Hillsborough

Ipswich Town 6 Sheffield Wednesday 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Although I began watching football in 1971, it took until September 1984 for me to first see Sheffield Wednesday play Ipswich Town.  This was largely because, despite an illustrious past back in the days of Arthur Balfour and then Ramsay McDonald,  Sheffield Wednesday were until 1984 bobbing about in the second division and then even visiting the likes of Layer Road, Colchester rather than Portman Road.  Indeed, I had first seen Wednesday five years before when they played out a thrilling goalless draw at Layer Road in what was only my third ever visit to the then home of our pauper cousins from over the border in Essex. That first encounter with Ipswich ended in a draw also, but four goals were shared that late summer or early autumn day, I honestly don’t remember which it was. Since then, I have seen Town play Sheffield Wednesday a further twenty-four times and of those games Ipswich have won a paltry six, with Sheffield winning an indecent eleven, including a five-nil embarrassment at Hillsborough in April 1994 and a relegation confirming one-nil defeat in May of 1986.  So, with this record in mind I feel I have good reason to bear Sheffield Wednesday a degree of ill-will, and on the morning of our latest encounter I hope for retribution, vengeance and other things Jesus wouldn’t have approved of.

It’s been a beautiful, bright spring morning; I had awoken to sunlight streaming into the bedroom and birds chirruping from the branches of the tree outside my window, in spite of the world of pain beyond.  After a hearty breakfast and a morning of garden tidying and playing at being Andy Warhol with photos of Ray Crawford and Ted Phillips, I leave my wife watching people in lycra cycling round Italy, to catch the train to Ipswich.  The train arrives on time, but leaves late. I sit opposite an elderly Town fan who I recognise from previous journeys to the match.  He tells me how watching football has been “…a way of life” for him, and how he would travel on the train to watch Sudbury Town when he was at Earls Colne Grammar school.  He asks me if I remember certain players like he does, they all have names like Len and Reg, Syd and Larry.  He’s seen them all he tells me, but the best player he thinks he ever saw was Ipswich’s Billy Baxter.  I ask him how old he is; he’s eighty-seven, and every other Saturday his daughter buys him a match ticket and a train ticket and puts him on the train to Ipswich.  I hope I’m still doing this when I’m eighty-seven, I think to myself.

Approaching the next stop, I remember I had arranged to meet Gary on the train, but I’ve been so busy talking about football in the 1950’s I have forgotten to text him to tell him which carriage I’m in.  Fortuitously, my carriage pulls up against the platform just where a slightly perplexed looking Gary is standing.  I leave my seat and walk over to the door as it opens so Gary can see me.  Unfortunately, I have lost my seat by the man from the 1950’s, but I’ll look out for him next time. Arriving in Ipswich, Gary and I head for ‘the Arb’ pausing only so that I can buy an ice cream in Portman Road, but as usual I come away with just a programme (£3.50).   At the bottom of Lady Lane an odd-looking man on an electric scooter covered in stickers weaves his way past us with a mobile phone pressed up against his ear.  Gary and I look at one another and burst out laughing.  I tell him I often see strange things in this part of town, but then, Lady Lane was the site of a medieval Catholic shrine.

Once at ‘the Arb’ I buy Gary a pint of Lager 43 and myself a pint of Maldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8 something with Camra discount) before we repair to the beer garden where all the seats at tables are taken and we have to sit on a park bench next to the back gate.   We talk of people we worked with in the 1990’s,  how Gary’s season ticket is next to someone who is a close relative of a friend of my sister, and discover that Gary has forgotten that we have tickets to see Stewart Lee at Chelmsford Civic Theatre next Friday.  Gary buys another pint of Lager 43, and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me and has spotted a free table which we then occupy.   Soon we are the only people left in the beer garden and it’s not even twenty to three; belatedly we join the herd.

Having bid Gary farewell within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, it’s not long before I’m queuing at turnstile 62 and then shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat, next but one to the man rom Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  As usual, my arrival has pretty-much coincided with the appearance of the teams and I joke with the man from Stowmarket that this is because I have in fact just left the dressing room having given the team talk.  On the pitch one of today’s mascots is wearing a Town shirt and pink party dress, I hope the kit designers at Umbro are taking notes. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams, and as if in a French football crowd ever-present Phil and I shout out the surnames.  As usual, the first few names appear on the scoreboard and Murphy is in time with them, but it doesn’t usually continue like that . The names keep appearing and Murphy keeps on reading and the names keep appearing and Murphy keeps on reading and I’m still waiting for the two to fall out of sync, but we’ve reached the substitutes and they haven’t.  Ever-present Phil turns around wide-eyed and incredulous, we can’t believe what we’ve witnessed, Murphy has only gone and done it!  He’s read out the team in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard.  “Crikey” I think to myself “We must be going to win by seven or eight today”.

