Jack Clarke

Ipswich Town 2 Derby County 2

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It’s been a week in which summer, previously baked by the hot sun, has started to crumble away, buffeted by cool breezes, drenched by heavy showers and obscured by clouds.   As an Ipswich Town season ticket holder however, I am used to disappointment, and more than just believing it is, I know this is the natural order of things.  This morning, after a breakfast of sausage, egg, mushrooms and toast I put a coat of white gloss paint on the inside of my upstairs toilet door.  The paint was old and past its best, another coat or two will be needed and probably from a new tin.

Outside, the sun shone this morning, and it still does.  A wild array of billowing white clouds decorate the blue sky as I walk to my local railway station to catch the train to Ipswich, which is delayed by two minutes. Three blokes sat up straight on scooters, scoot past noisily.  At the station, a grey-haired man wears a T-shirt proclaiming, “Punk’s not Dead – The Exploited”, of course even in 1981 when that album was released, that wasn’t true, Punk inevitably committed suicide or took an overdose long before that.

 Gary joins me at the first station stop and we discuss his injured achilles tendon, which means that on arrival in Ipswich we will not be walking to ‘the Arb’ but will drink in the Fanzone.  There are of course also still polar bears in Wherstead, although I only spot one today, which like a lot of other things is a little disappointing.   Gary asks if I will be buying an “ice cream” today and I think I probably will not because it feels like a football programme that costs four quid has lost sight of what a football programme is meant to be; not that football programmes can really see of course.

It feels like a long arduous walk down Princes Street and Portman Road and into Sir Alf Ramsey Way alongside a gently limping Gary, and our lack of speed worsens the confused pangs of longing I feel as I pass numerous programme sellers.  Eventually, we make it to the Fanzone with its  loud music, ice cream van, beer tent and huge tv screen, which today is telling us how lucky we are we aren’t from ‘Up North’ by showing Middlesbrough versus Sheffield United.  Many people seem strangely mesmerised by it, however.

In the beer tent queues of uneven length line up for young women to dispense plastic cups of dull yellow liquid.  Gary says he’s on a diet, so should not really have a drink but he’s going to anyway.  We look up at the list of beers, the names of which mean nothing to me. Why doesn’t it just say Lager and Bitter?  Gary has something that sounds Spanish and out of sheer cruelty I get him to ask the young woman server if they’ve got a bitter.  She looks worriedly at a list and says there’s a lager and then describes something else as an IPA, although she also mentions fruit.  Foolishly, half remembering IPAs as amber coloured beers I opt for the IPA and receive a cloudy looking tub of yellow liquid that tastes only of grapefruit; that was the fruit, I guess.  The ‘beers’ cost a staggering £6.50 each and miraculously I suddenly realise that in December 1976 the programme for the Ipswich v Liverpool match, which coincidentally advertised the Sex Pistols ‘Anarchy in the UK’ tour, cost 15 pence, whilst at that time a pint of beer cost about 23 pence.   So, in a world where the retail price index is based solely on beer and football programmes, in nearly forty-nine years the price of programmes relative to the price of beer has actually fallen a little. Nevertheless, given the choice, and I have been, I will give up football programmes before I give up beer.

At about a quarter to three a man in a day-glo coat effectively tells us to leave and go to our seats. He seems a little curt, even rude, but I let it pass considering that a lot of people have strange jobs nowadays, and Gary and I soon bid our farewells.  The blue skies punctuated with white cloud have given way to grey cloud and there is a queue to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, but it moves as if well lubricated and I am soon passing through the hallowed turnstile 62, named in honour of Sir Alf Ramsey’s team’s achievements back in 1962.  I arrive at my seat moments before Fiona arrives at hers and not long after Pat from Clacton reached hers.  The man from Stowmarket (Paul),  ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are already here too and I’m in good time to join in, in the manner of a Frenchman at the Stade Marie Marvinght or Stade Marcel Picot when the excitable young stadium announcer, who today has seemingly mislaid his jacket but wears a shiny brown waistcoat, reads out the team.

