Ipswich Town

Ipswich Town 3 Cardiff City 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Recently, I have come to rather like Cardiff or Caerdydd as it’s known in Welsh; the place more than the football team admittedly, but a liking for one does almost inevitably lead to a softening of views regarding the other.  I spent three nights, and then a fortnight later, two nights in the Welsh capital as I made a double pilgrimage to see the team from the town of my birth, Haverfordwest County, play in the first two qualifying rounds of the European Conference League.  I have as a result developed a taste for Welsh cakes and Brains, the local beer that is, not the bodily organ; I’m not a zombie.

Back in 1962, Cardiff City were relegated from what is now the Premier League as Ipswich were winning it.  They didn’t return to the top division for over fifty years and despite themspending most of the interim in Division Two, for some reason I always think of them in the fourth division during the 1980’s at Layer Road, Colchester.  I try and ignore the Premier League and it seems odd to me therefore that of the two clubs it is Cardiff who have most recently been in the top division. It’s funny what age does to you.

It’s been a grey morning of heavy cloud and humidity, but as I set off for the match the sun is breaking through as if some deity has turned the celestial floodlights on.   I’m struck by how few Town fans there are at the railway station today compared with last week for the Leeds game.  It’s a somewhat boring journey, with no overheard conversations to intrigue or amuse.  Arriving at Ipswich, I have to pause and search for my rail ticket on my phone rather than just pull a piece of card from my wallet, but I master the technology on this occasion and head off up Princes Street for ‘the Arb’.  By way of a change, I don’t turn left into Portman Road today, but continue across Civic Drive and up into Museum Street and High Street.  I pause only to view the Cobbold Stand across the wasteland and surface car parks where once stood The Sporting Farmer pub, Mann Egerton’s garage and the livestock market.  Banners on the lampposts advertising the Cardinal Wolsey exhibition at The Hold remind me of Ipswich’s rich history and heritage. Ipswich is fab, don’t let anyone tell you different.

Arriving at ‘the Arb’ I buy a pint of Nethergate Honey Gold Festivale (£3.60 with 10% Camra discount), because I like bees and the work they do.  I retire to the beer garden to wait for Mick who has texted me to say he is “slightly on the drag”.  I reply to say I shall amuse myself by listening to other people’s conversations.  After about ten minutes Mick eventually  appears and avails himself of a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and we talk of why he was delayed (he left his phone somewhere and had to go back to get it), what he was doing this morning ( he had to check the temperatures at some morgues) and his trip to Scotland to see his sister, when he also saw Glasgow Rangers play PSV Eindhoven.  Mick has even brought me back a Glasgow Rangers fridge magnet.  What a great bloke. Apart from mention of the morgues, our conversation is unusually free of death and disease, although we do manage to strike a pessimistic note with talk of humankind’s obsession with economic growth rather than prioritising the preservation of the planet; something which will inevitably end badly.  But most people don’t seem to care, as long as they can have a cosy coal fire or free parking for their car at the shops.

After another pint of Nethergate Honey Gold Festivale for me and a single Jameson whisky for Mick (£8.25 for the two), we depart for Portman Road where Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket , ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood are ready and waiting for kick-off.  I have arrived in time however, to try and shout out, in the manner of a French football crowd, the surnames of the Town players as stadium announcer Mark Murphy reads them out.  I succeed to a degree, but new man Murphy isn’t a patch on his predecessor Stephen Foster and reads the names too quickly, running first names into second names and not leaving the necessary gaps between.  Bring back Stephen Foster, I say.

When the game begins it’s Cardiff City who get first go with the ball and they attempt to aim it mostly in the direction of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, Cardiff are dressed today in a slightly washed-out-looking all burgundy or claret kit.  I wonder at the meaning of this, because all kits are imbued with meaning nowadays, but can only come up with it being the colour of the congealed blood of injured miners and dockworkers, or the fine wines consumed by the wealthy pit and port owners.   The first Cardiff player I notice is centre-back McGuinness and I think of the IRA. “We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, he knows exactly what we need….” chant the vocal occupants of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.  The Cardiff fans are singing too, but I can’t work out what, and that’s not because they’re singing in Welsh, nobody speaks Welsh much in Cardiff I was told by a Cardiff City supporting woman when I was there back in July. She knew enough to get by, she said, but that actually meant she didn’t need to know any.

Early action sees Nathan Broadhead head the ball firmly into the arms of Cardiff ‘keeper Runar Runarsson, who not at all surprisingly is Icelandic and whose goalkeeper’s kit would be ideal for wearing to a funeral.  Wes Burns is penalised ridiculously as he chases down the ball and the player in front of him stops dead and then bounces off him.  It’s an incident that draws my attention to the referee Mr Gavin Ward, who is blond and a bit weedy looking.  “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” chant the home crowd and the bloke behind me, making my right ear hurt slightly.

The football hasn’t reached any great heights yet with the highlight so far being Kieran Mckenna’s almost petrol blue jumper, which is an improvement on his usual dull greys and blacks, but still not exactly colourful. It’s ten past three and the Cardiffians sing “Is this a library?”.   Somebody must confirm that it is indeed a library, because moments later they are chanting “Der-der-der, Football in a library”.  Having apparently hit a reach seam of taunts, the Cardiff mob then proceed to ask, “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” just like they might if they were at an Eisteddfod.  They’re regular Harry Secombes and Aled Joneses the lot of them.

After fifteen minutes Cardiff have a corner and ‘score,’ but it is offside.  At the front of the stand a cameraman is blocking the view of a spectator in the third or fourth row and is asked to adjust his position, which he does but with a grim face and a complete absence of grace as he throws his bag to the ground and generally stomps about like a petulant two-year-old.  At half-time when I speak to Ray, he will refer to him as Bill Oddie, but I think his curly hair has more than a hint of the Max Boyce about it.

Twenty minutes are up, and Conor Chaplin has a sharp shot on the turn which elicits a corner, and then Massimo Luongo wins another. Five minutes later Cardiff win one too. “Oh please don’t take, my Cardiff away” plead the Cardiffians to the tune of ‘You are my sunshine’. I don’t know what we’d do with it if we did, although the Senedd building or Millenium Centre might look good down West End Road.  From the row in front of me, a lad with the name Adam printed on the back of his shirt turns round to tell Pat that Norwich are losing. Within a few moments sadly, Ipswich are too as a sweeping move through the wide open plain in front of the Magnus West Stand ends with a precise low cross and a neatly clipped pass into the Town net by former OGC Nice player Aaron Ramsey.    “Aaron Ramsey Baby, Aaron Ramsey, Oh-oh-oh” sing the elated Welshmen, to the tune of the Christmas number one from 1981, the Human League’s ‘Don’t you want me’.  Apparently, before signing for Cardiff, Ramsey was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar.

Five minutes later and Town’s George Hirst pulls up lame and is replaced by Freddie Ladapo.  People applaud Hirst off, but I don’t because I’m bitter that he didn’t score a short while before when through on goal.  “In your Swansea slums” sing the Cardiff fans, either confused about where they are and who they’re playing, or how good the hearing of the population of Swansea is.  The first half has not been overly enjoyable if you’re not from South Wales, and even Cardiff’s first booking, for Ollie Tanner, brings little satisfaction as it’s just for a high boot rather than a heinous foul or something amusing like dissent.

