground, bright sunlight streams through the skylight in the four-urinal gents toilet, which smells surprisingly sweet and better than many after shaves. I ascend a flight of stairs and find myself at the front of the stand looking down on a terrace. A walkway passes through the directors’ box; if any directors had been sat in the front row with legs outstretched I might have tripped over their feet.

I carry on to the middle of the stand past rows of original, wooden, tip-up seats. “Are you Row C seat 34?” I say to a large coated, bearded man in the seat next to mine. “I am” he says. “Well, I’m seat 35” I tell him, “Pleased to meet you”. When I sit down, I find the leg room so tiny that I am wedged into the seat. “It’s a bit tight, isn’t it” I say to my neighbour. “It is if you’re tall” he says, being generous to the 1960’s architect, “But very good for your posture”. He’s right, there is no option but to sit bolt upright. In a sort of window box on the front of the stand sit a row of half a dozen blokes with lap-tops and earphones. The seats in front of us fill up. A man shows the QR code on his phone to the man sat next to him. “When he scanned this, it said the ticket had already been used” says the man, shrugging his shoulders. “I says I don’t know why. So he let me in anyway, said he couldn’t be arsed to query it”.

Eventually, the teams appear from beneath us somewhere off to our left. The ska classic ‘The Liquidator’ by The Harry J All Stars plays over the PA system and singularly fails to provoke any response from the crowd, except for a bloke behind me who occasionally claps in time to the beat. The referee breaks up the Ipswich team huddle, which had been going on for a while, and the game begins. In the corner of the ground the electronic scoreboard reads “1^st half”, just in case anyone is experiencing déjà vu or is any doubt that the game has only just begun. Ipswich get first go with the ball and are kicking roughly in the direction of the town; the Cheltenham racecourse is somewhere off behind Christian Walton’s goal. Both teams wear their ‘proper’ first choice ‘home’ kits as they should do when there is no clash of colours. My raincoat, which I’m glad to say I haven’t really needed, is trapped under the tip up seat of a balding man in seat 36, I ask him if he’d mind getting up for a moment to free my coat; smilingly he obliges.

“Ole, Ole, Ole” sing the Town fans off to my right, whilst opposite in the corner of the brilliantly named Colin Farmer Stand, a Cheltenham fan beats a drum. Six-minutes pass and Town win a corner after a Wes Burns cross is met by George Hirst and deflected away. George Hirst is involved in an ongoing battle with his marker Tom Bradbury who has hold of Hirst’s shirt and won’t let it go. Hirst has to try and beat him off as he runs across the pitch. This is taking man to man marking to extremes and Bradbury seems obsessed with his task beyond all reason and is rightfully booked by referee Mr Stocksbridge, who because he has a fine head of grey hair, makes me think of Alan Woodward of 1970’s Sheffield United, and by association the wonderfully monikered Len Badger. Sam Morsy takes a shot which is comfortably saved. It might be Easter Monday, but the Town fans won’t give up on Harry Belafonte’s “Mary’s Boy Child” as they imagine a far-off time when Town still played Norwich on Boxing Day. Easter, Christmas, Passover, Ramadan, it’s all the same to some people.

The afternoon is bright, but a strong wind is blowing from the direction of the town holding up any high kicks from Christian Walton. Town are happy to pass the ball about between Morsy, Woolfenden, Burgess and Clarke and draw Cheltenham on to them. When a pass is intercepted Cheltenham win a corner and Walton has to make a sharp save from a header. White cloud populates the blue skies above the Cotswold Hills that form a dramatic back drop to the low stands opposite. It’s a blustery afternoon of coarse shouts, harsh voices and jeers which are carried on the wind whenever a pass goes astray or a player goes to ground. Wes Burns runs at the Cheltenham defence and shoots, but straight at the goalkeeper. Eighteen minutes have gone and a decent passing move around the Cheltenham penalty area releases Marcus Harness, he has just the goalkeeper in front of him but shoots wide; he could and probably should have scored. Conor Chaplin then shoots high over the bar from another low Wes Burns cross. “Come On Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chant the Town fans as frustration and nerves bite. “Come On Norwich” calls someone off to my right sounding like he thinks he is being witty; perhaps just saying ‘Norwich’ is enough to get a laugh in these parts, although I can’t hear much evidence of it.