“Be loud, be proud” announces the excitable young stadium announcer as a final gesture, before the strains of The Beatles “Hey Jude” begin. With Jude’s na-na-nas fading away arm in arm with August, the game begins and it’s Derby who get first go with the ball, booting it where possible in the direction of the old telephone exchange, Coes and the Halal butcher on Norwich Road. Derby sport a modern, plastic looking version of their traditional kit of white shorts and black shorts, which sadly fails to conjure spectral visions of Kevin Hector, Archie Gemmill or Colin Todd.  Town are similarly in a modern incarnation of blue and white that doesn’t really suggest David Johnson, Jimmy Robertson or Trevor Whymark were once here either.

A man arrives and sits in the seat in front of me but then continuously turns around, his arm hanging over the back of his seat, to talk to the bloke beside me.  I try to watch the game. The bloke in front stays mostly turned round to talk to my neighbour.  The space in front of me has always been small and now it’s smaller, the seat is pressing against my knee, I’m trying to watch the match, I’m feeling a bit annoyed, a bit grumpy, that pint of IPA in the Fanzone was truly horrible, the bloke in front of me is still turning round. “Look, why don’t you just sit here, and I’ll sit there, this is getting on my nerves” I say, standing up and gesturing the bloke in front to climb over his seat whilst I do the same in the opposite direction.  The manoeuvre seems to cause a bit of consternation around me and I think the bloke now behind me is explaining what’s happened to the blokes behind him.  “I’m sure we can all read about it later” says ever-present Phil who never misses a game.

“We are Derby” sing the Derby fans.  “Create more space with a mezzanine floor” reads the illuminated advertisement between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  “We hate Nottingham Forest” continue the Derby fans and it feels like the world is falling in on me. On the pitch,  Derby seem very enthusiastic, running and jumping and barging about like they’ve all over-dosed on pre-match Sunny Delight.  It’s not pretty to watch but it’s stopping Ipswich from playing much football. “Windows that Wow. Doors that delight” announces the Sir Bobby Robson stand as a Derby player takes a throw.  The Derby goalkeeper is wearing a dayglo orange kit that looks like it might also be worn by staff of the Derbyshire  County Council highways department.

Nineteen minutes have gone the way of the previous twenty-nine and a half days of August and the Derby fans chant “Football in a library, do-do-do”, illustrating how human evolution seems to be standing still.  A break by Kasey McAteer, and a cross leads to Leif Davis having Town’s first decent shot on goal but it bounces conveniently into the arms of the man from the highways department, and Town begin to get to grips with Derby’s WWF inspired style of play.   Twenty-seven minutes are up and Town earn a corner.  “Come on you Blues” chant a handful of us lamely.  Five minutes later a Conor Chaplin shot earns another corner.  More half-hearted chants but they’re all Town need and as the ball sails over the flailing fist of the bloke from the Council, Jacob Greaves applies a stooping header, the humblest of all headers, to put Town one-nil up.

With Town ahead, it’s only a matter of two minutes before the first Derby player is booked for dissent as the Sunny Delight hangover begins to kick-in.  “Come on Town, this is good” shouts the bloke behind me and Town win another corner from which Dara O’Shea hits a post with a header before the referee laughably books McAteer, seemingly for over-optimistically jumping alongside the man from the Council who is eight centimetres taller than him.  Two minutes of additional time follow, in which Town win a fourth corner but nothing more.

Half-time is a time to talk to Ray, reflect on his forthcoming birthday which features a zero at the end and discuss why Kasey McAteer was booked. Even as a former county highways department employee Ray does not know.  On my way back to my seat Pat from Clacton tells me not to swap my seat with the same bloke again because he’s been getting on her nerves too.