As time descends towards half-time, the home crowd chant “Blue and White Army” again, in an act of defiance and once again the bloke behind me joins in, and it almost works as Freddie Ladapo turns and shoots narrowly past the far post and Conor Chaplin has a shot blocked on the goal line by Runarsson. Four minutes of added on time give hope for parity by half-time, but Cardiff selfishly keep hold of the ball and even win a corner for themselves to leave me feeling disappointed as the whistle is blown and I sprint away to syphon off the remnants of the Nethergate Honey Gold Festivale.  I return to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison and to a steward called Dave.  Ray’s assessment is that Cardiff sit behind the ball and deny Town any space and then break way very quickly; we need to get in behind them.  Ray has no doubt Kieran McKenna knows what to do.

The game begins again at seven minutes past four and the home crowd remain chipper, singing “Ole, Ole, Ole” for reasons unknown. But life is strange, and depression soon descends as in the fifty second minute Massimo Luongo falls backwards, haphazardly making space for Joe Ralls to shoot just inside far post and give Cardiff a two-nil lead.  “No urgency is there?” complains the bloke behind me to his neighbour.  “Two-nil to the sheep-shaggers” sing the Welshmen, which is disarmingly honest of them if true.  “The way I see it, this is what our season’s gonna be” continues the bloke behind me obliquely. “Oh Ingerland, is full of shit” chant the self-confessed zoophiles; sheep shit presumably, from sheep seeking sanctuary over the border.

Town win a free-kick close to the Cardiff penalty area but the ball is despatched hopelessly wide of the goal by Nathan Broadhead. Pat from Clacton rolls her eyes “Thank you” she says “But that’s not quite what we’re looking for at the moment”.  But only moments later Sam Morsy plays the ball forward to Broadhead, who jinks left and right and then smites the ball into the goal from the edge of the penalty area in the style of Eric Gates, and Town are only trailing two-one.  Pat’s sarcasm clearly worked.

Cardiff substitute some players I’ve never heard of for some more players I’ve never heard of.  Someone fouls Nathan Broadhead and is booked. Town win a corner when a Conor Chaplin shot is blocked.  Corner kicks where the ball is launched into the penalty area from above are not much use against teams like Cardiff City whose players could all take up basketball if the football doesn’t work out. A low cross to the near post however presents the unexpected delight of a deft finish from Freddie Ladapo and Town are suddenly no longer losing.  “Shall I get Monkey out for the winning goal?” asks Pat from Clacton threatening to release the magical powers of the masturbating monkey charm she acquired on holiday in Cambodia.  “Two-nil and you fucked it up” chant the home crowd, as ever revelling more in Schadenfreude than the joy of their own team’s success.  Murphy announces the crowd as being 28,011 with 951 from the valleys and banks of the River Taff.  “Thank you for your amazing support” he says, showing himself to be a man more easily amazed than I am.  Bare torsos, drums, flares, flags and a pitch-length tifo in the Magnus West stand would be amazing support in my view. “Oh when the Town, Go marching in” sings the crowd in a fractionally more up-beat manner than usual, but even that’s hardly amazing.

Less than twenty minutes of normal time remain, and Vaclav Hladky saves the day with two marvellous saves, one just moments after the other.  Fifteen minutes remain and Town make mass substitutions with Burns, Clark and Luongo waving goodbye and Jack Taylor, Omari Hutchinson and Bradley Williams joining the fray. Four minutes later and Hutchinson gets to the by-line and crosses the ball low to the near post. Runarsson dives to divert the ball away from the goalmouth, but diverts it up onto the head of the incoming Freddie Ladapo from where it rebounds into the net.  Town lead three-two, and Pat is set to win the final-score draw on the Clacton supporters’ coach.

Happily, Town look more likely to score a fourth than concede a third, although Fiona admits to now feeling nervous because we have something to lose.  Jack Taylor launches a precise cross field pass. “He’s a fucking good player” says the bloke behind me to his neighbour, but I think he’s talking about Omari Hutchinson because he then says something about him taking players on “…like Wes Burns used to”.  Town win a couple of corners and Pat confirms that she’s having chicken drumsticks for tea again, because the ones she had last Saturday were lovely.

Normal time fades away and Sam Morsy leaves the pitch having received a knock, but unusually not a booking. Perhaps Mr Ward the referee wasn’t so bad after all.  Six minutes of additional time take us almost to five o’clock, but Cardiff give us no cause for real nail biting and I’m feeling quite relaxed when the whistle sounds and Town pull off the fabulous trick of coming back from the grave of being two-nil down to win.  “Two nil and you fucked it up” chant the Town fans, mindlessly enjoying other people’s misery more than their own team’s success.  It’s a win to savour and one worth the pain of conceding those initial two goals.  If we can’t win six-nil most weeks like we did last season, then coming back to win from two-nil down is the next best thing, and it does mean I can continue to like Cardiff a little bit more than I did before. Break open the Welsh cakes!

Ipswich Town 2 Stoke City 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

After the low key, League Cup game against the Rovers of Bristol on Wednesday night, which began mine and everyone’s new season at Portman Road, today is the start of the Football League season at home, and Town face the ancient City of Stoke, one of the founder members of the football league way back in 1888, before Sky television.  August 12th still seems a bit early to start playing football seriously, but Wednesday’s game has helped to immunise me against the shock and at about twenty minutes to one I am on my way out of my front door, setting off for Portman Road and the joys and horrors that may or may not await.

By way of a change from last season, I am leaving my planet saving Citroen e-C4 at home today and taking the train (£8.95 with senior railcard), at last feeling more confident or perhaps just blasé about my chances of not being struck down with the terrible lurgi that is Covid.  If I hold my breath, avoid anyone who looks a bit peaky or coughs, and don’t touch anything I might be alright.  The train is on time and the journey pleasant as I gaze out of the window at the world spinning by beneath a heavy grey August sky.  I look on in wonder at the myriad of colours and shapes and textures within the plain, familiar streets and landscapes outside.

Alighting from the train in Ipswich, I talk to a man I know called Kevin as we cross the bridge from platforms three and four to two.  We part as we cross the bridge over the river and I head first for Portman Road, where after a few moments hesitation as I think of the space they take up and the poor value for money, I decide I will nevertheless buy a programme (£3.50). I queue briefly behind two morbidly obese women one of whom ‘has a fag on’, before obtaining a programme in the modern cashless manner saying “Just the one please” to the youthful person in the blue sales booth who remains silent.

As I am about to turn the corner on to High Street, Mick appears on his bike, which having dismounted he locks to the railings outside the old art school before we enter the Arb together and Mick very kindly asks me what I want to drink.  At first, I opt for a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, but then seeing the array of other beers on offer I change my mind, selecting the altogether more exotic, Moongazer BellyWhite Belgique IPA. Mick chooses the same and we head for the beer garden which is busy, but there is one vacant table, the same one I sat at when I was here on Wednesday evening.   Like the hypochondriac old men that we are, we talk of our physical ailments. Mick has had housemaid’s knee. He was lying in the back of a hearse cleaning the inside of the windows when he got cramp in his calf.  The cramp went, but a couple of hours later his knee began to swell, although it’s okay now.  From Mick’s knee we move on to his liver, our stomach’s, prostates and my eyes and heart.  The beer is tasty and not knowing how long I have left I quickly buy another for myself and a single Jamieson whisky for Mick.  Our conversation leaves the world of hypochondria for holidays, Haverfordwest County’s foray into the qualifying rounds of the European Conference League and Town’s new goalkeeper Cieran Slicker who, we discover through the wonder of the interweb, was born in Oldham, but has played youth football for Scotland; we agree that his surname can easily be imagined being announced with a Scottish accent.

