Ipswich Town 0 Everton 2

October 20, 2024October 20, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s a grey, wet, autumn Saturday morning and I’m thinking of the last time I saw Ipswich Town play Everton at Portman Road. It was almost exactly twenty-three years ago, on 13^th October 2001. In fact, that was the last time anyone saw Ipswich Town play Everton at Portman Road. The result that day was a goalless draw, and I have no recollection of it whatsoever. The first time I saw Ipswich Town play Everton at Portman Road however is a different matter, because that was the first time I ever went to Portman Road; it was the 6^th April 1971 and I sat with my father in the then soon to be demolished ‘chicken run’. We travelled to the match in the family Ford Cortina. It was an evening kick-off and I remember it being light outside the ground, then dark, and the programme having a photo of Johnny Miller on the front; it cost 5 pence but was effectively free because that was also the price of the Football League Review that was stapled inside. A vague, coincidental symmetry through time meant the result was another goalless draw as it would be thirty-one years later and, just as they are fifty-three years later, Town were fourth from bottom of the league table.

Today’s family Ford Cortina is a train as I embrace the concept of ‘modal shift’, and it’s on time. The rain has stopped, the sky is clearing, and I’m sat in the first of the two carriages with pointy ends which makes it easy for Gary to find me when he boards at the next station stop. Making life easy is a lot about planning. Gary is a generous fellow and today he is carrying a polythene bag from the Cadbury’s outlet shop inside which is a book called ‘Tinpot’, which is about supposedly forgotten football tournaments such as the Anglo-Italian Cup, Watney Cup and Texaco Cup, although of course no one in Ipswich or hopefully Norwich has ever forgotten that Mick Mills lifted the Texaco Cup at Carrow Road in 1973. Gary had bought a copy of the book himself and thought I would like one too, so he bought me one. Such random acts of generosity and thoughtfulness probably make the world go round, and I urge everyone to make them as often as possible and to send postcards when on holiday.

As the train speeds onwards towards Ipswich we talk of my recent holiday in France and the French football results, and as we descend the hill through Wherstead I think it may not only be my imagination that has the train lurching to one side as everyone finds a window through which to gawp at the polar bears; Gary and I spot two of them, bears that is, not gawpers.

Ipswich station forecourt is busy, as is the garden of the Station Hotel, which crawls with and echoes to the sound of Evertonians. Gary asks me if I’m going to buy an ice cream, and I tell him I am but unusually we don’t make it to one of the blue booths but instead buy our programmes (£3.50 each) from a young man at a sort of blue painted, mobile, metal desk; I ask for a choc ice and he ignores me, possibly because his mind is totally focused on programmes, possibly because he recognises an idiot when he meets one. To our collective disappointment, the programme cover today does not feature one of the much trumpeted and popular “Call me Ted” poster-like designs, but instead displays just a boring photograph of a running Ali Al-Hamadi. The poster design is instead on a tear-out page at the back, negating what we were originally told was the point of the exercise to have these posters as the cover. I ask myself why it is that even when professional football clubs get something right, they then manage to get it so very wrong?

Gary wants to buy a Town shirt for his nephew and says he will see me in ‘the Arb’ a bit later and so I wish him luck as he heads for the club shop and I stride on up the hill, becoming progressively warmer and sweatier as the sun shines down on what is now an unseasonably warm afternoon.

At ‘the Arb’ the bar is surprisingly not very busy, so I am soon clutching a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.96 with Camra discount) and seeking out Mick in the beer garden, which is very busy. Luckily, a table is vacated much the same time as I arrive, allowing us to sit and talk of bowels, cancer screening, colonoscopies and prescription drugs in the afternoon sun. I also explain why Gary will be joining us later but am surprised when he appears sooner than expected bearing a glass of Lager 43 lager but no Ipswich Town shirt. It seems the only shirts available are in outlandish sizes and apparently his nephew is neither tiny nor vast.