The half is half over and after several failed attempts at tackles and clearing the ball by Town players, Cheltenham’s Alfie May gets free on the left and sends the ball across the face of the Town goal; only nifty footwork from Leif Davis averts embarrassment. Town aren’t playing badly but they’re not playing that well either, despite having most of the possession. Perhaps the wind and condition of the pitch are having an impact, or perhaps Cheltenham’s harrying is working. On the touchline, the Cheltenham manager is at times like an irritable toddler, in contrast to Kieran McKenna who, in his black roll neck jumper and slacks looks like he could be about to sit back and listen to some mellow jazz. But occasionally his frustration shows itself and at one point a bit of white shirt breaks loose between his jumper and waistband. Thirty-six minutes gone and Sam Morsy is booked for a trip. Four minutes later there is more mayhem in the Town penalty area as for a second time the ball escapes Town control and crosses the face of the goal before Luke Woolfenden lashes it away for a corner. The half expires, but two minutes of time are added on and the screen in the corner reads ‘2 Added Time,’ just so anyone who suddenly woke up and looked at the screen would know it would soon be time for a half-time cuppa.

With half-time there is a mass exodus from the stand down a flight of stairs between me and the director’s box. I finish off my orange juice, taking care to dispose of the plastic bottle in a large bin at the side of the press box, then take a wander down the stairs; I find myself out in the car park. Unimpressed, and curious, but not that curious to see where everyone went, I return to my seat and await the second half.

Kyle Edwards has replaced Marcus Harness and Cheltenham swap one anonymous midfielder for another so as not to feel left out. The attendance is announced as 5,445, which means the ground is only three quarters full. In the corner, the electronic scoreboard reads “2nd Half”, presumably as proof that football is a always a game of two halves.

Unsportingly, Cheltenham soon win a corner, and then another, and five minutes later another. Conor Chaplin shoots wide as Town restore order and behind me a single person claps. “Come On Ipswich” roar the Town supporters sensing that the early Cheltenham pressure has been weathered and when on fifty-five minutes Town win their own corner it is met with an enthusiastic cheer and a chorus of “Come On You Blues”, which is repeated almost five times, which in the modern age is probably a record. By the time the kick comes to be taken however, the stadium is a tin box of silent anticipation.

Ipswich are now on top, but not so much that I haven’t noticed that there are Leylandii peaking over the roof of the home terrace, known as the Prestbury Road end. Another corner to Town and more chants of “Come On You Blues”, then George Hirst makes space and launches an angled, rising shot against the cross bar when the goal beneath it was gaping. An hour of football has gone forever, but in the corner of the ground the scoreboard no longer says “2nd half”. Momentarily, I worry about space and time, but am quickly reassured by the wide range of modular sofas and comfortable chairs that appear on the screen in a lengthy advertisement for the local branch of FABB Furniture. Kyle Edwards makes a run towards goal and produces a bending shot that doesn’t have enough bend not to miss the goal. Cheltenham make a double substitution with blokes called Caleb and Aiden replacing Lewis and Will.

With Ipswich on top the home fans seem to be getting their kicks where they can, and seem to to be easily pleased by a tackle here and a throw-in there. We reach the sixty-fifth minute and a long throw on the right finds a way across the penalty area and Conor Chaplin almost unexpectedly just taps it into the corner of the Cheltenham goal, and Ipswich lead 1-0.

A chorus of “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League we go” rolls down the ground from the Ipswich supporters’ end, followed by every known boastful, celebratory football song; it’s like listening to an imaginary LP of K-tel’s 50 greatest promotion chants. When eventually it’s the turn of “The Town are going up, The Town are going up, and they int gonna believe us, and they int gonna believe us” the handful of singing Cheltenham fans in the corner of the Colin Farmer Stand, clearly still fearful of relegation, join in, but sing “The Town are staying up”, which I think my wife would think was rather sweet.

Twenty minutes to go, another substitution for Cheltenham as a second Will replaces Ben. The man who likes to say ‘Norwich’ continues to sing his own predictable version of any songs he hears that have the name of Ipswich in them. I can’t decide if this is borne of bitterness or stupidity, or both. Town make the usual swap of George Hirst and Freddie Ladapo, and Wes Burns and Kayden Jackson. Thirteen minutes to go, Town are top of the league and Harry Clarke surges forward and gives Kyle Edwards the chance to shoot over the cross bar, which he takes. Eleven minutes to go and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues, Come On You Blues, Come On You Blues”. The chant stops dead after four ‘verses’. Eight minutes to go and Freddie Ladapo shoots, but it’s a weak effort and too close to the goalkeeper.