When we come to leave for Portman Road at about twenty-five minutes to three, the beer garden is already almost completely empty and the people remaining do not look like they will be watching the football this afternoon.  We join the gathering crowds on our journey to the match. Although we’ve had to wrench ourselves away from the pub, this is always one of the best bits of the afternoon with the steady accretion of souls and anticipation and the odour of frying onions all increasing the closer we get to the stadium.

Mick and I go our separate ways somewhere near where Sir Alf Ramsey stands cooly with one hand in his suit pocket.  There are queues at the turnstiles, but they aren’t as long as on Wednesday and after waiting behind a man who has to present his mobile phone three times to let his family through the turnstile before him, I eventually walk into the Sir Alf Ramsey stand myself.  After draining away some Belgique IPA, I emerge into the bright sunlight of the stand and after two and a bit months absence re-acquaint myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood.

Today, I am in time for the announcing of the teams, and I shout out the surnames of the Town players like a Frenchman would. The ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy then proceeds to stoke up the crowd by asking, somewhat ridiculously, each stand in turn if they are ready. It’s enough to make anyone roll their eyes. The teams appear and bursts of flame shoot into the air like a Kevin Beattie barbecue; I can feel the heat from where I’m sitting. So much for football caring about global warming and its carbon footprint, but then we all join in with the na-na-nas of Hey Jude and the stadium is full of noise.

The game begins beneath azure blue skies punctuated with  puffy white cloud and Stoke City get first go with the ball, sending it mostly in the direction of what was the plain, old, tatty North Stand the first time I witnessed Stoke play at Portman Road back in the 1970’s. Happily, both teams are wearing their signature kits which is particularly  good in the case of Stoke because their red and white stripey ensemble is a classic, although if I have to be critical, and I do, I think the present incarnation has a few too many stripes. 

“We’re the Blue Armeee” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand to rhyme with something else ending in ‘eee’ and the bloke behind me joins in just as the chant fades away.  The ambience in the ground is one of excitement as Town dominate the early part of the game inspiring more chants of “ Blue and White Army” and Wes Burns hits a shot which the Stoke goalkeeper Travers, who is dressed from head to toe in orange, tips spectacularly over the cross bar for the game’s first corner.  Travers is a surname similar enough to Travis to have me suddenly thinking of Lyndsay Anderson’s brilliant 1968 film ‘If’ , but it soon passes as Town’s early pressure earns two more corners in quick succession and I bellow “Come On You Blues” in the vain hope that my vocal encouragement will result in a goal.

The immediate hope of a goal fades for the moment and Pat tells Fiona that when the Clacton supporters coach arrived at the ground today and went to park in the usual spot by the bus depot, the driver had been told “You can’t park here”.  When he asked why not, the driver was told “Because someone might plant a bomb under it”.  I didn’t realise Clacton people had such a bad reputation.  Behind me the bloke says to the bloke beside him “We’re making it uncomfortable for them” which I think is in reference to what’s happening on the pitch, rather than the Clacton supporters bus.

Town continue to pour forward, threatening the Stoke goal with crosses and incisive passes but no proper shots. “Now switch it, switch it” calls the bloke beside me to Sam Morsy, but Sam ignores him. “Stand up if you ‘ate the scum” chant the Sir Bobby Robson to the tune of Village People’s ‘Go West’ and then, in a personal message to the Stoke manager and sung to the tune of the Beachboys’ ‘Sloop John B’ “You’ll always be scum, you’ll always be scum, Alex Neil, you’ll always be scum”.   Believing in forgiveness, redemption and that people can change, it’s not a view that I agree with.

After eighteen minutes Conor Chaplin delivers the first half-decent shot on goal and the Town fans sing “ Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran way”before Wes Burns is cynically blocked  by some or other bloke in a pyjama top in the shadow of the west stand.   Sam Morsy takes the free kick, curving a cross into the penalty area where Luke Wooflenden heads the ball into the net in the style of Terry Butcher, and Town lead 1-0.  “Oh when the Town, Go marching in” chant the home crowd, a bit mournfully considering the score.  Town are imperious, and a superb move between Conor Chaplin and Nathan Broadhead results in another corner. “Champagne Football” says the bloke behind me, oblivious to the fact that Stade de Reims will later take the lead against Olympique Marseille but ultimately lose 1-2.

The game is not a third of the way through but Stoke find it necessary to replace the economically named Wesley with the almost as economically named Chiquinho. I wonder to myself if Wesley has an appointment or an early bus and whether league rules stipulate that you can only replace a player with just one name with another player with just one name.  Seven minutes on and Stoke have their first shot,  which loops wide of the goal and then, after an unexpectedly long passage of possession, another shot has to be saved by Town ‘keeper Vaclav Hladky.  The blokes behind me head for the bar as half-time approaches and the sky clouds over, Wes Burns sends over a low cross and George Hirst strikes the ball first time against the outside of the near post. Two minutes of additional time are played and on the touchline Kieran Mckenna looks agitated in a way he never did when we in the third division; I like to think that as manager of a ‘big club’  in the third division he didn’t think it was right to bemoan his team’s luck, whereas now, in a league full of Premier league wannabees it’s fine to get a bit huffy and precious every now and then.

With the half-time whistle I go down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray and his grandson Harrison.  I give Harrison a copy of ‘Life after Infinity’ the latest album by the excellent Robyn Hitchcock, an artist who makes Ed Sheeran look and sound like Neil Reid.  On the back of the programme I notice that the match ball sponsor today is Bob Harris and the home shirt sponsor is Henry Gibson; I am reminded the Old Grey Whistle Test and Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In.

The match resumes at five minutes past four with Stoke winning a very early corner and the ‘Stokees’ in the corner of the Cobbold Stand optimistically singing “When the Reds go marching in” .  For a short while Stoke are the better side and only six minutes into the half the referee, Mr Smith even books Vaclav Hladky for perceived time-wasting as he waits to take a free-kick.  Cameron Burgess heads away a second corner kick, and George Hirst has a shot easily saved.

In the first half, several fouls by Stoke players were spotted by Mr Smith, but despite some of them being serious foul play he only booked one Stoke player.  It’s a theme that is continuing in the second half with Wes Burns and Massimo Luongo being hacked down without punishment.  But Town have weathered the early Stoke pressure  and the Sir Bobby Robson stand chant “ Ipswich, Ipswich, Ipswich”, interspersing the “Ipswiches” with  rhythmic clapping.  Pat from Clacton informs me that she is having chicken and prawn salad tonight with new potatoes, she won’t have a baked potato for her tea again until the autumn or the winter.

The final twenty minutes are approaching and with them come substitutions as Marcus Harness replaces the classy Nathan Broadhead and surprisingly perhaps to those expecting Freddie Ladapo, Kayden Jackson replaces George Hirst.  Massimo Luongo shoots over the Stoke cross bar. Town win a corner. Stoke win a corner.  Pat announces that the masturbating monkey ‘charm,’ which came from Cambodia, and which she keeps in her bag, has got something “…caught on his willy”.   Stoke’s fascinatingly surnamed Ryan Mmae is then substituted by someone or other, but his surname has made me think too much of the Steve Martin film ‘The Man With Two Brains’ and the names of Miss Uumellmahaye and Dr Hfuhruhurr.