The game begins, Sheffield Wednesday getting first go with the ball and pointing it mostly in the general direction of the Co-op on Norwich Road, Castle Hill and Whitton Sports Centre.  Sheffield wear a smart but not eye-catching kit of white shirts and black shorts, like Germany or Port Vale.  As ever, Town are in their signature blue and white. “Hi-Ho, Sheffield Wednesday” sing the visiting fans to the tune of Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’, although Wikipedia tells us that the song was first released by a band called The Attack a few days before Beck’s version in March 1967.  Weirdly, the Wednesday fans only sing those four words, as if they couldn’t think up any other lyrics, but liked the tune anyway.  The net effect is like a musical version of driving into a cul de sac, but there’s no harm in it and they soon move on to April of 1967 with a fuller rendition of Frankie Valli’s ‘You’re just to good to be true’ .  Their efforts deservedly earn Wednesday a corner after just four minutes, which is a full six minutes before Ipswich ‘s first corner and my first chance to bellow “Come On You Blues”, but to no avail .  “Not comfortable at the back” says the bloke behind me of Sheffield Wednesday.  “Don’t like pressure do they?” adds his sidekick.

Fourteen minutes pass. “Football in a library, do-do-do”.  So far, so ordinary, then Wes Burns crosses the ball from the right. The ball is played to Omari Hutchinson, he turns and in a perfect impersonation of Conor Chaplin accurately places a not unnecessarily hard shot inside a post and into the net. Town lead one-nil.  “Aye Aye Ippy Ippy Town, Singing Aye Aye Ippy Ippy Town” I sing, hoping to encourage a new craze of referring to Ipswich as “Ippy” because it sounds appropriately hip and happening.

Eighteen minutes gone and Town win another corner and I bawl again,  and then a minute later,  mysteriously six people in black anoraks arrive and sit down just over the gangway from us. “Men in black” says the bloke behind me. “Is there a funeral?” I ask Fiona.   Nobody knows, but with the half, half over Axel Tuanzebe earns another Town corner. “Come On You Blues” chant our tiny band of Ultras.    But it’s soon Vaclav Hladky who is being applauded as he has to make a diving save and Sheffield have a corner of their own before Town win another and as Sheffield threaten to breakaway, Omari Hutchinson is booked by the uncharacteristically tall referee Mr Leigh Doughty for nothing more than a playful shove.

There are ten minutes until half-time and disaster strikes as despite having won yet another corner for Town, Wes Burns is down on the pitch clutching his leg and has to go off; the only good thing being that he only had a short walk to the players’ tunnel, although I don’t suppose players generally think to themselves “I don’t mind getting injured as long as I don’t have to walk far back to the players’ tunnel”.

When the corner is eventually taken, Keiffer Moore heads the ball against the cross bar, it drops down, isn’t cleared and Cameron Burgess wellies it into the net from inside the six-yard box.  Town lead 2-0 and Cameron’s goal possesses the blunt, messy ugliness that has us reminiscing about the days of Mick McCarthy.  Kayden Jackson replaces Wes Burns and Portman Road is very nearly reverberating to the sound of chants of “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army”.  For pretty much the first time in the game the Sheffield fans have fallen silent.  “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, The finest football team the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand digging into their stash of Irish folk songs.

Another Town corner comes and goes before Wednesday’s number thirty-six, Ian Poveda runs worryingly at the Town defence.  “Don’t stand off ‘im Wolfie” calls the bloke behind me not expecting his advice to be taken. “As soon as he lets him get in the box he’s fucked” says his sidekick.  But happily disaster is averted, nothing unfortunate happens to Wolfie  and with three minutes of injury time announced Kayden Jackson sprints down the right, crosses low towards the goal and Nathan Broadhead subtly clips the ball into the goal from close range to give Town a 3-0 lead. It’s the best goal so far and makes half-time a time to kick back, relax and hope for another three goals in the second half, which is what I tell Dave the steward and Ray.