I dare to think of a ninth consecutive win, a tenth consecutive game without conceding a goal. Ipswich repel a crude, up in the air attack, but the ball comes back, hoofed hopefully. Confident Christian Walton thinks he can claim this and get possession, he strides out from his goal and jumps, but the ball bounces out of the bowl he has made of his arms as he collides with two players who were ready to head the falling ball. The ball makes a break for it and runs to Alfie May and he half-volleys it into the Ipswich goal. It’s one-all. Bugger.

“You’re not top of the league” is the shout from ‘Norwich man,’ and now for the first time this afternoon the home crowd is noisy. “You’re not singing anymore” they chant, to a tune that the Evangelical Presbyterians down the road might know, even if the gloating sentiment isn’t exactly a Christian one. Janoi Donacien replaces Leif Davis just for something to do, and five minutes of added time offers five minutes of hope, but that’s all. Oh well, it was fun whilst it lasted.

Extracting myself from my seat without the use of shoe horns, spanners or tyre spoon levers I applaud briefly, out of politeness, and then make my way to the exit. I had got used to winning every game and never conceding a goal, it was nice. But it’s probably best that the run has ended, because life’s not like that, is it? Football definitely isn’t. At least I’ve now been to Cheltenham.

Ipswich Town 2 Shrewsbury Town 0

March 19, 2023February 9, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a beautiful wet morning of silvery grey light beneath a shroud of pale cloud. I woke early, before six, when the sky was blue and red as the sun came up, but that was too early, so I went back to bed, then overslept.

Earlier this week I woke up with my mind disturbed by vivid dreams of a time over forty years ago when I was a university student coming to terms with base desires to form shallow relationships with members of the opposite sex. Worryingly, in these dreams I fancied girls who at the time I didn’t think I did. Why my subconscious mind should want to re-appraise events of forty years ago I cannot fathom. The week has improved since then, and psychologically re-balanced I’ve now parked up my planet saving Citroen e-C4 and have stepped out across a slippery, soggy Gippeswyk Park, beneath Ancaster Road railway bridge and over the river to the old tram depot and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, where I cashlessly buy a programme for today’s match having waited my turn behind a man who called the programme seller ‘mate’ at least four times and possibly as many as six during the course of his brief transaction. I was tempted to address the programme seller as ‘programme seller’ but of course I didn’t. One day.

At ‘the Arb’, I am a little bemused that there is no Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride today, but on the barman’s recommendation I order a pint of Mauldon’s Silver Adder (£4.00) and retire to the beer garden, which is already occupied by several drinkers of late middle age. I drink alone today because my friend Mick might be required away at any moment to collect a ‘stiff’; my words, not his and is taking the calls. Despite Mick’s absence, death still stalks me as at a nearby table I overhear a man talking of a funeral he had recently been to at the Seven Hills Crematorium. “They just talked a bit about his life, played some music, and that was it” he says. Later, he will tell his fellow drinkers about watching football on tv in Arabic by means of his Firestick, and how Richard Keys and Andy Gray are still working for beinsports in Qatar, where their grubby attitude towards women is clearly tolerated. I would like to hear Andy Gray speaking Arabic.

I read my programme, gleaning from it the fact that Sam Morsy has been booked twelve times this season, which is four more times than any other Town player and twice as many times as the third most booked player, Wes Burns. Finishing the Silver Adder, I return to the bar for a pint of Lacon’s Encore (£3.51 with Camra discount), by way of an encore. At about twenty to three I depart for Portman Road. In Crown Street a young man steps out of a barber’s shop and sprays what I assume to be deodorant under his armpits from beneath his T-shirt. An ambulance speeds by with its siren blaring; “Go, go save that person” shouts a lairy youth, no doubt trying to impress his friends with his off-the-wall ‘humour’.

I reach Portman Road and behind what was the North Stand a bearded man I know called Kevin sidles up to me and says hello. Kevin’s pre-match ritual is to have a pint at St Jude’s Tavern; he would join me at the Arb but can’t not stick to his ritual in case it causes a calamitous result. We walk to turnstile 61 together; Kevin uses turnstile 61 because 1961 was the year he was born. On what used to be the Churchman’s terrace I edge past Fiona to my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket, although Fiona says he’s actually from Stowupland. Two rows in front of us are ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his young son Elwood. Pat from Clacton arrives a little after I do; she’s going to Great Yarmouth tomorrow on a ‘whist holiday’.