Just a goal ahead and less than fifteen minutes to go, and we’re all willing a second goal to help us relax.  It’s not quite the same, but Murphy announcing todays’ attendance takes our minds off the close score for a moment, although he does spoil it rather by calling the attendance of 29,006 “staggering”. The last three league games at Portman Road have all had attendances of around 29,000 so 29,000 is now average. If the crowd had been 35,000, that would have been staggering because the ground doesn’t have that many seats.  To cap things, Murphy then says “Give yourself a round of applause”.  Why?

Back on the pitch, referee Smith shows his yellow card to Janoi Donacien, again for perceived time wasting, as he prepares to take a free-kick for a foul by a Stoke player.  Mr Smith seems to have no problem with one player kicking another, as long as it happens quickly and doesn’t delay the game. But then Conor Chaplin is in space in the middle, he sends Wesley Burns away down the right and his firm pass into the centre of the penalty area connects with the boot of the incoming Kayden Jackson who side foots the ball into the net with grace and style and Town lead 2-0, and it’s no more than they deserve. Several of the 1749 Stokees in the Cobbold Stand evacuate prematurely.

There are ten minutes left plus ‘time added on’, but it feels like the game is won and so it is.  Sam Morsy is announced by Murphy to be the man of the match, as selected by Jade Smiles, although I can’t decide if this is a person or just a sort of green-coloured, perhaps envious facial expression.  Just four minutes of additional time are announced, despite several substitutions and all the apparent timewasting by Vaclav Hladky and Janoi Donacien, and Sam Morsy is booked for a foul, which is a novelty.  The four minutes pass by without incident, but the home crowd is buoyant, thrilled by an exciting, fast, competitive match that Town have mostly dominated and deserve to win.    When the final whistle blows, the feeling is not of relief but of pride and joy and expectation for the remaining forty-four games.  On the basis of one home league game we have no idea if Stoke City or Ipswich are good second division teams or bad ones but we’ve not lost yet and for the moment everything feels good, and we’re all looking forward to being a part of more ‘staggering’ attendances at Portman Road.

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

When the draw for what used to be called the League Cup was made, I was quite pleased to find that Ipswich had drawn Bristol Rovers; this was because Bristol Rovers were the only one of Town’s third division opponents I didn’t see last season.  I’m not sure why that mattered, it’s not as if I keep notes on each team, although in an odd way, through this blog, I suppose I do. Oh dear.

Despite my earlier happiness at the draw, it has taken me until the night before the game to get round to buying a ticket because despite the grotty weather, in my head it’s still summer, and summer is for dreaming and for World Cups, oh, and occasionally for European Conference League qualifying games.   Football is mostly something for autumn, winter and spring.  As usual for League Cup matches, because all the seats cost a tenner I choose not to sit in my season ticket seat, but to explore one of the twenty-nine and half thousand odd other viewpoints.   Usually, I head for the best view and the padded seats of Block Y, and there are still single seats available, but craving company I texted my friend Gary to see if he is going; he is, and gives me his seat number which he tells me is close to where he usually sits in what used to be called the West Stand.  I buy the seat next to Gary which turns out to be uncomfortably  close to the corner of the ground; but it’s okay as I had warned Gary that I would blame him if the seat wasn’t very good, and now I can.  To think, I could have been in Block Y.   I also texted my friend Mick to see if he is going to the game, but he tells me that he has “no interest in the League (Carabao) Cup”, which I thought was a bit haughty of him.

Having parked up my planet-saving Citroen e-C4 in a street between Norwich Road and Anglesea Road, it’s a short walk to the Arb on High Street where I obtain a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra 10% discount). The bar is not very busy, and I tell the barman that I had expected it to be busier, but he tells me most people are in the beer garden.  He’s correct, most people are, but there are still free tables and I can only see one bloke in an Ipswich Town shirt.  I settle down to drink my unexpectedly cloudy pint, and read Issue 26 of the Turnstile Blue fanzine, a small pile of which were in the corridor between the bar and the gents.  I read an article which, in the context of the ‘fuss’ surrounding the death of the old queen, attempts to debunk the apparently mythical status afforded to former Town chairmen John and Patrick Cobbold.  The basis of the argument seems to be that they were incredibly wealthy and posh, and ‘Mr John’ drank and swore a lot.  I don’t read much more because the penetrating voice of a man possibly in his late twenties, who is with the bloke in an Ipswich shirt, and the mild but loud Ipswich accent of a woman probably in her forties are preventing me from concentrating.  After half an hour of slow supping and covering my ears, I leave for Portman Road.

Arriving in Sir Alf Ramsey Way shortly after seven-thirty, I buy a programme (£2.00) in the modern cashless manner and am then surprised to see long queues at the turnstiles.  Tonight, in the spirit of saving the planet by not using unnecessary pieces of paper, my ticket is on my mobile phone and my inner Luddite wonders if technology is the reason for the slow progress into the stadium.  Moments before reaching the turnstile, my finger slips on my phone screen  and I accidentally delete the e-mail that includes my ticket, but fortunately I know I can still find it if  I look through all my e-mails and that’s what I do.  Happily, the QR code on my e-mail also works and I pass through the turnstile just in time to drain off some Suffolk Pride and make it to my seat before the names of the Ipswich team have all been announced.  I try to call out the surnames of Town players in the manner of a French football crowd, but the ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy says Dom Ball instead of Dominic Ball and ruins things completely.

The match kicks off at fourteen minutes to eight according to the digital clock on the scoreboard. Town get first go with ball, kicking it mostly towards Sir Alf Ramsey’s stand, and are wearing the traditional blue and white kit, which this season has broad white stripes down the sleeves that from some angles make the whole sleeve look white.  Kits have to be imbued with meaning nowadays and we are told that the design is inspired by the kit worn by the promotion winning team of 2000.  When the sleeves look all white, I am reminded of our Premier League winning side of 1962.  Bristol Rovers for their part wear black shorts and white socks to cover their loins, buttocks and calves and grey shirts over their torsos.  I do not know if the Rovers shirts are imbued with meaning or not, but I like to think they are inspired by a foggy day in the Bristol Channel or specks of ghostly coal dust blown across from the South Wales pits or Cardiff docks.  Gary and I speculate as to whether we have already seen this season’s dullest kit worn by an away team at Portman Road and recall how Manchester United once wore a grey and black kit at Southampton and changed at half-time when already three or four goals down, supposedly because the players couldn’t see each other against the background of the crowd.  It seems probable from the half-time score that they couldn’t see the Southampton players either.

Town dominate possession and after just twelve minutes take the lead. A passing move down the right ends with Jack Taylor passing a ball from Kayden Jackson into the Bristol goal net.  That was easy.  I haven’t really tuned myself into the game yet however, and rather than leaping up and punching the air in a display of forgotten youthful exuberance like I would normally, I just slowly raise my bottom off my seat and applaud politely in a semi-stooped position.  Gary’s reaction is similarly sluggish. For these supporters it still feels like pre-season, the overture, or to employ a war-themed comparison popular with football pundits, like 1939, the phoney war.  Elsewhere in the stadium people are more attuned to the programme as they beat drums and chant “Blue and White Army.”