No sooner have I eaten a Nature Valley Oats and Honey Crunchy bar than the second half is upon us and Sheffield have substituted their star player, Barry Bannan, which is a shame because players called Barry are a rarity.  Omari Hutchinson quickly shoots over the cross-bar before there is a minute’s applause for another recently deceased Town fan, someone myself, Fiona, Pat from Clacton and ever-present Phil all remember from our days twenty-odd years ago of travelling to away matches with the Clacton branch of the supporters’ club.  By beautiful coincidence and synchronisation worthy of  stadium announcer Murphy,   on the stroke of the minute ending,  Town score a fourth goal, Omari ‘Mbappe’ Hutchinson despatching a decisive shot after an equally decisive run and pass from Nathan Broadhead.  The goal provokes a dash for the exits from an indecently large  number of Sheffield Wednesday supporters who have either just remembered they have urgent appointments elsewhere or who feel unable to support their team when the going gets this tough.

Happily, I have never seen Town surrender a four goal lead and so I am now confident of victory.  Massimo Luongo is as confident as me it seems and shoot from almost the half way line to earn yet another corner. “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League We Go! “ Sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand triumphantly and a substituted Sheffield Wednesday player walks grimly, head down, along the touchline to the tunnel, in a long black hooded coat, looking a bit like he’s lost his scythe.

The pre-match blue skies have now gone to be replaced by a glorious grey expanse , like one massive dull cloud that surrounds the stadium making it feel like a shining, green, floodlit  island within a becalmed sea of gloom.  I can’t imagine how the Sheffield supporters are feeling.  Keiffer Moore shoots over and Town win another corner as the first hour of the game recedes into recent history and Pat tells us that she’s off to Great Yarmouth next week to play whist.  All of a sudden, Sheffield unexpectedly break away and Ike Ugbo is bearing down on goal, but as he shoots Cameron Burgess whisks the ball away for a corner “He came from nowhere” says the bloke beside me,  exaggerating very little.

“ We love you Wednesday, we do” sing the Wednesdayites admirably, before reprising “You’re just too good to be true” and then going on the offensive with the oddly familiar chant of “ Your support is fucking shit”, which despite occasional outbursts of passion is a mostly a fair point, well made.   If Ipswich has a distinct ‘fan culture’ it is one of stoic reticence. “Four-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Wednesdayites providing the evidence to back up their earlier assertions.

But oddly, the game has gone a bit flat. “Come On Town” calls the bloke behind me echoing my inner dialogue and right on cue Kieran Mckenna, like someone brandishing a carton of Shake n’Vac,  makes the substitutions needed to put the  freshness  back.  Jeremy Sarmiento and Ali Al-Hamadi replace Nathan Broadhead and Keiffer Moore, and Murphy tells us that collectively we are 29,325 with 1,945 from Sheffield.  “Thank you for your continued support” he adds, like a man fully capable of reading out the team names as they appear on the scoreboard.

Sixteen minutes of the future still to look forward to and Al-Hamadi runs and shoots, but embarrassingly wide. To make Ali feel better about himself, Kayden Jackson then fluffs a volley with equal aplomb.  “Football in a library, do-do-do” chant the Wednesdayites again, reliving one of their early triumphs of the first half before revisiting the well-worn path of our support being faecal and the familiar and satisfying rhyming couplet of “No noise from the Tractor Boys”.  The Wednesday fans are sounding increasingly angry at the Town fans for being so quiet, as if it is almost an affront to them, which it probably is. I can imagine them sitting in the Cobbold Stand saying “These Ipswich fans, 4-0 up, they don’t know they’re born. Back in my day we’d be thirty-four nil down at half time, with ten players sent off, and we’d have all had our heads cut off by over zealous stewards and we’d still be singing.”

But now the final ten minutes are here, the time when in popular fan culture Ipswich are lucky because they score goals and win the game.  Today of course we’re all ready 4-0 up so it’s just for old times sake that Omari Hutchinson runs, Jeremy Sarmento shoots and Ali Al-Hamadi taps in the rebound after the Wednesday goal keeper only parries Sarmiento’s shot.  It’s 5-0 to Ipswich and more Wednesday fans remember urgent appointments.  “We want six” I chant.   “Stand up if you’re five-nil up” chant lots of Town fans and we have to stand up or else we can’t see anything. Why can’t we just do something like “Go Weeee” if we’re five-nil up, why is it always the standing up?  