The game re-starts, and I eat a Slovakian Horalky wafer bar to help my body forget the memory of what I consumed in the Fanzone.  I’m not sure if my lack of concentration whilst eating is partly to blame, but there is also a sudden lack of concentration in the Town defence and some bloke in a white shirt has to be chased into the penalty area by Leif Davis, who is then adjudged to have handled the ball as he dives in to block a shot and Derby are awarded a penalty, which one of them scores.  Despite the equalising goal, which the balance of play suggests they should be slightly embarrassed about, Derby’s players are haranguing the referee seemingly wanting Davis sent off for the handball.  Quite why these players are not booked or even sent off for unsporting behaviour is a mystery, especially when George Hirst is then booked for alleged diving and weirdly we’re all wishing we still had VAR.

With the scores once again level, Derby clearly intend not to go behind again and have evidently decided the best way to do this is to ensure as little football as possible takes place in the remaining thirty-five minutes. At times the game now resembles a match involving the Keystones Cops and American Civil War soldiers as players comically fall about and then lay on the pitch like extras from the scene in Gone With the Wind after the battle of Atlanta.  “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” chant the home support imaginatively.  “We forgot you were here” reply the Derby fans also failing to roll back the frontiers of witty ripostes before doing it again by once more chanting “Football in a library, do-do-do”.

Time moves on and the inevitable rash of substitutions are made with twenty-two minutes left of normal time.  Two minutes later another lack of concentration in the Town defence sees both O’Shea and Greaves miss the ball to allow some brutish part-time actor from Derby to score and give his team the lead. Town win a corner, another substitution is made and we are told by the excitable young stadium announcer that we number 29,155 and 1,144 of us are supporting the bunch that are currently winning and have a road mender for a goalkeeper.

With time not unexpectedly continuing to ebb away into the abyss, Town struggle against  Derby’s “tactic” of not wanting any one to play football and the bloke behind me announces that “Nobody seems to want it”, although Chuba Akpom’s shot that goes narrowly over the bar doesn’t really back him up. Certainly, it seems many supporters don’t want to witness the final whistle, and the stands would only empty out more quickly if Nigel Farage had made a guest appearance.  Help eventually comes from an unexpected source as it is announced that there will be a minimum of thirteen minutes additional time, and I think I detect a sudden dash to the toilets amongst anxious Derby fans.  As the additional time, unfortunately, proves no better than the wasted time it replaces,  it seems like maybe my prevailing emotion on a Saturday evening will once  again be disappointment.

But then, as once more and then once more again Town sling the ball into the Derby penalty area, the referee awards a penalty.  I couldn’t see why from the far end of the ground, but in the absence of VAR I trust the referee who obviously knows what he’s doing, on this occasion.  Jack Clarke steps up to take the penalty as the blokes behind me agree that they would have Ashley Young take it and the bloke next to me holds his head in his hands and seems to weep as he says “Not, Jack Clarke, please not Jack Clarke.”  But happily, yes, Jack Clarke,  as he takes one of the best penalties by an Ipswich player that I think I’ve ever seen, striking the ball hard and into a corner and with a bit of a curl on it too for good measure.  There’s still time to win I say to myself, but it turns out there isn’t.

Inevitably, with sixteen minutes of additional time having been played, on hearing the final whistle people don’t hang about.  I too turn and head for the exit and my train home to reflect on what despite the last minute goal, still feels like a disappointing afternoon; that beer in the Fanzone was disgusting.

Ipswich Town 1 Southampton 1

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My wife Paulene grew up in the city of Portsmouth like her parents and their parents before them.  Her father was present at Wembley to see victorious Pompey lift the FA Cup in 1939 and was a regular at Fratton Park before he got married.  Paulene started watching Pompey in the late 1960’s and hers is one of the names on the wall behind the North Stand at Fratton Park which records those who bought shares to keep the club alive and take it out of administration back in 2011.   Today, my team Ipswich Town play Pompey’s bitter rivals Southampton and must win, and by several goals.  The reason for this is that Paulene will then be in my debt because yesterday Pompey lost to flippin’ Norwich.