Town continue to dominate possession and occasionally come close to scoring a goal, but not close enough.  I haven’t seen Gary since July 1st, so we talk as much as we concentrate on the game.   Gary asks me what is the worst football ground I’ve ever been to. I tell him I think it was Oxford United’s Manor Ground.  He asks what the best ground was. I tell him possibly The Velodrome in Marseille, although the Allianz Riviera in Nice is pretty good when full.  Having been unexpectedly put on the spot I forget to mention the Stade Felix Boleart in Lens and the Stade Geoffrey Guichard in St Etienne.

Bristol Rovers only occasionally approach the Town goal and their first shot just creeps and bobs and bounces its way across the turf into the arms of the Town goalkeeper, the interestingly monikered Cieran Slicker. It takes a good twenty minutes or more for Rovers to have another shot and this time Grant Ward’s much more powerful shot is parried away by Slicker for what amounts to a pretty good save. It’s a moment which results in my hearing the faint call of “Come On Rovers” carried over the pitch on the warm evening air from the one hundred and twenty-three Bristolians in  the far corner of the stadium.  Otherwise, the first half of the game leaves no lasting impression on me and after a minute of time added on it’s time for Gary to nip to use the facilities whilst I stand up and try to manipulate my neck, which has grown achy and stiff from having my head turned towards the Sir Alf Ramsey stand for most of the previous forty-six minutes.

 Once Gary has returned, the ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy appears on the pitch wearing what looks like the same suit that replaced announcer Stephen Foster used to wear.  Murphy tells us he is going to talk to a Town legend and with the artificially excited intonation and words-all-rolled-into-one pronunciation of a former local radio DJ, he announces “Johnny Warks here” and Gary and I look at each other wondering who the hell Johnny Warksear is.  Johnny Wark appears on the big screen and all that’s missing are the subtitles when he speaks.

The game resumes at ten minutes to nine and my hopes of spending the second half just looking straight ahead take a dive as Bristol start quite well.  “Wo-o-o-oh, That’s the way we like it” or something like that sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of what seems to be an original composition or a song I don’t know.  Rovers are gifted a corner as Lee Evans passes the ball back to a place where Cieran Slicker isn’t standing.  But then Ipswich win a couple of corners of their own to redress the balance, before on-loan Omari Hutchinson is the first player to be booked after not so much a bad tackle as an inept one.  “Ole, Ole, Ole” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the drums up in the corner of the stand by the club shop beat; inside the shop stuff must be bouncing off the shelves.  In the seat in front of me a bloke with not much hair has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head.    There’s a holiday feel to the crowd tonight with adults and children wearing T-shirts and shorts, looking as if they’ve been at the beach all day.  I half expect to see someome eating candy floss or wearing a ‘kiss me quick’ hat. On the pitch, the second half is reflecting the cheery mood with carefree attacking football and as result Cieran Slicker makes a spectacular save with his feet.

Substitutions arrive on sixty-six minutes with Cameron Humphryes and Sone Aluko taking a bow. Shots rain in on the Bristol goal and a corner is won.  “Oooh Sone Aluko” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of the White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army.  Marcus Harness half-volleys the ball from close range, but too weakly to bother the Rovers’ goalkeeper.  As more substitutes warm up on the touchline in front of us I say the name of George Hirst to Gary.  “I know what you’re going to say” says Gary “He has a haircut that looks like his mum cut it using a pudding bowl”.  Gary knows me too well and is almost exactly right, but I’d say she used a side plate or small frying pan giving his hair the appearance of a little hat or beret.  I struggle so much to accept George’s haircut that if it had been up to me I wouldn’t have signed him, so it’s probably as well that it wasn’t.

In the seventy-third minute George and Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke get to make the transition from bench to pitch, but the only immediate result is that Javani Brown shoots wide of the Town goal for Bristol. Within a minute of that however, a sweet passing move down the left sees the ball relayed across the penalty area for Sone Aluko, who seems to be existing in his own isolated moment of time and space, which allows him to then pass the ball into the far corner of the Bristol goal, and Town lead 2-0. Gary tells me how his mother recently received a new copy of the local telephone directory and that there were three people in it with his surname; they were Gary, his mother and his uncle who died several years ago, but it wouldn’t surprise me if BT was a hotbed of spiritualists.

All that remains is for Murphy to announce the crowd as being 15,047 with 123 of that number being from Bristol, and for people to applaud themselves, each other, and more acceptably the travelling Bristolians.  Bristol is a long way from Ipswich on a Wednesday night, although logically no further than at any other time of day or week.  Five minutes of time are added on to ensure we get our money’s worth and when that expires we rise as one to applaud and then seep out into the night.  It’s been a decent little game, a bit low key like a pre-season match, but it’s good to see a match where none of the players appear to think winning matters more than life itself.  Bristol Rovers played their part and should have scored at least once, but on the plus side they will now have time on their hands in the middle of the week to think about what their away kit should look like next season.   As for Ipswich,  we are on our way to Wembley, my stepson and his family live in the RG24 postcode area so if I get the urge I might march on to Basingstoke, or Reading.

Ipswich Town 6 Exeter City 0

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

I remember going to Exeter as a child in the mid 1960’s.  Although it was mid-August it rained and I wore a plastic mac, which was quite the fashion at the time; I held my father’s hand.  I returned a little over thirty years later, again in August to see Ipswich Town and Exeter City summon up a two-goal draw in the first round of the League Cup, but this time the sun shone on a warm dog day evening.  My father wasn’t with me that night.  A week later, Town thrashed ‘the Grecians’ as they are mysteriously known, 5-1 in the second leg back in Ipswich.

Now it’s Spring again, and the sun is shining once more after a cloudy week of going to the dentist, visiting my mother and being amazed at the unknowable brilliance of the current Ipswich Town team, as I watched them thrash Barnsley through the wonder of the interweb.  Today, Ipswich Town play Exeter City in the last home game of the season and a win will see the club promoted back to the second division.  Under a pale blue sky, I trip lightly across the grass, dandelions, daisies, and occasional dog turd of Gippeswyk Park having parked up my planet-saving Citroen e-C4.  In Portman Road I purchase a programme (£3.50) in the modern cashless manner and walk amongst Exeter City supporters dressed as comedy Scots.  I quite like the front cover of the programme today, it features Kieran McKenna blowing a kiss, Sam Morsy staring dreamily off into the distance and Conor Chaplin doing an impression of Norman Wisdom. Around the corner in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, a haze of blue smoke sweeps towards Alderman Road rec, and a mighty throng cheers a large grey bus as it crawls past the frontage of the municipal tram depot.  It’s the team bus, but it could be anyone inside behind those opaquely glazed windows.  Impressed, and yet not, I head for the Arb where the front door is open, inviting me in.  There is a queue at the bar, and it takes a while to get served. As I wait Mick appears from ‘out the back’ to tell me he’s just arrived and hasn’t got a drink, but has a table in the garden with Gary, who does have a drink.  “Bloody Gary’s alright then” says the bald-headed man stood behind me.  Eventually I emerge into the beer garden with two pints of foaming Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8.00) and I join Mick and Gary for conversations about things so unremarkable I can’t remember them except for mention of a racist souvenir Gary saw at the airport in Mumbai, police corruption, the chairman of the BBC, a TV programme about handmade things in Japan and how good the Suffolk Pride tastes to day.