Six minutes left and we haven’t scored enough goals in the final ten minutes yet, so the remainder of the midfield is replaced.  “You’re fucking shit, you’re fucking shit, you’re fucking shit” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand uncharitably to the visitors, but no doubt finally confident that with less than five minutes to go Town shouldn’t lose now, before optimistically asking “ Can we play you every week?”.  The final minute arrives and we still need another goal to fully avenge that 5-0 defeat in 1994. Omari Hutchinson runs, he shoots or may be crosses the ball and Al-Hamadi taps in again, and Town will win six nil for the third time in twelve months. “We want seven” I chant greedily, but three minutes of added on time evaporates and I have to make do with six.

With the final whistle, Pat and Fiona are quickly away into the early evening. I linger to applaud the team and Kieran McKenna and reflect on a day of perfect timings.  I shall be cracking open the Cremant tonight.

Ipswich Town 1 Sheffield Wednesday 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Ipswich Town first played Sheffield Wednesday back in August of 1958 in a second division game at Portman Road; trolleybuses were still running in Ipswich and Sheffield still had trams the first time round.  Town of course won (2-0), as we often did before the turn of the century.   By the time I started watching Town the twentieth century had the best part of thirty years still to run, but Sheffield Wednesday were down in the third division and Town were just getting established in what has now unfortunately become the Premier League, and hence the two clubs never met, not even in the Cup.  The first time I saw Wednesday was therefore not against Ipswich at all but at Layer Road, Colchester, in September of 1979, neither team managed to score.  When I eventually did see Town play Wednesday it was at Hillsborough in September of 1984, halfway through the miner’s strike. After the 2-2 draw I was amongst Town fans who were whisked back to Sheffield Midland station at high speed in a double-decker bus escorted by police motorcycles. As we sped through the streets of Sheffield that Saturday evening, we felt unsure if we would end up at the train station or hurtling through a jeering picket line to do a strike-breaking shift at a local colliery. 

Today is a somewhat grey September Saturday morning and it feels nothing at all like thirty-seven years ago, the class struggle seems to have been lost and now both Town and Wednesday languish in the third division playing second fiddle to their loathsome local rivals. I don’t know if it has anything to do with a loss of revolutionary zeal, but my enthusiasm for today’s fixture is oddly muted, particularly given Town’s first win of the season last weekend, and as if to confirm my feelings of ennui this morning I chose to put on a pair of socks that depict Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’. Nevertheless, there is never any doubt that I won’t drive to Ipswich, park up my trusty Citroen C3 on Chantry, wander down through Gippeswyk Park and search out a pre-match beer. Later as I walk up Princes Street, what I assume is a police drone hovers above and I am struck by the new views of Portman Road that have been opened up following demolition of the former Mann Egerton garage from where in 1978 my father bought the brown Triumph Dolomite in which I wooed my first girlfriend.  Having witnessed a man shouting and swearing at his friend or partner trying unsuccessfully to back a mini into a parking space, I end up at the Arbor House (properly known as the Arboretum) where I sit alone in the garden and drink a pint of Woodforde’s Kett’s Rebellion (£3.80). 

At about twenty-five minutes to three I head for Portman Road and join the crocodile of supporters descending St George’s Street from the Greyhound.  Making my way along Sir Alf Ramsey Way and Constantine Road I show my Covid credentials and then enter the Sir Alf Ramsey stand through turnstile number sixty, offering a cheery ‘Hello’ and ‘Thank you’ to the turnstile operator as I enter the ground.  The programme seller in the driveway to the main reception has sold out so I make my way to the little shop at the far end of the stand where I buy a programme (£3.50). “Enjoy the match” says the young man behind the counter as he hands over the glossy booklet and my change from a five-pound note.  “Or bon match as they say in France”, I reply pointing to the “Allez les bleus” slogan on the front of my T-shirt as I turn away and walk into one of the metal barriers that have been set out in front of the shop, presumably to marshal the invisible throng of people over eager to buy programmes and other assorted toot.