Weirdly, it’s Sunday, and almost every other team in whatever league it is Ipswich now play in have already played.  To make matters even more confusing, kick-off is at 12 o’clock, barely giving time for the God-fearing to get home from church before heading for the match.  Untroubled by such matters however, I have already checked that ‘The Arb’ will be opening early, and after a breakfast of all manner of things left in the fridge and then introduced to a frying pan, I am heading to the railway station in sandals, shorts and t-shirt beneath an ITFC bucket hat and a blazing August sun.  Despite my outwardly sunny disposition, I can’t help but quietly question what I’m doing embarking on yet another season of probable anguish and despair.   After all, we reached the ‘promised land’ last year and it turned out to be something of a disappointment, why bother trying to go back?  It was like saving up for a luxury holiday, expecting to stay at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo and then finding yourself with half-board in a B & B in Lowestoft.

Just like last season, Gary joins me on the train at the first station stop.  Our conversation joins the dots between now and last May before we look for polar bears on the rolling slopes of Wherstead.  Opposite us sits an inscrutable, full-faced and bearded man in dark glasses, who looks so miserable he makes me want to laugh.  He has a face to ward-off evil spirits.  As ever, due to careful planning our carriage draws up by the lower of the two foot bridges that span the tracks at Ipswich station, and having negotiated the ticket barriers we make for the Arb via Portman Road and its ice cream kiosks that sell programmes.  But today there is a technical issue at the first kiosk, a queue at the second and so I buy my programme from a large young bloke with just a two-wheeled, blue trolley with a stick on it bearing a sign that says “programmes”. To my horror the programme now costs four pounds. “Four pounds!” I exclaim. “Yes, everything is going up” says the large young bloke sounding like the voice of experience.  “How much were programmes when you first came to Portman Road?” asks Gary. “Five pence” I tell him, and for that you would also get a Football League Revue which cost five-pence on its own.  I wonder why at French football matches programmes are free, and speculate that if everyone at the game was given a programme it might be possible to charge more for the advertising.  On the plus side, the front cover of the programme features a painted portrait of Dara O’Shea with Umbro badge to the fore.  The painting is in a conventional style by an artist called Louise Cobbold but I look forward in the weeks to come to enjoying the faces of Luke Woolfenden and  Ali Al-Hamadi as they might have been seen by Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud or Picasso.

Since yesterday Gary has had a bad ankle.  He tells me he drove to Braintree and when he got out of his car his ankle hurt.  Our journey to the Arb is therefore a slow and arduous one and by the time we get there I feel a lot like Mao Zedong and the Red Army must have at the end of ‘Long March’, but minus the revolutionary fervour.   I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10.50 for the two with Camra discount) because The Arb no longer sells Lager 43.  Like a twit, I pronounce ‘Galicia’ as I imagine a Spanish person would, I think it’s my age.  Beers in hands, we retire to the beer garden to mourn the absence of Mick, who is at a wedding in Scotland, and to talk of films, immigration and the town of Bromley.  Gary later buys another round of pints of Suffolk Pride and Galicia too.

It’s just gone twenty-five to twelve when we head for Portman Road; we leave a little early because of Gary’s painful ankle but proudly we’re still the last people to go.  We part ways near where Alf Ramsey’s statue stands hands in pockets perhaps wondering why football fans sing about Bobby Robson but not him, even though he won the League and the World Cup and Sir Bobby won neither.  I saunter past queues for the turnstiles in Portman Road but at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand emergency measures are in place and as I arrive hopeful spectators are being ushered through the side entrance past recent building works and a sign that reads ‘Broadcasters Toilet’, which I hope is specially adapted to flush away what comes out of their mouths.