After Gary kindly buys me a further half of the deliciously fresh Suffolk Pride, a half of lager for himself and a packet of cheese and onion crisps for Mick, we talk some more and then at around twenty-five to three depart for Portman Road, finally going our separate ways somewhere in front of the statue of Alf Ramsey, as I head for the lower tier of his stand and Mick and Gary for the posh seats of the West Stand.  As ever, today’s portal to another world is turnstile 62, because of 1962, where the over helpful steward seems to give me a gentle shove through when the light turns green to say my season ticket is valid.

After savouring the still not stale thrill of the blast of hot air over my wet hands from the new hand driers in the gents, I find my seat amongst Pat from Clacton, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood. Fiona isn’t here today due to some very badly planned prior engagement, but in her place is a large man with no hair, who Pat introduces to me as Fiona, I don’t catch his real name, but of course that could be his or her real name.

I am here in time today to cheer the teams onto the pitch and see the referee Mr Oldham snatch up the match ball from its plinth as he leads the procession between lines of banner waving children.  Stadium announcer Stephen Foster reads out the teams and ever-present Phil and I bawl out the Town players surnames in the style of a French football crowd.  Today I can’t help but notice Stephen Foster’s shoes, which I don’t think go with his suit.  But what do I know, he is a Radio Caroline DJ, acquaintance of members of Dr Feelgood and can legitimately claim to be much more “rock and roll” than me.

After Exeter City take the knee, the game begins with Town having first go with the ball and aiming at the goal just a bit to one of side of me and Phil and Pat and Elwood and the man from Stowmarket.  Town are of course in blue and white, whilst disappointingly Exeter sport a messy looking concoction of black and cerise rather than their excellent signature kit of red and white striped shirts and black shorts.  I struggle to understand why a team that wears stripes would not always wear stripes, tsk.

Today, with all available tickets sold, Portman Road is quite noisy, in an everyone chattering loudly at once sort of a way and there are relatively frequent bursts of singing too from the bottom of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  It’s the third minute, a moment’s silence falls and it’s as if there’s a sudden realisation that this cannot be allowed  to happen and a chorus of “ We’ve got super Kieran McKenna…” quickly strikes up, followed by a painfully slow rendition of “When the Town going marching in” which I feel compelled to speed up and so I do,  trying to add a sort of New Orleans jazz feel to it.  “How much have you had to drink?” asks Pat from Clacton. “I’ve only had a pint and a half” I tell her. “Of vodka” adds Fiona.

On the pitch, Town haven’t done much so far, I hope it’s not going to be one of those games where we don’t get into a rhythm.  “I hope we get an early goal” says the bearded, brown-haired young man sitting between me and the man from Stowmarket. It’s the ninth minute, Sam Morsy passes to Conor Chaplin and from the edge of the penalty area he shoots and finds the corner of the net before the Exeter goalkeeper Gary Woods can blink, and Town lead 1-0. That’s a relief, and Pat takes ever-present Phil’s photo as he holds his arms aloft and roars triumphantly with everyone else.

It’s three minutes since Town scored and Exeter have Town pinned back in our half, they even win a corner.  “I want us to be top” says Pat, and echoing that sentiment the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and pockets of people all around the ground sing “We’re gonna win the league, We’re gonna win the league, and they int gonna believe us, and they int gonna believe us..” in what sounds weirdly like a West Midlands accent. “We’re coming for you, We’re coming for you, Norwich City, We’re coming for you” continues the crowd, but in no particular accent this time, and Pat says she hates playing Norwich.  I tell Pat I like it when we beat them.

It’s the sixteenth minute and Town break down the left, George Hirst sends the ball on to Massimo Luongo, he is inside the penalty area, he runs, he shoots, he scores. Town lead 2-0 and I had a really good view of the ball leaving Massimo’s foot, by-passing Gary Wood and striking the net. This is good.  “How many more goals do we need?” I ask Pat from Clacton. “One more” she says.   There’s time for some choruses of “Stand up if you’re going up” and “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town, the finest football team the world has ever seen” and then Town are breaking down the left again, a low cross is driven towards the goal by Nathan Broadhead and George Hirst scores from close range. Pat can relax and there are still the best part of seventy minutes to play. 

Six minutes later Town carve open the Exeter defence again as Wes Burns chases a through ball into the penalty area, racing the Exeter full-back Jake Caprice who has the perfect surname for someone about to give away a penalty. Nathan Broadhead scores the resultant spot-kick sending the ball high into the roof of the net to Gary Wood ‘s right as Gary foolishly dives low to his left.  I can barely believe this is happening, it is not the Ipswich way, where is the pain, the doubt, the anxiety?  And the moaning, why is nobody moaning?   I had mushrooms with my breakfast this morning and am beginning to wonder who Ocado’s supplier is as four minutes further on two Exeter players jump for the ball and it falls to Conor Chaplin who instinctively half volleys it into the corner of the net. Stephen Foster can’t help himself and once again summons the ghost of 1940’s comedian Tommy Handley by announcing “It’s That Man Again”. Town are winning 5-0 after just 32 minutes.  I had the impression after 52 years of watching Town, that I’d seen it all, but may be I hadn’t.

When with five minutes left until half-time Luke Woolfenden heads over the cross-bar it seems like it’s the first time a goal attempt from Town hasn’t resulted in a goal; two minutes later Harry Clarke shoots wide of the far post and  I’m wondering what’s gone wrong.  Three minutes of added on time are added on.

With half-time I go down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison, and here for her traditional one game a season Ray’s wife Roz. We have nothing to say about the football except that it’s brilliant and that Exeter aren’t really bothering to defend their right-hand side.  Today is Harrison’s nineteenth birthday and Ipswich Town have achieved nothing in his lifetime until today, it must feel like all his birthdays have come at once.

With the start of the second half at six minutes past four, the man from Stowmarket tells me that he thinks Town need to sharpen up for the second half, it’s the type of joke I imagine is being repeated all around the ground.  Two minutes in and it seems the Town’s players didn’t get the joke and a long ball down the right sends Wes Burns into the Exeter penalty area where he lobs the ball over the advancing Gary Woods and into the Exeter goal and Town lead 6-0. Wow.

With the game already convincingly won I half expected the usual mass substitutions to be made at half-time, but there’s no need as Exeter almost score an own goal in the 53rd minute but concede a corner instead.  An hour has nearly drifted into history and the more rowdy Exeter supporters at the back of the Cobbold stand have a mad five minutes as they chant “Six-nil and you still don’t sing” at the over 60s in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and the less tuneful “Football in a library, do-do-do” before rounding off with the questioning “ Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?”, to which we should all answer in effete voices “Will you do?, Will you do? Will you do requests for us?”, but sadly no one does.

The hour passes and Exeter number seven, the interestingly monikered Demetri Mitchell is cautioned by the orange shirted Mr Oldham for vainly diving in a pitiful attempt at winning a penalty.  A booking isn’t really enough punishment for such an offence and referees should carry a wet fish in a bag that they can slap in diving players’ faces to deliver the level of humiliation that the offence deserves.   Demetri’s conduct possibly leads to his imminent substitution as Exeter plot to bring on the players capable of turning around a six-goal deficit. Two minutes later and Town have a corner and Conor Chaplin shoots over the cross bar. “Bloody useless” says Fiona.