On the lower tier of the stand Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, Ray, his son and his grandson Harrison are already in their seats. Pat from Clacton arrives soon after I sit down and as the teams run out, the little band called Blue Action who now occupy Section 6 of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and wave blue and white flags, and brandish a colourful banner that reads “Uppa Towen”.  Compared to the tifos seen in the stands of Marseille or Lens, Blue Action’s effort is rather pathetic, but in the context of soporific Suffolk it’s a bloody marvel and I like it very much.  At a minute past three the game begins with Scott Fraser making first contact with the ball as Town aim to put it in the big white goal just in front of me to my right.  Within 30 seconds Sheffield Wednesday win a corner with their supporters still singing along to ‘Hey Jude’, a song which is played over the PA system with the intention of rousing the home fans, not the away ones; but it’s good to be optimistic.  Three minutes later and Town should be ahead as a simple through ball from Cameron Burgess puts the oddly named Macauley Bonne through on goal, only for Bonne to take too much time and eventually place the ball weakly against the chest of Sheffield Wednesday goalkeeper Bailey Peacock-Farrell, a man who looks like a giant orange-flavour Lyons Maid Mivvi, sounds like a firm of accountants and can stop most shots by merely stringing his name out across the goalmouth.

Behind me two blokes debate which of Town’s two defensive midfielders is Idris El-Mizouni and which is Tommy Carroll. The louder, more assertive bloke concludes that Idris is number 25, which he is not, because that’s Tommy Carroll.  I briefly toy with the idea of turning around to point out his error, but happily his more cautious accomplice discovers the truth a short while later to save me the trouble.   Meanwhile, up in the Cobbold Stand the Sheffielders sing “Shall we sing a, Shall we sing a, Shall we sing a song for you” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.  Nobody responds, presumably because most people are thinking to themselves “Well, they’re already singing a song, what are they on about?”.  For my part, I’m impressed by their politeness and given a choice would ask for something by Heaven 17, Pulp or the Arctic Monkeys.

Fifteen minutes have elapsed since the game started and so far not very much of note has happened. Then, Wes Burns slams the ball into the net after either the oddly named Macauley Bonne or Scott Fraser flicks the ball on to him, but Burns is, unbeknown to me and those around me, offside; we therefore stand up as one and cheer wildly only to sit down again a moment later feeling cheated and very slightly embarrassed.  To their eternal credit the Wednesdayites do not chant “You thought you had scored, you were wrong, you were wrong”, which is nice of them.

The game is close and compelling although not of particularly good quality; Sheffield are quicker to the ball and dominate possession, but fortunately their tiny ten, the wonderfully named Barry Bannan tends to overhit most of his crosses and long passes.  For Town meanwhile, the oddly named Macauley Bonne looks somewhat lonely up front on his own and I surmise that he wears the number eighteen shirt because he’s doing the work of two number nines.

“It’s gonna come innit?” announces the bloke behind me optimistically as Town waste an opportunity with Idris El-Mizouni passing to Wes Burns when he could have had a shot and Wes Burns overhitting the ensuing cross.  Then, slightly unexpectedly, we witness a Sheffield Wednesday goal instead; Dennis Adeniran becoming the first man called Dennis, with two ‘n’s like the fire engines and dust carts, to score at Portman Road in living memory, although Denis (only one ‘n’) Maffey did score for Town back in September 1947 in a 4-0 win over Southend.

The Sheffield supporters away to my right are predictably pleased and sing an incomprehensible song to the tune of the ‘Yankee Doodle’ nursery rhyme; their euphoria and short vowels rendering their words indecipherable, but for the final one which is ‘Wednesday’.   I have to admit to feeling somewhat depressed that Town have gone behind again at home and can barely remember when I last saw them comfortably win a game by three or four goals to nil, like we used to do.   There must be young supporters who are barely aware that such things ever happened or are even possible.  Pat from Clacton echoes my disappointment. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” she says.

As if the frustration of being a goal down wasn’t enough, the referee Mr Andy Davies, whose head is conspicuously hairless, then proceeds to deny the oddly named Macauley Bonne a free-kick when his feet miraculously disappear from beneath him as he attempts to side step a Wednesday defender on the edge of the penalty box.   “You don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand employing a childish simplicity reminiscent of the school playground.  Further decisions from the increasingly inept Mr Davies go against Town and as he speaks to and perhaps compares haircuts with a clearly perplexed Paul Cook, the crowd ask “Who’s the wanker in the black?” suggesting both that they haven’t read the back pages of their programmes carefully enough and that they care not about the possibility of either of the linesmen thinking “Ooh, I hope they don’t mean me?”.