The teams process onto the pitch and Stephen Foster, the former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter and class-mate of my friends Pete and Ian, reads out the teams. Along with ever-present Phil, I bawl out the Town players’ surnames, pretending to be French. If I was French, I’d already be retired now, and depending on where I lived I might support Racing Club de Lens, Lorient, Clermont Foot or Montpellier. It’s something I think about a lot in my many idle moments. After a minute’s applause for former Town director John Kerr who died this week, Shrewsbury Town take the knee and applaud whilst Town players form a huddle, and then the match begins. Shrewsbury get first go with the ball attempting to send it mostly in the direction of the goal just in front of me, Pat, Fiona, Phil and Elwood. Shrewsbury are sporting a change kit today because their usual, distinctive blue and yellow striped shirts would clash with Town’s all blue shirts. Disappointingly, Shrewsbury have opted for all-black, the magnolia of modern-day football kits, for people who choose club kits but who also lack imagination. The addition of red smudges over the shoulders does nothing to alleviate the depressing absence of colour. The referees however are doing their best for us and are wearing orange shirts.

An intimidating, brooding wall of silence encloses the ground providing the soundtrack to the games’ opening moves, but a bit of noise eventually emanates from the Blue Action section in the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, followed by the curious chants of “Addy, Addy, Addy-O”. It’s damp, and a faint mist seems to hang over the pitch. Town have the ball mostly, but all of a sudden Christian Walton is leaping acrobatically to tip a header from Luke Leahy (I like to think Leahy is pronounced leaky) over the cross bar to give Shrewsbury the game’s first corner. Quickly it has been established that Shrewsbury are going to be one of those teams who are all free-kicks, set pieces and shoving people over. It’s a style of ‘football’ that is effective for a bit, but people soon get tired of it and that includes the players, just ask Mick McCarthy.

Town soon re-establish their superiority, which manifests itself in three corners in five minutes as crosses and shots are blocked. A dozen minutes have gone forever and half the pitch is now bathed in mottled sunlight and the other half wallows in the shadows of the stands. I am struck by how spindly the legs of Shrewsbury’s number 33, Tom Flanagan, are and just to prove the point he slips over like new born Bambi. The fifteenth minute arrives and Wes Burns scampers off down the wing, crosses the ball and George Hirst rises high, twists his neck, and heads the ball gloriously into the goal beyond goalkeeper Marko Marosi. It’s the sort of goal centre forwards used to score all the time, and at half-time Ray will tell me how it reminded him very much of Trevor Whymark’s best work, and he’s right. Town lead 1-0.

The sun is shining, the Town (Ipswich not Shrewsbury ) are winning and all is right with the world as I sit back and wait for Town’s next goal. Before that however, comes the first booking as Wes Burns is tripped by Jordan Shipley, who forty years ago might have been called Gordon Shipley. All twenty outfield players are within forty yards of the Shrewsbury goal as the resulting free-kick is taken, but the ball goes straight into the arms of Marosi.

With the game entering its second quarter, it feels like Town ease off a little as what had been a busy period of crosses and constantly probing possession comes to an end. But the rest, is just a rest and soon Town are winning more corners. “Come On You Blues” I bawl. “ They can’t hear you” says Pat from Clacton. “I don’t think anyone can” I tell her, disappointed that all across the bottom tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand people haven’t joined in with me. “I can hear you” says Fiona, sounding like she wishes she couldn’t.

We descend towards half-time and from another Wes Burns cross it looks as though the until now excellent Massimo Luongo has an open goal, but somehow he contrives to head the ball where we and presumably he didn’t want it to go, not into the goal. In the interests of variety, Shrewsbury are awarded a corner as Cameron Burgess clears the ball behind from a rare, but awkward foray forward by the visting team, and Christian Walton saves a shot from that Gordon Shipley, before Conor Chaplin restores order but shoots wide of the Shrewsbury goal. The half closes with an homage to BBC tv sitcom Dad’s Army as Shrewsbury number 15, Rekeil Pyke fouls Luke Woolfenden, and hopefully referee Ollie Yates adopts a German accent to say “ Your name will also go into the book, what is it?” From the touchline I think I hear Shrewsbury manager Steve Cotterill shout “Don’t tell him Pyke!” and both benches and Mr Yates fall about laughing.