We talk, we drink, Mick buys another round and we talk and drink some more. The Suffolk Pride is extremely good today but resisting the temptation to just stay and drink it all afternoon we leave for Portman Road, although not until all our fellow drinkers have done so first. Portman Road is busy, thick with queues as if the turnstiles are all clogged up with fans who need outsized shirts. Ironically, it is Gary who hears the public announcement that kick-off is delayed by fifteen minutes and so, having bid Gary and Mick farewell somewhere near Sir Alf’s statue, I amble nonchalantly through the crowds and queues past lumps of molded concrete decorated with empty plastic glasses, paper cups, drinks cans and paper napkins.

Joining the queue for my favourite turnstile, number 62, I am followed by two blokes who are complaining about the queues; they’re the sort of blokes who describe anything that goes a bit wrong as “a fucking joke”. I explain that the kick-off has been delayed until a quarter past three and they seem disappointed that they can no longer be outraged at possibly missing kick-off. Then one of them notices a steward, who is not white, at the front of the queue checking people’s pockets, bags and jackets. “I’m not racist but…” says the previously outraged bloke “but all these stewards, they’re…” As I eventually pass through the turnstile, I hear the bloke who isn’t racist remonstrating with the steward for touching him.

On the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) , ever present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood are as ever all in place awaiting the delayed plucking of the ball from its Premier League branded plinth as flames climb high into the pale blue afternoon sky and everyone cheers enthusiastically. Since the Fulham match at the end of August, when I was last here, the stadium announcer seems to have completed a degree course in Stadium Announcing,probably at somewhere like the University of South Florida, and over-dosed on vowel-expanding drugs. He sounds utterly ridiculous, and I think I hear him at one point refer to “The Everton”, but he does at least synchronise his team announcing with the scoreboard allowing me to shout out the surnames of the Town players as if I am at a game in France. For this I am very grateful.

Eventually, the now heavily choreographed prelude to kick off arrives. A young man in crumpled trousers and jacket, which don’t match, appears to orchestrate the grand arrival of the teams and I think how I miss ‘Entry of the Gladiators’ and how with its acquired circus connotations it would be so appropriate in the Premier League. The teams pour onto the pitch from beneath what looks like a stack of speakers at a rock concert or a part of the Nazis’ Atlantic Wall fortifications. When everyone settles down a bit, Town get first go with the ball and mostly aim it in the direction of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. Town are of course in blue shirts and white shorts whilst Everton sport what at first looks like white shirts and blue shorts, but closer up the shirts look off-white and the shorts a sort of bluey grey. How very moderne, I think to myself. Confusingly, the front of the Everton shirt appears to bear the word ‘Stoke’, but given how all things football now mostly relate betting it probably says stake, which coincidentally is what the Premier League needs driving through its heart.

Everton take an early lead in corner kicks, the Town fans sing “Blooo and White Army” and Pat from Clacton tells me how she’s just got back from her annual week playing whist in Great Yarmouth, and she won a bit shy of thirty-five quid. Then excitingly, a break down the right from Wes Burns ends with Jack Clarke shooting hopelessly high and wide of the goal. As the bloke beside me remarks of Clarke’s shot “That was awful”. But it’s good enough for the northern end of the ground to break into the joyless dirge that is their version of ‘When the saints go marching in’, substituting the word saints for Town of course. But despite this, Everton are looking the better team and their players seem much quicker in both thought and deed. Aro Muric makes a save from the Everton number nine who has only Muric to beat after a criminally poor pass from Kalvin Phillips, but then Muric boots a back pass from Luke Woolfenden out for a corner, possibly a comment on the back pass.

With just seventeen minutes consigned to the history of goalless football, Everton score as a result of some poor ball control in the penalty area from Wes Burns, which hands the ball to Iliaman Ndiaye, who only has to score, which he does. Everton are playing as if on Ecstasy, whilst Town are on Temazepam. Nevertheless, it’s not as if Town haven’t gone 1-0 down before and Omari Hutchinson is soon being hacked down by number five Michael Keane who is booked by referee Michael Oliver, who from the look of his hair I have deduced isn’t related to Neil Oliver and doesn’t visit John Olivers the chain of East Anglian hairdressing salons.