It’s soon time for Town’s usual mass substitution, which today, in common with most days in fact, feels like an excuse for standing ovations all round. The attendance is announced by Stephen Foster as 29,334 which, despite there being a whole block of vacant seats next to the Exeter supporters is oddly the largest gate of the season at Portman Road by about 250.  Exeter’s away following is recorded as a very creditable 919.

Exeter win a corner. Sam Morsy plays a through ball to no one in particular. “What was that?” asks the boy behind me “It don’t matter, we’re 6-nil up” replies his dad.   Pat from Clacton tells me she’s not having a jacket potato for her tea tonight, although she’s still having the usual salad with chicken and prawns.  It’s because she’s not sure when she’ll get home, what with the after-match celebrations.  I tell her she could do a baked potato in the microwave in about ten minutes, but Pat tells me she doesn’t own a microwave. “We’re old-fashioned” she says.  The match dribbles away into nothing but noise and smiles and Christian Walton is substituted with Vaclav Hladky so that they can both get the benefit of some applause from a crowd now totally tripped out on goals and promotion.

The final whistle brings the inevitable pitch invasion despite the presence of police, ‘security’ and polite requests not to run onto the pitch.  Pitch invasions have been around a long time, certainly since the days of duffle coats, National Health glasses and Alf Ramsey and there are TV pictures to prove it. Strangely, in our supposedly permissive society the ‘authorities’ seem to be becoming increasingly restrictive.  The pitch invasion does however provide the memorable sight of Sam Morsy being shouldered aloft, so it isn’t all bad.  The town’s most excitable youths soon return to the Sir Bobby Robson stand, whence most of them came and so I hang around for the lap of honour and the player of the year presentations.  Unfortunately, when the players do re-emerge from the dressing room they are accompanied by so many wives, girlfriends, children, family members and others that it is hard to see the players themselves.  The rambling, amorphous mass of humanity drifts around the pitch before stopping between the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the half-way line, and there it stays.  I sing along to Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown but when the PA starts playing Queen I decide I can’t be bothered to wait any longer to see what will probably underwhelm me and I bid my farewells to my fellow ultras until August.

 It has been a most memorable, remarkable afternoon, one that far outstripped my hopes for what it might be and unlike my first encounter with things Exonian it hasn’t rained and no one had to hold my hand.

Ipswich Town 2 Port Vale 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a day of ‘first world’ problems, mostly car related.  I didn’t get to park my planet saving Citroen e-C4 where I usually do to ensure an easy getaway after tonight’s match, at work somebody was late returning a pool car that I was booked to go out in, and a gate that was supposed to be left unlocked for me wasn’t.  As if that wasn’t enough, where I did park my car was beneath a tree and I was later to find that the windscreen had been royally ‘shat upon’ by a bird, possibly one the size of an Albatross, twice. 

It is with a sense of relief therefore that I leave work at about a quarter to five and in the spirit of enjoying the spice of life, which I have been told is variety, I unusually head for the bar of the Briarbank Brewery, making a short stop along the way at Out of Time Records in nearby Fore Street to check if they have any recordings by Robyn Hitchcock that I don’t already possess, they don’t.  A short while later at the Briarbank I am drinking a slightly cloudy, but nevertheless tasty pint of their own Samuel Harvey VC (£4.20) and tucking into a baked potato with Coronation Chicken and dressed salad (£7.50). Sat on my own, I read tonight’s programme (£3.50), which I bought at the club shop earlier; I find it quite boring and poorly laid out, with some of the stats on page 9 and others on pages 64 and 65, when there shouldn’t even be pages 64 and 65. Also, great bloke that he is, who other than perhaps Mrs McKenna wants a two-page centre spread of Keiran? We all know what he looks like by now, don’t we?  The headline to page 29 however, reads in red capital letters “Notice of Intention to Exhume”.  I didn’t think that with our wealthy new owners we were that desperate for decent players and in fact it turns out we’re not, it’s because thirty-four deceased people have had their ashes sprinkled on the pitch and now the pitch is to be replaced, so they will be off with it.

With time rattling on past six o’clock, I depart from the Briarbank and take a walk across town to The Arb, because pre-match rituals must not be broken. This evening I don’t notice the empty shops, but instead all I see are the many fabulous buildings that line the town’s streets, Ipswich is one helluva of place if you want it to be.  At The Arb, I select a pint of Titanic Plum Porter but don’t catch how much it cost me because I was talking to a bloke stood at the bar who I met when at work.  I head for  the beer garden to once again sit alone because Mick is working this evening. On a table to my right sit four well-spoken young men who are laughing about their future careers before going through a list of all the Premier league teams they think are ’shit’.  To my left, three slightly older but still very young women talk about how good or poor they are at their jobs and what somebody else earns.  On a table across the garden an owlish looking man sips what is probably lager.  He is alone until he is joined by a very well buttoned up man with a beard and flat cap and then another bearded man, who shakes their hands, and then a grey-haired man who only drinks a half, looks like he smiles a lot and could be one of the younger bloke’s dad.  The man in the flat cap calls the owlish man ‘mate’.   

With my glass empty I have nothing better to do than leave for Portman Road. As I leave the bar, I do so in the company of about six other blokes all going to the match, I overtake them outside the museum and walk on at my own pace, joining the gathering crowd in the fading light of a grey evening, all of us drawn towards the towering white floodlights. At the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I enter through turnstile 62, because that was the year Town were Premier League Champions. I miss the human contact of handing my season ticket to the turnstile operator, but this is the post-modern world.

As ever, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket and ever-present Phil who never misses a game are all here already, it makes me feel like they’ve been saving my seat for me; of course they haven’t but I reckon they’d beat off anyone who tried to sit there.  “Be loud, be proud” says stadium announcer Stephen Foster, sounding as if he’s the compere at a Gay Pride event, and he tells us that the game is always special under the lights, and it is.  Behind Stephen the pitch is being irrigated by fountains of water that make me think of the FC Versailles, who are currently fifth in the French third division.

Town get first go with the ball and kick towards me, Pat, Fiona, Phil and the man from Stowmarket.  Admirably, Port Vale are sporting their proper kit of white shirts and black shorts, even if the messy design on their shoulders and sleeves makes them look like the kit bag was accidentally backed over by the team bus.  But I can’t not like Port Vale, the only team in the Football League named after the house where the club’s founders had met; fortunately, the bloke who lived at Chez Nous only had a very small living room.

Within 25 seconds Freddie Ladapo is flicking a header beyond the far post and I feel confident that another multi-goal extravaganza awaits.  Up in the Cobbold stand however, the Port Vale fans are in good voice even if it’s hard to make out exactly what they are singing.  As he takes a goal kick the Port Vale goalkeeper slips on the heavily watered turf and the home crowd cheers like we’ve scored a goal. Town are mostly in the Port Vale half, but these Valiants are packed densely in front of them, impervious to the through balls that did for those other Valiants who proved less so on Saturday.  Once again, the Port Vale goalkeeper slips over to the home crowds’ cheers, and I think how he must regret his decision to wear roller skates instead of football boots, tonight of all nights.