I make it into the company of the man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the excitable young stadium announcer finishes telling us who ‘our’ team are today.  In the time-honoured manner, I bawl the players’ surnames out as if I was at the Stade du Roudourou in Guingamp or Stade Saint-Symphorien in Metz. It’s as if I’d never been away, or indeed to either of those stadiums and oddly enough I haven’t.  At the far end of the ground a banner, it’s not really big enough in size or ambition to be called a tifo, reads “Side by side a sea of blue and white” which doesn’t quite sound right but I think I get the general idea.

When the game begins, it is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they proceed to boot very effectively towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras.  Naturally enough Town are in traditional blue and white, whilst Southampton are in their usual red stripes and black shorts but have seemingly travelled here through time and have donned the kit that Mike Channon and little Alan Ball used to wear back in the second half through the 1970’s.  Within four minutes Town score as George Hirst nicks a back pass and crosses to Jack Clarke who skilfully sets the ball up for the flamboyantly monikered Taylor Harwood-Bellis to score an own goal.

With promotion assured, we settle down to enjoy the match, the sunshine and the remainder of the season.  Pat from Clacton has had an operation on one of her eyes she tells me, and I guess that’s why she’s looking extra cool in her shades today; and luckily, she’s looking much more cheerful than the bloke in the dark glasses on the train this morning. “Sit down if you love Pompey” sing the Southampton fans and so because we do, we do.  

On the pitch however, things have taken a turn for the worse and Southampton unsportingly won’t let Town have the ball.   The upshot is that it all gets a bit too much and Southampton score an equalising goal with a ‘towering’ header from a bloke called Jay Robinson. All around people agree that “it had been coming”, which philosophically speaking is probably something of a truism because looking back hasn’t everything?    Disappointed, I seek solace in telling Fiona that Southampton’s number thirty-four, Wellington, used to play for Wimbledon. Without hesitation, Fiona gets the joke, possibly because I said the same thing the last time Southampton were at Portman Road.

Wellington is booked before half-time by referee Mr Madley, who has taken to annoying supporters of both teams who accuse him through the medium of a tuneless chant of not knowing what he is doing.  I however think he does know what he is doing and that is the opposite to what we think he should be doing. He proceeds to book Jack Taylor and Azor Matusiwa.

With half-time I vent excess Suffolk Pride and then reacquaint myself with Ray and his grandson Harrison  who have spent the summer attending gigs, concerts and happenings and are soon due to see Tom Jones.  I hope Ray has a clean pair of knickers to throw at the Octogenarian.

After the somewhat uneasy first-half in which Southampton would probably claim to have been the better team, in the second half it soon becomes clear that whatever Kieran McKenna said at half time to his players was much more worth listening to than whatever the ginger Anglo-Belgian Will Still said.  Sammie Szmodics hits a post and the ball defies the laws of physics by bouncing back to the goalkeeper instead of into the net and Jadon Philogene executes a spectacular overhead scissor kick.  There are other chances for Town too, whilst as a tall slim man, for Southampton I find Adam Armstrong and Ryan Frazer antagonisingly stocky.

Wellington is substituted by Will Still before he plays an hour and Fiona and I are disappointed but not surprised when he’s not replaced by Orinoco.  Pat from Clacton tells me she’s having a baked potato for tea, with chicken and salad. Southampton’s number 18 Mateus Fernandes shoots over the Town cross bar from a free-kick and then smacks the palm of one hand obliquely across the other in a gesture that says ‘darn my luck’ or, if Google translate can be believed ‘droga a minha sorte’ in Portuguese.  The excitable young stadium announcer goes on to thank us for our being 29,128 in number today and almost as a final act before declaring the game over, Mr Madley books Southampton’s Shea Charles in the manner of a man who enjoys being the architect of the practical joke.  Madley allows Charles to walk away from the scene of his crime, before suddenly calling him back and thrusting the yellow card at him the moment he turns around.  It’s a decent finale to a match that wouldn’t otherwise have one.

I don’t hang about after the final whistle and leave for the railway station to the sound of people reluctantly saying it was probably a fair result.  I’m not sure my wife Paulene will think it was and I may have some explaining to do, but at least we didn’t lose.

