Ipswich Town

Ipswich Town 1 Leeds United 1

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If this was 1973, what a fixture this would be, and it was, but Leeds won back then, nil to three, in front of a crowd of 27,513.

Dirty Leeds.   Northern bastards.   Tetley bittermen.  They never won anything fairly said Brian Clough; cheats the lot of ‘em. They should have put their medals in the bin.    And this is why you have to love a fixture against Leeds United today.  The weight of such history can’t be lifted and why would you want it to be.

Everybody hated Leeds United in 1973 and, if we have an opinion, a lot of us still do.  In these times of image and branding, Leeds United still retains a strong hold on the minds of supporters because of what they were forty years ago.  That all white home kit, that so 1970’s curvy LU badge, the garters on the socks and those players, Bremner, Lorimer, Norman ‘bite ya legs’ Hunter, ‘Sniffer’ Clarke , Gray, Madeley, Jones, Reaney and Cooper.  That Leeds United defines a time and place, the nasty early 1970’s of IRA bombs, the three day week, power cuts, industrial unrest, Baader Meinhof,  tank tops, platform shoes, Chicory Tip and the Wombles.  Leeds United with all their nastiness were a reflection of the age; a footballcentric Clockwork Orange.   In their stark white kit they were the ruthless professionals who replaced the likes of the homely Matthews and Finney; Leeds United was the monolithic new Arndale Centre that swept away the Victorian streets, and the teased coiffure and the feather cut that usurped the plastered down Brylcreemed pates of the 1950’s for ever.   Efficient, impressive, modern, but ugly and lacking a soul.

Of course in Ipswich we never had an Arndale Centre; we had the Greyfriars Shopping Centre but the locals ignored it and didn’t go there, and only moaned about it, so a bit like Ipswich Town today really.

And then there were the Leeds supporters; how the Sunday papers loved the stories of smashed up trains and pubs and bovver booted rampages through the streets, but Manchester United and Chelsea and West Ham supporters were no different, they were all a bit lairy back then, that was the fan culture before ‘fan culture’ existed, before it was labelled, sanitised, branded by TV as the theme for betting adverts and the larky back drop to Super Sundays.  Leeds supporters have a bad reputation still, their coaches were parked right outside the away stand today so they could befoul as few as possible of the streets of Ipswich with their short vowels and bile and phlegm.   Because they sing continuously whatever the score, Leeds United fans are an oddity in Ipswich, the locals don’t understand and stare cow-eyed, mouths agape.  Ipswich Town is a football club where most of the crowd have forgotten or have simply never known how to support their team.  In Ipswich people don’t seem to know that showing support by shouting and singing is actually what they should be doing.  They think they should just sit quietly, not cause a fuss.  It makes a difference.  How else are the players going to know if anyone really cares about the result, there’s got to be more to the beautiful  game played well than just a win bonus, especially when your ordinary weekly wage is so bloody vast in the first place.

In Ipswich, the club’s fan base was built up in the 1970’s, probably reaching its zenith in 1975 as Town epically overcame Leeds United in a third replay to reach their first ever FA Cup semi-final.  (None of this penalty shoot-out bollocks back then; it’s like the FA just wants to get the whole thing over and done with now, roll on the close season.) Courtesy of Bobby Robson the team was ridiculously good for a small provincial town.  Ever since Robson departed in 1982 the Town have at best been middling, and when Roy Keane became manager they became virtually unwatchable.  Those fans from the 1970’s have stayed loyal to the Town however, but people don’t age disgracefully in Ipswich and the silent silver-haired majority in Churchman’s now look on impassively, saving themselves in case they have to boo at the end.  The young fans have no role model to follow and like when they see monkeys shagging at the zoo, pre-pubescent boys turn to their dads and ask what the Leeds fans are doing.  “Just watch the game son” is the likely reply.

Misunderstanding their past Leeds United wore white shorts and yellow jerseys today and there was no stylised LU to be seen on the club crest, or garters on their socks.  But to be fair, it is no longer 1973; thank the time space continuum for that, but I imagined how it was and I think the Leeds fans did too.  Pantomime villains they may be, but it would be a crappy pantomime without Leeds United, as it sadly often is at Portman Road when your best days are Behind You!

Footnote : Had Bobby Robson not died in 2009, the day of this Leeds game would have been his 84th birthday.  Consequently, in the 84th minute of the match there was a minute’s applause for Sir Bobby; a sort of birthday greeting sent out by Town fans to beyond the grave; the idea apparently of local radio person Mark Murphy see tweet @MarkGlennMurphy.   An awkwardly sentimental idea, because people don’t really have birthdays once they’re dead, it is also flawed because, as my wife pointed out to me, if it is to be repeated after Saturday 18th February 2023, games will have to routinely start going into extra-time; I’m not sure the Football League would agree to that, but you never know.    If anyone thought Sir Alf Ramsey was deserving of the same sort of post mortem birthday greeting then I regret to tell you that  that particular funeral barge has already sailed because he was born in 1920 and so would already require at best Manchester United style time added-on but more probably, that hard-to-sanction extra time.

Oh, and finally, if you are at all intrigued by the Leeds United of the 1970’s and haven’t already read it then be sure to buy, borrow or steal (depending on lifestyle choice) a copy of ‘The Damned Utd’ by David Peace, it is an excellent novel and one of the very best books about football.

