Harry Clarke

Ipswich Town 6 Charlton Athletic 0

/ 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

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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 “1st 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 4 Wycombe Wanderers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Four day working weeks are second only in my list of favourite working weeks to any weeks with fewer working days.  But four day working weeks are definitely a good thing and so Easter week has therefore been a good week; and now, to add another layer of ‘good’, Town are playing at home to Buckinghamshire’s finest, Wycombe Wanderers, known as The Chairboys because of the town’s indiginous chair-making industry.  I have however been dreaming again this week, this time about dating mysterious younger women; women who I do not recognise and who presumably are figments of my sub-conscious.  These are pleasant dreams until I remember that I’ve been married for twenty-three years, although weirdly my wife doesn’t seem to mind, in the dreams at least; she probably just rolls her eyes.

I came to town early today to deliver a card congratulating two friends on their forthcoming wedding, which they are flying out to on Tuesday, because they are holding it in Las Vegas.  Travelling 6,000 miles to get married is no way to save the planet, but at least I tried to off-set their profligacy by recycling old photographs to make their card.  Having parked up my planet saving Citroen e-C4, I walk across Gippeswyk Park beneath blue skies decorated with cotton wool clouds. On Commercial Road a Range Rover speeds across the junction with the Princes Street bus lane and a youth calls out “Blue Army” through the open car window. Shouting youths aside, the streets are unusually quiet for a match day, until I reach Portman Road, where pre-match business is as usual and people hang about stuffing their faces with marshmallow bread and mechanically reclaimed meat products.  The Wycombe team bus is parked opposite the Alf Ramsey Stand and on the back of the Cobbold Stand Bobby Robson appears to be squeezing his face through the top light of a window.  I buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the blue kiosks; I check that I can pay by card and the young programme seller asks me how many programmes I want. I tell him I’m not exactly sure how much is in my account, so I’ll stick with just the one; fortunately, he laughs.   

I leave Portman Road and walk on towards The Arb. By the underground spiral car park a man sits down on a bench to read the Daily Mirror and in the surface car park above another man swigs beer from a bottle, it reminds me of how in Montpellier fans have pre-match, ‘bring your own’ booze -ups in the park and ride car park next to the tram terminus.  At The Arb there is no queue at the bar and I therefore waste no more of my life before ordering a pint of my ‘usual’, Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra 10% discount). I retire to the beer garden, which is busy with happy drinkers and diners enjoying the sun, I ask a couple of blokes if they mind if I ‘perch’ at the end of their table, they don’t.  I read my programme and they talk to each other about holidays. One of them is thinking of going to Mexico, the other says that “Linda’s going to have the cat when we’re in Crete”.

It’s not two o’clock yet, but the would-be holidaymakers soon drain their glasses and leave for Portman Road, one of them says they can stop at the Arcade Tavern on the way if it’s too far. Mick won’t be joining me today because he’s on his way back from Antwerp; (he had wanted to go somewhere to celebrate his 70th birthday to which he didn’t have to fly) but very soon I am not completely surprised when Gary sits down opposite me.  We talk of mutual acquaintances, of quizzes Gary has recently participated in,  of football in the Scilly Isles and how Gary saw Colchester United play Wycombe Wanderers in the FA Cup when Wycombe were still non-league; I tell him Wycombe’s old ground was called Loakes Park. Gary buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride, which is very kind of him. At about twenty-five to three we head for Portman Road, I think we’re the last to leave the pub.

Our conversation continues as we accumulate fellow fans all around us, all walking to the match. If everyone was singing in rounds it would be like that bit in West Side Story as the Sharks and the Jets gather for the rumble beneath the freeway flyover.  Gary and I part at the corner of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way and as a parting shot I remember to tell him how there’s been a new ice cream van stopping in my street this week; slightly weirdly however it is painted grey and black, and also carries the words “All events catered for” above the drivers cab, and I speculate whether it gets booked for wakes after summer funerals.

Leaving Gary to find the Magnus West Stand, I head down Portman Road to the new turnstiles at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, which are in use for the first time today; except that I walk past the entrance to those turnstiles and carry on walking out into Princes Street, and then onto Chancery Road and into Russell Road, and opposite the Ipswich Borough Council offices is where I find the end of the queue.  “Flippin’ ‘eck” I think to myself, in the style of the class-mates of Tucker in Grange Hill.  This is all rather annoying and once again proves change to be a bad thing.  The queue moves quickly however, although it doesn’t stop one shambling, scruffy looking man from loudly moaning about the situation as he waves his season ticket about and tells everyone “Forty years I’ve supported this club”. I happen to know that the man’s name is Dave.  I wonder if he’s worried he might have to spend the next forty years queuing.