A free-kick and then a corner follow and then Jack Clarke slaloms into the penalty area only to tumble to the ground and Michael Oliver points to the penalty spot. In leagues not totally beholden to the wonder of the cathode ray tube this would be enough to give Town a free shot on goal, but being the Premier League VAR must decide and it’s time to place your bets on whether Town will get a penalty or not. My money is on not and I win the unwelcome jackpot as Mr Oliver decides with the help of video assistance that it was actually Jack Clarke who kicked an Everton player rather than the other way round. How very convenient. “You can stick your Premier League up you arse” I chant coarsely to the tune of ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain’. This is what the Premier League does to people.

Town win another corner and the crowd chants “Come on You Blues” at least twice before Everton win two corners of their own, after the second of which Town fail to clear the ball properly and somehow allow the previously convicted Michael Keane to get behind the defence and score from a narrow angle. “Everton, Everton, Everton” sing the Evertonians, revealing themselves as true heirs to the lyrical imagination and genius of Lennon and McCartney.

The pantomime of VAR has resulted in six minutes of added on time as well as the mental scars of having been given and then having dashed all hope of a swift equaliser. Kalvin Phillips offers more hope with a free-kick after Leif Davis is cynically fouled, but he then dashes that with his shot over the Everton crossbar instead of under it. Meanwhile, I can’t help thinking that the name Calvin-Lewin on the back of the Everton number nine’s shirt looks like it reads Calvin Klein. I surmise that this is because I have become overly used to seeing the words ‘Calvin Klein’ on the fashionably exposed waist bands of millennials’ underpants.

Half-time is a sort of relief and I talk to Ray who I haven’t seen for six weeks, but then at twenty three minutes past four the football resumes. “They’re chasing shadows int they” says the bloke behind me and Everton win two corners as the clock tells us that the game is two thirds over. Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke replace Wes Burns and Dara O’Shea. Pat from Clacton wonders whether she should unleash the masturbating monkey good luck charm from her handbag, and I wonder if Kieren McKenna would have an opinion on that. Perhaps Pat should write to him and ask when he’d like her to ‘bring him on’.

Sammy Szmodics and Jack Taylor replace Kalvin Phillips and Jack Clarke, and today’s attendance is announced as 29,862, with 2,977 being Evertonians. The excitable stadium announcer uses words such as incredible, amazing and fantastic to describe the support and I begin to wonder if he might need a sponsor for his incontinence pants.

With the changes to the team, Town seem to have improved a bit and are dominating the last fifteen minutes as Liam Delap shoots spectacularly past the post, Omari Hutchnson shoots and wins a corner and Cameron Burgess heads over the cross bar. Then, as Pat from Clacton worries whether the baked potato she is having for he tea is going to be burnt to a cinder by the time she gets in, George Hurst replaces Liam Delap and from a Town corner Conor Chaplin shoots straight at the Everton goalkeeper before Jack Taylor forces a low diving save from him. Four minutes of added on time fail to influence events although Muric prevents a third Everton goal as Calvin Klein runs through on his own again.

With the final whistle I am one of many quick to head for the exits to catch trains and buses and without really knowing the exact time I am surprised to get to the station two minutes before my train is due to depart. It’s a small victory on a day of defeat, but heck, there are still another fifteen home games to endure or hope for better.