With half-time, I hasten away beneath the stand to make use of the facilities and enjoy the luxury of the new hand dryers which since the last home game have replaced the old asthmatic ones. I return to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand. Ray seems disappointed with the first half because Shrewsbury have had a couple of reasonable chances and Town have only scored once, but he liked the goal and talks of Trevor Whymark and Alan Lee.

The football resumes at seven minutes past four and I eat a Nature Valley honey and nut cereal bar, which I finish before Town seemingly score again as Conor Chaplin taps the ball in at the far post after a deep cross, but apparently he is offside; he doesn’t argue so he probably was, or he is the first player to work out that referees do not change their decisions. The disappointment is only temporary however, but what isn’t? Two minutes later there’s a cross, a Conor Chaplin shot is blocked and Massimo Luongo places a precise hooked shot inside the far post to put Town 2-0 up.

It feels to me like we’ve won already and it’s just a matter of how many goals Town can get. Shrewsbury are putting up decent resistance but we’re too good for them and almost proving the point George Hi⁸rst thumps a shot against a goal post, although he must ask himself why he missed the 7.32m wide gap to its left. A minute later Shrewsbury’s Matthew Pennington is booked for reacting childishly to a perceived dive by Nathan Broadhead and then an unseemly melee ensues with all the usual posturing and macho behaviour that you would expect from the drivers of enormous black SUVs. When the free-kick is eventually taken, Leif Davis uncharacteristically launches it wastefully over the cross bar.

Ipswich’s early dominance of the second half nevertheless inspires some noise from the home crowd and the Sir Bobby Robson stand treat everyone else to the usual truncated rendering of Harry Belafonte’s, or may be Boney M’s, Mary Boy Child with specially adapted lyrics that tell of what now seem like mythical fights with Norwich on Boxing Day. Shrewsbury are first to blink with regard to substitutions and two are made together, one of them being the aforementioned Pyke.

Time rattles on by twenty minutes and Shrewsbury win a corner and Nathan Broadhead is booked for being fouled in the Shrewsbury penalty area despite Shrewsbury players concernedly helping him to his feet rather than pointing accusing fingers. Todays’ attendance is announced by Stephen Foster as 26, 432 with 343 from Shropshire, and weirdly but as per usual, people applaud themselves or each other, or may be they’re applauding Stephen Foster. On the Clacton supporters coach the guess the crowd competition is won by Pat from Clacton’s great nephew Liam, who is just visiting for the weekend and is a West Ham United supporter. Understandably, Pat seems disappointed that this ‘part-time supporter’ has won the prize and suggests various other guesses on her list to Fiona and me that might be closer, but none of them are.

Fifteen minutes remain and it’s time for Town to begin their usual catalogue of substitutions and Freddie Ladapo and Marcus Harness replace George Hirst and Nathan Broadhead. Another Shrewsbury corner sees Chey Dunkley strike the Town cross-bar with a header, but typically for a team reliant on ‘big blokes’ there has been a foul, and Town are awarded a free-kick and Christian Walton receives lengthy treatment whilst everyone else enjoys a break by the touchline. “Get Up!” shouts a frustrated pre-pubescent voice behind me. His dad explains that you don’t shout “Get Up” at your own players, but the child simply replies ”But it’s taking forever”. When he’s older he’ll realise that some of life’s best moments are when nothing is happening.

The last ten minutes of normal time have found their way here and it still time for two more Shrewsbury players to be shown Ollie’s yellow card for fouling Conor Chaplin, and Kayden Jackson, who has replaced Wes Burns, although they probably would have fouled him too given the chance. The eternal treatment to Christian Walton results in only seven minutes of added on time and whilst I hope for a third Town goal which would mark out the result as a modest thrashing rather than just a satisfactory win, it doesn’t happen, despite two more Town substitutions and an outbreak of rhythmic clapping.

Finally, at a minute before five o’clock the game ends and my little band of ultras and I bid our adieus until Good Friday. It’s been a fine performance from Ipswich and ultimately a comfortable, if hard fought victory. I will travel home this evening content, and safe in the knowledge that in forty years’ time it is unlikely my subconscious mind will unexpectedly want to re-appraise todays events, because I expect I will be dead.

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.