Colchester United 2 Crawley Town 3

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Emerging from Colchester station I crossed through a queue of cars and coughed a little at the fumes left hanging in the evening air. It was cool, it was mid- February, man. Valentines day and my wife had stayed in with Adrian Rabiot and Marco Verrati. A hoarding announced that a brick brutalist building (if that is possible), former offices overlooking the railway, is being converted into flats, Station Court it will be called, what a lovely name, only one down from Station Mews. I felt a little sick, it may have been those fumes, but was more likely the two Greggs sausage rolls eaten on the train from Ipswich. Note to self, never buy a Greggs sausage roll again, they only cost a pound each for a reason.

The Bricklayers Arms is a satisfyingly short walk from Colchester station and with a pint of Adnams Old Ale for £3.65 I sat down at a round table to sup and read. I was one corner of a triangle with two empty chairs, no one asked if they were free, the pub wasn’t that busy. I am reading a book entitled ‘The Numbers Game – Why Everything You Know About Football Is Wrong’ and soon I am going to catch a bus to see Colchester United play Crawley Town in what I call Football League Division Four. I am not a football obsessive though, in fact I hate the bloody game and later I am going to write a fucking blog about it.

There were only two other people on the top deck of the bus to Layer Road (£2.50 return fare), or the Weston Homes Out In The Middle of Nowhere Community Stadium as I believe it is more properly known. Lonely and scared I spoke to them; one was an occasional Crawley Town follower who only began to take an interest when they were drawn against Manchester United in the FA Cup; he knew nothing about their players but nevertheless liked the club and wore the scarf, he was like a reverse Manchester United fan, I thought he was laudable. His companion was in IT and had worked for Ipswich Town (haha ITIT) during the George Burley and David Sheepshanks era, but left disillusioned by the budget cutting Marcus Evans. What is Marcus Evans up to at Ipswich?

Having resisted the temptation to buy a cuddly Eddie the Eagle mascot in the club shop I queued for what must have been seconds to get into the stadium where I immediately met a lady steward I know, we hugged; I felt blessed, all football supporters should get a hug from a steward I thought (if they want one) , a sort of apology for that frisking and request to look in your bag.

After urinating in a slightly smelly and drafty room of shiny steel troughs and breeze blocks I sat down in time to hear the stadium announcer tell us that Owen Garvan would be wearing the two little ducks shirt; although he actually said twenty-two. Owen Garvan played for Ipswich Town, I am an Ipswich season ticket holder, Roy Keane sent Owen Garvan away to Crystal Palace, I liked Owen Garvan, I hate Roy Keane.

The Jam’s A Town Called Malice played on the public address, was it a reference to Colchester or Crawley? The ‘real’ Eddie the Eagle mascot did a Mick Jagger impression to a Rolling Stones tune and the scoreboard advertised a night out at the stadium to see the Rollin’ Clones, a tribute act . I wondered if it would be possible to clone Keith Richards or has his DNA been irreparably damaged like his face.

Yay, the game had started. George Elokobi was playing for Colchester and looked a different shape to when I had last seen him play for Braintree Town; was he slimmer or was he wearing a truss? For one moment the floodlights reflected so brightly off the head of Crawley’s Kaby Djalo I thought he was sporting a Davy lamp, he wasn’t. A Colchester player jumped at a Crawley man, falling over him as he followed the trajectory of the ball; free-kick to Crawley, “e’s given it the uvverway” moaned the bloke in front of me expounding his ongoing critique of the referee Lee Collins. As United’s Dickenson vainly tried to manoeuvre around the Crawley full-back and ran the ball into touch, another concerned Colcestrian desperately called out ” ‘elp ‘im” . But Colchester were doing alright, striking at the very heart of the Crawley defence and after 18 minutes Johnstone scored, shooting beneath ‘keeper Morris and all was well.

Having seen the joy that a goal can provide, five minutes on and Crawley Town got one too, a corner being diverted into the net from very close range by a man called Smith. That popular beat combo The Cure and their frontman Robert Smith were from Crawley. I hoped it was a relative at least. The scoreboard declared Barry’s 50 year love for Joan because it was Valentine’s day, but her joy was likely dented nine minutes later as a high cross was headed back to Smiffy and he volleyed the ball unsympathetically into the Colchester net. The natives were no longer happy . ” The trouble with this now is…” said a bloke behind me, but trailed off frustratingly; what was the trouble with this, apart from the obvious?

Half-time. Cup of tea for a pound and a check of the half time results, then back for more. Smith again, this time low and at an angle from 20 yards, 3-1 to Crawley. Smith 23,34,52 (HAT) read the scoreboard and Smith was worth his hat, although he deigned to wear it. Unless you were a fan of the 1946 New Towns Act and its subsequent sport related spin-off things were not looking good, although another bloke behind me insisted on encouraging the U’s by repeatedly yelling ” Come on U’s, you’re all over them”, but he might have been being ironic, it was hard to say. Another spectator was obsessed with Crawley Town having been a non-league side only recently, as if that meant they would be forever inferior. There’s never a psychologist about when you need one. Personally, I was now struggling with the smell of the after-shave or scent of the man in front of me who I thought, for a man in his seventies, had very, very neatly coiffured hair; I surmised he had a post match Valetine’s date with a lady who liked smelly old men.

The ninety minutes became 98 minutes because the referee had made a spectacle of himself by hurting his leg and eventually being substituted, and Colchester pulled a goal back. The locals emitted some throaty growls of encouragement , reviving memories of the Layer Road roar, but they couldn’t turn the tide of progress and Britain’s reputedly oldest town was unable to gain parity with one of Britain’s new towns.

Romans and Ancient Britons 2 Planned Post-War Utopia 3

I caught the bus, I caught the train, I walked home to my wife and her memories of Adrian Rabiot the pre-Raphaelite Parisian and Michaelangelo’s Paulo Verratti.