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 3 Leeds United 4

August 27, 2023September 11, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Leeds United form part of my earliest football memories; they were the dirty, losing 1970 FA Cup finalists; I watched them draw the first game with Chelsea at Wembley on the TV on a May afternoon at my grandparent’s house on the Isle of Sheppey. Before that, I don’t remember any games, only World Cup Willie. After that, there were the Esso World Cup coins featuring Madeley, Reaney, Hunter, Charlton, Cooper, Jones and Clarke in 1970, then the centenary FA Cup final victory in 1972, the fondly remembered defeat to Sunderland the following year and then their long unbeaten run in the First Division the season after, when Ipswich were the first team to beat them, albeit in the piffling League Cup. Added to that, I travelled on the bus to school every day with a boy called Andy and he supported them, although he had a good excuse, his whole family were extras on Emmerdale Farm, and whilst that is a lie, they really were from Yorkshire, some people are apparently. Despite a wonky eye (we called him Cyclops), Andy was quite a tidy footballer, much better than me, and he wore blakey’s on his shoes, which clicked and sparked when we played at lunchtimes on the tarmac school tennis court. Everyone who grew up in the 1970’s must have memories of Leeds United; they helped the whole country lose its innocence. I almost feel sorry for the younger Generation X’ers and their successors who have missed out on experiencing 1970’s Leeds United first hand.

Playing Leeds again is therefore a good thing, and I am light of heart as I head for the railway station beneath a sky decorated with fluffy clouds which recede in layers, off into the distance. On the train there is a Leeds fan sat behind me, he’s talking boringly about some player getting “regular game time”. The train smells of toilet cleaner, which I suppose is a good thing too, but then there is a whiff of cloying body spray; it smells a bit like Brut and I’m back in the 1970’s again.

Coming out of Ipswich railway station, by way of a change I turn right along Burrell Road towards what were the docks, but is now the waterfront, and the Briarbank Brewery where there is a beer festival today and bouncers at the door; it’s home fans only. My wife Paulene has encouraged me to do something different and not stick with the routine of going to the ‘Arb’; she says it will be good for my brain, but that’s from the woman who tried to make coffee this morning without putting any coffee in the coffee machine. I follow a bloke in a Town shirt with the name Counago on his back, but I don’t think it’s him. At the Briarbank, I eschew the ‘Yogi Bear’ picnic tables in the yard and head upstairs to what I think is one of my favourite bars anywhere in terms of décor. The wood panels have me in mind of being on a ship, but it also reminds me of the pub next to the high- level bridge in Newcastle, although I haven’t actually been in that pub for about forty years. I order a pint of Briarbank Bitter (£4.20) and take a seat by the window looking out on the Lord Nelson pub opposite and St Clement’s church, it makes me think of Sir Thomas Slade, architect of HMS Victory who is buried in the church and after whom nearby Slade Street is named. I also can’t help thinking of Noddy Holder and Dave Hill.

A bloke stood at the bar with another bloke says “The trouble is I can’t ignore social media all day” and I read the Summer edition of the local Camra magazine ‘Last Orders’. The pint of Briarbank Bitter is so good I finish it and buy another, and watch the cars pass by in the street below, I am struck by how most of them are grey, black or white, it seems a pity. Time runs down like the beer in my oddly shaped glass and after a comfort break in which I discover mats in the urinals which look like slices of melon, I thank the bar maids and leave for Portman Road. I am proud to be the last person to leave and the kindly bouncers bid be farewell and tell me to ‘take care’, which makes me feel like someone with ill intent might be looking for me; I do wish people wouldn’t say that.

There are long queues outside the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, which I blame on all these bar codes and QR codes and the average Alf Ramsey stander being over sixty. Getting through the turnstile just as Murphy the stadium announcer is reading out the Leeds team, I decide to syphon off more Briarbank Bitter to avoid accidents in moments of extreme excitement. I am stood in front of the steel trough as the Town players are announced and tempted as I am to bellow out their surnames in the manner of a French football crowd, I remain politely silent. Up in the stand, my seat is alone in being vacant as I shuffle past Pat from Clacton and Fiona towards the man from Stowmarket; two rows in front, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood are already here too, but then the game is about to begin.