Just six minutes have gone and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” chants Phil and I do too, repeatedly, but our encouragement isn’t enough.  “I’ve got my big coat on tonight” says Pat, not feeling the deepening cold, but obviously aware of it.  We’d already scored by this time on Saturday I foolishly can’t help thinking. “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna, he knows exactly what we need…” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand lower tier, but some of them don’t quite manage the tricky scanning of the first line, they need to rehearse more.  It’s the twelfth minute and Town are dominating but not penetrating the Port Vale force field. The Sir Bobby Robson stand resort to Mary’s Boy Child in the hope that Christmas will come early and Port Vale will gift wrap a goal, it doesn’t and they don’t.  The Vale fans sing “Oh when the Whites going marching in…” and give an object lesson in how to deliver this song, starting slowly but then speeding up to add impetus and even staying with it to repeat it all over again. I attribute it to their diet of oatcakes.  Then their team have a breakaway and a shot on goal which inspires chants of “Vale, Vale, Vale”, pronounced “Vay-al, Vay-al, Vay-al”. It’s a stirring sound of which I am quite envious.

Almost a third of the first half has left us and Nathan Broadbent dribbles towards the Vale goal only to win another corner.  Phil and I chant loudly again but our support flounders on solid defending,  only to be heard again as a Broadhead cross wins a further corner, which is again cleared by some big bloke in a white shirt with grubby looking shoulders.   With Town’s early onslaught subsiding a bit, the home crowd are becoming quiet and thoughtful when they ought to be loud and lairy.  On the touchline, Kieran Mckenna has sensibly opted for his brown anorak-cum-puffa jacket tonight, he’s obviously on the same wavelength as Pat from Clacton, or they saw the same weather forecast.  Another Port Vale throw-in and referee Mr Lewis remonstrates with a Port Vale player telling him to get a wriggle on.  Conor Chaplin lashes a shot into the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, but the crowd is quiet with the exception of the Blue Action group up the corner. When Port Vale win a corner there are just fifteen minutes left until half-time and we are treated to more lovely peels of “Vale, Vale, Vale”.

With a Nathan Broadhead shot and yet another corner the home’s crowd’s ardour revives and chants of “Blue and White Army” and accompanying rhythmic clapping roll from stand to stand.  “The crowd are nervous” Pat tells us. “Well, you are” replies Fiona.  Just to lighten the mood and try to curry favour with the home crowd so we don’t call him a bastard,  referee Mr Lewis books the Port Vale goalkeeper Aidan Stone for dithering too much over a goal kick.  A minimum of two more minutes will be played  Stephen Foster tells us, and I tell Fiona it’s a shame it looks like all the goals are going to be ‘up the other end‘ tonight.  She says she doesn’t mind as long as they’re only Town goals.  Then Port Vale’s oddly named Malvind Benning takes what can only have been a speculative shot and scores. Town trail 1-0 and it’s half time. Bugger.  

 Putting a brave face on matters I go down to the front of the stand to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison.  We bemoan Town’s failure to shoot from distance, but don’t have any other complaints.  We talk of our friend Val’s wedding in Las Vegas and discuss where we’ve been in the United States. Ray has been a few places, but excluding airports and the shore of a lake somewhere in the wilds of Montana I’ve only been to New York, but I ‘do’ the accent to prove it.

At seven minutes past nine the football returns, and I’m almost thrilled to hear the words “I’m Edward Ebenezer, Jeremiah Brown…” emanating from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but it doesn’t last, sadly.  Nevertheless, Town are back on the attack again and win three more corners in the first seven minutes. Sixty seconds further on and Wes Burns delivers a low cross and Nathan Broadhead sweeps it majestically inside the far post beyond a stretching, diving Aiden Stone  and Town have equalised.  The relief of the crowd is immense, now all we want is another goal, or two, or three.

George Hirst replaces Freddie Ladapo and heads past a post with his first touch, before the teams trade corners and Conor Chaplin shoots over the cross bar for a second time. Mr Lewis seeks more Brownie points by flourishing his yellow card in the direction of Vale’s William Forrester with less tan twenty minutes to go.  But Town still aren’t winning and I’m reminded of an evening almost exactly thirty-one years ago when Town needed to beat Grimsby Town to clinch promotion but could only manage a goalless draw.  Stephen Foster announces tonight’s attendance as being 27,696 with 296 supporting Port Vale.   It’s remarkable to think there are more people here for this match than saw the Portman Road leg of the UEFA Cup final in 1981.  On the Clacton supporters bus the winner of the guess the crowd competition is the chairman, Chris with 27,960, although Stewart is nearly awarded the prize because 27,426 looks closer, but actually isn’t.  Pat is disappointed that the guesses attributed to the blue tit and the squirrel in someone’s garden were sadly too high. I tell Fiona that’s the trouble with squirrels and blue tits, they over estimate things; it’s why none of the them work for the office of national statistics.

A seventy-fourth minute corner goes to waste and Pat threatens to get her figure of the masturbating monkey out of her hand-bag; it’s a lucky charm that she bought in Cambodia and apparently Town would always score when she got him out.  She says she won’t show him around though, because he’s rude.  We can’t tell if the monkey has anything to do with it, but Luke Woolfenden  steps forward and shoots narrowly wide of the top right hand corner of the goal. Fifteen minutes remain.

Eleven minutes remain and Kyle Edwards replaces Leif Davis, and  not to be outdone Port vale make a change too. Then Town are awarded a penalty. Twice in a few seconds the shout goes up from the stands for a handball and on the second shout Mr Lewis spots the chance to atone for previous sins against Ipswich Town and awards it.  “Two penalties!” says the bloke behind me “and he nearly didn’t give either of them” and he ‘s right, there is an uncomfortable delay before Mr Lewis weirdly stoops and point to the penalty spot.  Almost inevitably, the Port Vale players argue as staunchly as they have defended but even more weirdly Conor Chaplin is the player to get booked as we stand and wait patiently for the Port Vale players to just shut up and for Nathan Broadhead to apply the coup de grace, rifling the ball behind the left-hand post and bulging the side netting. It has to be one of the most significant penalties for Town at Portman Road in thirty years, possibly more, and the roar from the crowd says it is.

With five minutes left of normal time Janoi Doncaien replaces Nathan Broadhead to restore the defence to attack balance and the crowd sings “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go”.  The sound is a roar, if only a brief one,  but it is magnificent for a moment or two, as life often is.  Full-time turns up and with it six minutes of added on time, and with Plymouth Argyle apparently drawing in Shropshire Ipswich are top of the league; and so the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson put the fact to music with the help of the best known work in the oeuvre of the Gap Band,  the lyrically mysterious “Oops outside your head”, although if comparing the hits of 1979 it was certainly preferable to Lena Martell’s “One day at a time”.  “We don’t know if we are (top of the league) yet” says the bloke behind me wisely, preferring to wait until the final whistles have blown everywhere to indulge in such boastfulness.  Fiona says something about the time that was passing too quickly now passing too slowly, but oddly I don’t find it so tonight and almost before I know it Mr Lewis has blown his whistle for the last time this evening and another essential three points have been won.

Thankfully perhaps, for the time being , when all the final whistles are blown, Ipswich are not top of the league; that can keep for the first weekend in May, when it really matters.  For now, there is a wave around the stadium of the sort of relief and release that Pat from Clacton’s monkey could probably tell us about if he spoke and she hadn’t already made her way out to the Clacton supporters’ bus.  Despite being elated  I don’t linger either,  hoping in vain that I will make a smart exit in my planet saving, bird-shit splattered Citroen.