The half-time break arrives and Town still trail, I console myself with a Nature Valley peanut and chocolate protein bar and a chat with Ray, who bemoans the performance of Mr Andy Davies and more controversially of Bersant Celina, who doesn’t look as fit or sharp as he might.  Not far from where Ray and I are standing former Town and Sheffield Wednesday player Shefki Kuqi appears, looking trim and very smart in a grey suit good enough for a job interview or court appearance, and takes the well-deserved applause of the whole ground.

At four minutes past four the football resumes and Town enjoy more possession, although a lot of it involves passing the ball across the field waiting for the right opening to appear.  It’s not long before Mr Davies is showing off his poor refereeing skills once again as Wednesday’s Liam Palmer is tripped on the edge of the Town penalty box.  Appearing uncertain whether the foul happened inside or outside the box, Mr Davies doesn’t give a foul at all, making it the Wednesdayites’ turn to tell him he doesn’t know what he’s doing, provoking ironic jeers from the Town supporters to which the Wednesday fans respond with a chant of “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here”. It’s easily done.

In the sixty-seventh minute Wednesday’s tiny ten, Barry Bannen, leaves the pitch as slowly as his little legs will carry him to be replaced by Callum Paterson.  Barry’s departure leaves Wednesday’s Sam Hutchinson as the only player on the pitch with particularly naff looking bleached blonde hair.  The oddly named Macauley Bonne shoots straight at Bailey Peacock-Farrell for a second time this afternoon, and then for a while substitutions seem to become the purpose of the game, as Wednesday swap seven for seventeen and Town swap Celina and Burns for Harper and Chaplin, before the oddly named Macauley Bonne has another opportunity, which this time is deflected away for a corner, and then Cameron Burgess heads wide of the goal.  For the first time this afternoon the Sheffield Wednesday support has fallen silent, although not as silent as most of the Ipswich crowd is the rest of the time .

Twelve minutes remain and as Sheffield make a rare foray forward, Idris El-Mizouni manages to fell two of them at once with a Keystone Cops style assault, which unfairly results in his being shown the yellow card by the hopeless Mr Davies, who plainly doesn’t appreciate good slapstick comedy when he sees it.  Not long afterwards Idris is replaced by Joe Piggott, but he leaves the field to appreciative and well-deserved applause having played a skilful, controlled game to be expected of a player who grew up in France.  He will be the new Zizou yet.

With the game entering its final throes, one of the seats in the row in front of me and to my left becomes occupied by what I can only describe as a gobby oik, who complains that Town are knocking the ball around like they’re winning.  He seems to know the bloke behind me and after flicking ‘v’ signs at the Sheffield supporters he turns to him seeking his approval; I’m not sure he gets it.  He doesn’t like that no one sings in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and I share his despair, but otherwise he seems a right berk and I hope he abides by his promise that he’ll watch the next game from the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.

Not much more than five minutes of normal time remain and Cheyenne Dunkley, who is even more oddly and improbably named than the oddly named Macauley Bonne, replaces Said Berahino for Wednesday.  Two minutes of normal time remain and Ipswich press for an equaliser. “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chant an almost respectable number of the home crowd, but slightly shyly.  Ninety minutes are up and from my seat it looks like Bailey Peacock- Farrell is about to make a drop kick, but suddenly the oddly named Macauley Bonne has the ball and the Wednesday defence is in disarray, Bonne passes back across the face of goal to  Scott Fraser and Fraser sends it onto Conor Chaplin at the far post and he smashes the ball into the gaping Wednesday net! We’ve equalised! Well, I wasn’t expecting that.

Most of time added on for assorted stoppages remains and Town have the opportunity to score the winner as Rekeem Harper surges unpredictably into the penalty box,  but shoots weakly at the orange Mivvi .  The remaining time ebbs away and the game ends with no further goals, although Scott Fraser makes a final flourish in Mr Davies notebook with a cynical trip.  As the players leave the pitch a good number of people stay back to applaud their efforts.  I am pleased that we haven’t lost, because I thought we were going to, but overall, I am still a little disappointed that we haven’t played better.  As I drive home listening to Radio Suffolk, mainly for the laughs, it’s a view that I learn the legendary Mick Mills also holds, although many listeners seem to disagree.  It is very unusual for me to be disappointed with a Town performance when other Town supporters aren’t.

The first home victory of the season still remains annoyingly elusive, but heck, we’re playing bottom of the table Doncaster Rovers next, so how difficult can it be, so I’ll stay positive and try not to wear the Edvard Munch socks again.