It’s Leeds United who get first go with the ball and they wear all white, with pale blue and yellow stripes along the tops of their shoulders and down the sleeves, disappointingly they don’t have garters on their socks. Town as ever are in blue shirts and socks and white shorts. “Marching altogether” sing the Leeds fans in the Cobbold Stand “…and that’s the way we like it , Wo-oh, Oh, Oh” chant the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. Suddenly Kayden Jackson is bearing down on the Leeds goal in front of us, but perhaps through lack of confidence he squares it hopefully to no one in particular and what looked like a chance dissipates into the mass of legs and turf before us. Then Leeds are through on goal, but the shot is wildly off target and whoever it was, was offside anyway, so all the Town fans jeer derisively. It’s a good start.

“Hark now hear the Ipswich sing” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand, reviving a 1970’s Christmas song from when 1970’s Leeds United were well past their best. The seventh minute and Kayden Jackson races off down the left again and crosses the ball. There’s no Town player to get on the end of this cross but there does not need to be as the ball hits Leeds defender Joe Ridon and rides on onto the net. “Ipswich Town, one-nil up this afternoon, an own goal” announces announcer Murphy and I reflect on how many players have names that are nearly the same as those of American presidents. “What a player, we should sign that centre-back and put him up front.” Says the bloke behind me. Minutes later and Wes Burns has a shot saved and Town have their first corner. “And it’s Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, they’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand to the tune of the Irish Rover, but then sixty-seconds on and a bloke with the unlikely name of Georginio Rutter sort of pirouettes and wriggles and turns between two or three Town defenders before placing the ball in the Town net to equalise. Rutter is from Brittany, so his surname doesn’t sound so incongruous if you roll those r’s. “We all love Leeds” chant the people who all love Leeds.

This is an unexpected set-back, but another corner goes to Town soon after and a couple of shots go wide to give us hope, but then a cross from the Leeds left perplexes the Town defence and Willy Gnonto is left to score from very close range and Town are losing. Far behind us at the back the stand, a Leeds supporter or supporters celebrate as one does when one’s team takes the lead and a few uppity Town fans are mortally offended and begin to rail and moan and whine and generally behave as if someone has murdered their children and eaten them along with their pet dog, garnished with their favourite houseplants. In the Cobbold stand meanwhile, the Leeds fans who are as far as we know innocent of infanticide sing “Top of the league, You’re ‘aving a laff”, treating us to their short vowels and wit all in one fell swoop.

Just four minutes later, as the home crowd begin sixty-seconds applause for a supporter who has died, Leeds break down the left, the ball is crossed and after a first shot is blocked, another close-range finish, this time from Joel Piroe, puts Leeds into a 3-1 lead. It hardly seems possible, we’d got used to always being the ones in the lead and not conceding goals, and the applause just adds to the surreal nature of it all. The Leeds goals have been scored by a Frenchman, an Italian and a Dutchman.

Town settle down and still look capable of scoring and a Wes Burns cross elicits a Kayden Jackson backheel which produces another corner. The Leeds fans of course remain horribly buoyant, to the extent that like people on an 18-30 holiday they lose all self-respect and sing “Agadoo” by Black Lace (1984) as well as “Rocking All Over the World “ by Status Quo (1977). If only Stephen Foster had still been stadium announcer, he’d have played the originals I’m sure.

“Get a bit fucking tighter” bawls a bloke a few rows back as Leeds go forward again and the bloke behind me is similarly afflicted with doubt as he says to his neighbour “He always fuckin’ loses it don’t he?” as Massimo Luongo is surrounded by Leeds players who he doesn’t manage to dribble between. Another man, possibly the one who was so enraged by the Leeds supporter in the ‘home end’, shouts out something about Jimmy Savile and the Leeds fans sing a song which alludes to people with six fingers. On the pitch, Wes Burns is through on goal again but delays his shot, and a defender slides across to block it just as his foot makes contact with the ball. “De-de-de, Football in a library” chant the Leeds fans, possibly planning what they’re going to do with their time next week. Half- time looms as Nathan Broadhead shoots wide, and Wes Burns shoots over. There will be six minutes of additional time and Sinistrerra blazes a shot over the bar with spectacular aplomb for Leeds, Sam Morsy is booked and finally Kayden Jackson robs the ball off the toe of a defender and pulls it back from the goal line to Nathan Broadhead who makes the half-time score 2-3.