I’m soon walking past the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand again and am pleased to see that there are still turnstiles numbered 61 and 62, and whilst I am inevitably drawn towards these, I am instead ushered towards an open gate and a man with a bar code reader.  I feel like I’ve made the kind of entrance into the stadium that Watch with Mother’s Mr Benn would have made.  After re-cycling some of my two pints of Suffolk Pride, I take my seat between Fiona and the man from Stowmarket who is probably really from Stowupland; ever present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and Pat from Clacton are all here too. With so many people still outside I am surprised there are so many people in the ground.  I’ve missed kick-off and the first three minutes of the match.  It might be the first time I’ve missed the kick-off since Town played away to Northampton in the League Cup on a very wet night in October 1987, but it might not be because I think I also missed the kick-off at Nottingham Forest as recently as November 2002.

I quickly work out that Town are kicking towards the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and Wycombe Wanderers are wearing red shirts, shorts and socks with white trim and that as away kits go it’s one of the more boring ones, as if they put all their thought into their groovy two-tone blue home kit and had no imagination left.  “Alright?” says the bloke behind me to what I think is his son. “Yeeeah!” is the expected, but weirdly elongated answer from the sprog.   I’m soon amused by the Wycombe number seven who is left lying in the middle of the pitch as Town attack; the ball is passed and passed again, and again and again. Play only stops when Town are awarded a free-kick, when the prostrate player then miraculously gets up and manfully carries on.  The game isn’t very exciting, and I wonder whether it was more fun in the queue and how long it is now.  Town aren’t playing badly though, it’s just taking time to find the key to unlocking the Wycombe Wanderers defence.  But there’s a palpable sense of people willing the team to win and it manifests itself as a huge collective sigh of disappointment when what looks like it might be a crucial pass from Harry Clarke is intercepted by an opponent. 

In the fifteenth minute Town score, there is a mighty roar from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but elsewhere  we all saw the linesman raise his flag and we have retained our insouciance, although I am tempted to chant “You thought you had scored, you were wrong” because it doesn’t seem like the Wycombe supporters are going to bother, and they don’t.   Five minutes later and a Wycombe player goes down as if hurt. As a track-suited angel provides succour it gives the opportunity for remedial touchline coaching for everyone else.  All is quiet but for the beat of the drum in the Sir Bobby Stand, which is annoying Pat from Clacton; she doesn’t like loud noises.

The half is already half over as Wycombe have a shot from outside the penalty area which flies over the Town cross bar, it came as a result of a set piece free-kick and that is Wycombe’s chief weapon,  unlike the Spanish Inquisition who as men now in their sixties and seventies know, had numerous weapons in their armoury, none of which were set piece free-kicks. A sense of restlessness is beginning to gurgle through the Town support. “Come On Town” calls the bloke behind me  and a chant of “Come on Ipswich “ is repeated with varying degrees of enthusiasm around the ground at least three times, possibly four.  Harry Clarke has a shot, but it’s a relatively easy save for the Wycombe goalkeeper Max Stryjek.  “Ooh, that bloody drum” says Pat from Clacton.  There are a little over ten minutes until half time and Town win a corner as a Conor Chaplin shot is saved.  The corner is hit low and is cleared, but three minutes later Town win another. “Come On You Blues” chant sections of the crowd, at least three times, and I blow the strange red and white reverberating plastic thing I found in the club shop of Racing Club de Lens in 2017.  George Hirst heads the ball imperiously into the Wycombe net. Town lead 1-0. Relief and joy slosh about together in a heady cocktail.

Five minutes until half-time and Nathan Broadhead wins yet another corner.  From the Sir Bobby Robson the strains of Joy Division’s ‘Love will tear us apart’ can be heard, although all I can make out of the lyrics is that something is “falling apart again”, I just hope it’s nothing structural.  From Joy Division the choir soon flits to “When the Town go marching in” sung to an even more slow, turgid pace than usual as if the world was in slow motion, which is almost the title of a single by New Order. The ball is in the Wycombe penalty area, it’s at the feet of Conor Chaplin, time stands still, no one moves, Conor Chaplin kicks the ball into the goal past a static Stryjek and Town lead 2-0.  Joy abounds once more. After three minutes of added on time I join Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison down at the front for some conversation about haircuts, queuing, the often-dubious use of the words ‘ethical’ and ‘affordable’ and the scandal of how the food stall beneath the stand had sold out of sausage rolls even before kick-off.  Ray kindly ‘pours out’ four mini-Easter eggs for me from a polythene bag, I eat two having carefully and studiously peeled off the delicate foil wrapping, because it feels horrible against the fillings in your teeth.