Ipswich Town 0 Brentford 1

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It seems to have been a week of looking back on momentous events, with the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Europe, my own twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and also the forty-seventh anniversary of Ipswich Town winning the FA Cup.  Today however, I am returning to the present and am preparing to see Ipswich play Brentford, a club which back in 1978 had just won promotion from the fourth division, which perhaps helps explain why I always think of them as a ’lower division’ team, like Colchester United or Newport County.

For the first time this year It is warm enough not to need a coat, and I walk to the railway station beneath a clear blue sky.  It’s a pleasant walk, disturbed only by the loud, wailing sirens of four ambulances and a police car, which careen past me slaloming between lanes of traffic.  The train seems on time, but I don’t really know if it is, only that it smells unpleasantly of the on-board toilet.  The carriage is mostly empty and surprisingly seems devoid of Brentford fans.  Gary joins me at the first station stop and we talk of nothing much in particular, although the polar bears of Wherstead inspire a brief conversation about whatever happened to the soft drink known as ‘Cresta’, a beverage which was possibly at the height of its popularity in1978.   The fur of one of the polar bears looks very clean today and we speculate briefly about polar bears and shampoo.

In Ipswich, we head for ‘the Arb’ as quickly as Gary’s dawdling gait will allow, pausing only to buy a programme each (£3.50) at one of the booths that look as though they might also sell ice creams. As ever, I am disappointed that they don’t and that the programme seller doesn’t wish me ‘bon match’.   Today’s front cover design, which is not the front cover of the programme thanks to the evil capitalists of the Umbro sportswear company, is an ITFC version of Peter Blake’s sleeve design for The Beatles’ Sgt Pepper album.  You can’t beat a bit of Pop Art, and for a moment I find myself daydreaming of seeing Ray Crawford, Ted Phillips or Sir Alf Ramsey as they might have been portrayed by Andy Warhol, Pauline Boty or Roy Lichtenstein.

At ‘the Arb’, there is literally a queue at the bar, which I think I succeed in jumping because in my world people don’t queue at pub bars because the bar staff always know who’s next.  Happily, it’s not long before Gary and I are soon in the beer garden clutching pints of Lager 43 and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£9 something for the two with Camra discount) and looking for a place to sit. Mick appears from the back gate and while he is getting himself a pint of Suffolk Pride, Gary and I share a table with a man and a woman and two small dogs who are on a pub crawl of Ipswich’s dog friendly pubs; they’ve already been to the Woolpack and the Greyhound and have five more pubs to visit, when the dogs will qualify for ‘free’ bandanas.   I take their photo for them to record the event for their Facebook friends, and reminisce about visiting numerous Tolly Cobbold pubs in the early 1980’s in order to acquire a ‘free’ T-shirt advertising Tolly ‘Original’.

After Gary has bought a further round of drinks and Mick has promised that it will definitely be his round next time, we eventually find ourselves with empty glasses and nothing else to do but head downhill to Portman Road and the afternoon of delights that awaits us.  I bid Gary and Mick farewell somewhere near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey, which isn’t in the Pop Art style, and this is probably a good thing.  The queues at the turnstiles to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are short, but it still takes longer than expected to gain entry because of zealous use of scanners by the security staff, although I get the impression that they are losing heart because no one seems to be trying to smuggle in firearms or explosives; it can’t be good for their morale never discovering anything.

By the time I am reacquainting myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, the teams are on the pitch, balls of flame have burst into the sky, and a pall of smoke is drifting across the pitch as if all the explosives the security staff had hoped to find, but hadn’t,  had been let off at once.  The excitable young stadium announcer, whose grey suit looks as if he’s only just got it back from Sketchley’s reads out the teams and I bawl the Town players’ surnames as if I was in the tribunes of the Stade du Moustoir, Lorient or Stade Gabriel-Montpied, Clermont Ferrand.