I go down to the front of the stand to chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison, who enjoyed the Robyn Hitchcock CD (Life After Infinity) which I gave him at the Stoke game. Ray thinks Town are not quite as quick as Leeds, he might be right.

With all the goals and shot of the first half I feel as if I’ve already seen a whole match, so it’s almost a shock when the second half begins and Leeds begin by substituting the substitute who they brought on just twenty odd minutes ago. I think we can take a lot of positives from this says the bloke behind me,” sounding like someone who has watched too many football managers being interviewed on TV. The Sir Bobby Robson stand reprise “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” as Town begin to dominate possession and push for an equalising goal. Massimo Luongo is booked, and I opine to Fiona that it’s his first foul. “But it was a good one” she says, referring euphemistically to its severity as ‘good,’ and I can’t really disagree.

Leeds full back Ayling emerges as this afternoon’s pantomime villain as he collapses under a challenge from Leif Davis, but the referee Robert Madley and his assistant aren’t fooled and give a free-kick to Town. “Ayling wasn’t ailing” I tell Pat from Clacton, who says she might have to get ‘Monkey’, the Cambodian masturbating monkey charm out of her bag if we don’t score soon. Then Vaclav Hladky makes a good save; Fiona had thought it was going to be a goal and with about twenty minutes of normal time left Town make mass (three) substitutions with Nathan Broadhead, Harry Clark and Kayden Jackson swapping places with Omari Hutchinson, Bradley Williams and Freddie Ladapo. It’s a change which brings almost immediate results as five minutes later Williams fails to prevent the appropriately named Sinisterra running down the left, cutting into the penalty and shooting beyond Hladky to put Leeds 4-2 ahead.

Behind us, at the back of the stand the Leeds fan or fans show their pleasure again and the grey-haired man who got so upset before becomes apoplectic with rage, as do several others. He’s running up the steps of the stand demanding that the Leeds fan is evicted from the ground. I think he might be a Nazi. “Who cares?” I ask the bloke behind me rhetorically. “I expect there are people in the crowd who vote Tory, but I don’t want them chucked out, live and let live, surely?” There’s enough hate and intolerance in the world without people getting weird just because someone cheers for another football team, or worships another God. Happily, I think it is the Nazi who gets removed from the ground.

With the uproar over, we return to contemplating defeat. “We can’t win ’em all” says Pat from Clacton philosophically. “Yes, but we had started to”, I reply. The fourth goal has made a comeback unlikely, but we continue to live in hope and Town are dominating the game. More substitutions are made in the absence of the ability to perform ‘fresh leg’ transplants and the search for at least two goals continues. Pat tells me that she’s having chicken drumsticks and salad for tea, she bought them from the new ‘out of town’ Marks & Spencer store in Clacton. After a couple of corners, five minutes of added on time is eventually all that holds our slender hopes of avoiding defeat. The stands start to empty out as those of little faith and others who never stay until the end because of a morbid fear of queuing traffic, or because they ‘must get home’ bugger off. The game is nearly over when Conor Chaplin scores; a typical shot into the corner, and hopes, though slender, suddenly fatten up. The re-start after the goal is greeted with slightly tired encouragement from the crowd and for a moment, Town surge forward, but only for a moment, and then time inevitably runs out. We’ve lost.

It’s been a great game, very entertaining and Town have played well despite losing. The analysis will perhaps suggest both team’s defenders were outplayed by their opponents’ forwards, but the Leeds forwards outplayed Town’s defence just a little bit more than Town’s forwards outplayed the Leeds defence. Either way, as Pat from Clacton rightfully said, we can’t win ‘em all.