The football resumes at seven minutes past four with Wycombe Wanderers getting first go with the ball, although they soon lose it, and Town quickly have another corner.   I give the two remaining Easter eggs that Ray gave me to Fiona and Pat from Clacton; Fiona’s egg is in a blue wrapper, Pat’s is in a green one, but she takes it anyway and pops it in her handbag for later. Seven minutes into the new half and referee Mr David Rock gets to air his yellow card for the first time as Wycombe’s Chris Forino needlessly hurtles into Wes Burns and sends him flying.  “The Town are going up, the Town are going up” sing the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand with feeling as Wes Burns darts down the wing to put in a low cross, which is diverted into the side netting by a Wycombe boot.  

It’s the fifty-seventh minute and the ball is controlled by George Hirst in the middle and played  out to the right, Harry Clarke and Wes Burns are both through on goal, but Wes is travelling faster and facing head on to the goal, Harry defers to Wes who strikes the ball; one split second the ball leaves Wes’s boot, later that same split second it nestles in the back of the Wycombe goal net.  “Pick the bones out of that” is the expression that springs to mind and Town lead 3-0.  What had started as a difficult looking fixture against a team eager to get into the play-off places now looks like an end of season romp against mid-table duffers keen to get away on holiday.

“I’m looking forward to my baked potato, salad and prawns now” says Pat, confident the afternoon is going to end well and explaining that although today is a Friday, it’s like a Saturday.   Pat’s enthusiasm must be infectious and for a moment it seems like the whole crowd start to sing “We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, He knows exactly what we need, Woolfy at the back, Ladapo in attack, And now we’re gonna win the fuckin’ league.” But I must be hallucinating, may be it was the Easter eggs.  “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing…” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand to the tune of ‘Mary’s boy child’, clearly totally confused as to which Christian festival is which.

I count seven seagulls on the cross-girder of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and Wycombe replace the prosaically named Nick Freeman with the more exotic sounding Tjay de Barr.  News that neither Plymouth Argyle nor Sheffield Wednesday are winning prompts chants of “We are top of the league, we are top of the league” because we are, thanks to goal difference. A quarter of the match remains and it’s time for Town make a mass substitution, replacing over a third of the team in one fell swoop. As the changes are announced, the players draw the sort of personally directed  applause they don’t get when they just leave the pitch with everyone else at the end of the match. Wes Burns, George Hirst, Nathan Broadhead and Conor Chaplin are the recipients of the ovations and the crowd sings “Ei, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go”.  Stadium announcer Stephen Foster tells us that there are 28,511 souls in the stadium today with 643 of that number vainly supporting Wycombe when they could have been at home making chairs. Many of the crowd warmly applaud themselves for turning up.

Town win a corner courtesy of the clumsy looking Ryan Tafazolli, and Cameron Burgess heads over the cross-bar.  Four minutes later and substitute Kyle Edwards gets the ball inside the Wycombe penalty box, but before he has the chance to control the ball he is barged over by Wycombe’s Scowen whose surname sounds as rough and unrefined as his challenge is. Appropriately, given that the referee is Mr Rock, it is a stone wall penalty.  Freddie Ladapo steps up to score, shooting to the left as Stryjek stupidly but conveniently dives in the opposite direction.  Town lead 4-0, it’s a rout, a sound thrashing, a gubbing and a stuffing.

The afternoon’s work is done; another substitution is made as the excellent Massimo Luongo is replaced by Dominic Ball, another corner is won, Wycombe make more substitutions of their own and Tafazoli receives the booking his savage play so richly deserves after he attempts to beat off Kayden Jackson with a thrusting forearm to the throat.  At least five minutes of additional time is played out in which Wycombe succeed in extending Town’s run to nine consecutive clean sheets before the result is finally confirmed a bit before five o’clock.

To my right Fiona and Pat from Clacton quickly disappear back to their other lives and soon afterwards to my left the man sat there heads back to Stowmarket,  or possibly Stowupland.  Many linger to hail their conquering heroes.  In all truth it’s not been the very best of games, but then again it has, and the excellent result has left me with the warm glow of satisfaction.   Town have outplayed and outclassed a well organised team.  I feel like celebrating , I wonder if the ice cream van will be round tomorrow.

Ipswich Town 3 Accrington Stanley 0

/ 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 7th 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.

IpswichTown 4 Forest Green Rovers 0

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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