Ipswich, sporting their usual blue shirts and white shorts get first go with the ball and are mostly trying to kick it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras.  Meanwhile, Brentford sport their traditional red and white striped shirts and black shorts, although closer inspection reveals that the black of the shorts bleeds into the red of the stripes and there are black bits underneath the armpits of the shirts too, as if the players were all using an experimental pitch or creosote-based under arm deodorant.

The game has only just begun, but already I’m thinking that Conor Chaplin is looking different today.  At first I think it must be his haircut, but then decide he has a beard, although such thoughts are suddenly swept away as Omari Hutchinson crosses and Liam Delap heads towards the goal, but Mark Flekken the Brentford goalkeeper, who is Dutch but has a French tri-colour against his name on the back of the programme makes a neat but not overly difficult save.  ‘Edison House Group’ reads the electronic billboard at the far end of the ground, and although I try not to, I hear ‘Love grows where my Rosemary goes’ playing in my head.

Ten minutes pass and Brentford begin to hog the ball, and then they win the game’s first corner.  “Football in a library” sing the Brentford fans perhaps expecting us to cheer their corner, and Pat asks who the well-known Brentford players are so she can photograph them.  But Fiona and I don’t really think any of them are well-known, although Fiona has heard of Mark Flekken.  I tell Pat I expect they’re well-known in Brentford.  With fifteen minutes up, the referee Mr Barrott, whose surname pleasingly rhymes with carrot decides it’s time Brentford scored from a corner and keeps giving them corners until they do.  Part way through the catalogue of corners the match is paused for VAR to check for a possible penalty due to over-enthusiastic grappling. “Place your bets” I tell Fiona and Pat from Clacton, but surprisingly no penalty is awarded, although Jack Taylor and Christian Norgaard are both booked.    From the next corner however, Brentford score as Kevin Schade, who in his spare time also plays for  Germany, rises unopposed at the near post and heads just inside the far post.

Ten minutes elapse after we rapidly come to terms with the likelihood of another home defeat, and Town then win a corner of their own.  “Come On You Blues” I bellow, hopefully, but the ball doesn’t even get past the first Brentford defender, who is stood at the near post. “Gotta beat the first man” says the bloke behind me censoriously.  The familiar sound of ironic cheers follows two minutes later as Omari Hutchinson wins a rare free kick for Town,  but two minutes later Brentford have the ball back and Alex Palmer is making a decent save to prevent a goal.

The final seven minutes of the half witness corners to both sides, more chants of “football in a library” from the Brentford supporters, Jack Taylor shooting wide of the goal and Pat from Clacton complains about the bloke behind her constantly talking (and swearing), most weeks as Pat tells us, there’s a “…nice, quiet older man sitting there”. 

After two minutes of added on time, half-time arrives as expected and the disappointments of the first half are forgotten as I go to the front of the stand to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison, applaud the promotion winning women’s team, see Harrison’s 21st birthday announced on the big screen  and finally  enjoy a Polish Przy Piatczku chocolate wafer bar courtesy of  the World Foods aisle in Sainsbury’s.  Unfortunately, the chocolate on one side of the wafer has melted in the warmth of the afternoon, and through being in my pocket , so after I’ve eaten it I have to ask Fiona if I’ve got any chocolate around my mouth; I haven’t and I think she’s pleased she’s not going to have to dab anything off with a hanky as if she were my mum.  

The second half brings the usual misleading, renewed hope, and after ten minutes Jack Clarke, or “Jack Claaarke” as the excitable young announcer calls him replaces Conor Chaplin.  Pat from Clacton shifts her attention away from the constant talking of the bloke behind her to the Brentford manager Thomas Frank, who apparently is “always chewing” and with his mouth open too, yuck.   More substitutions follow just five minutes later as Jens Cajuste and George Hirst replace Jack Taylor and Liam Delap.   Alarmingly, George Hirst has dyed his hair blond and now looks like a cross between a Midwich cuckoo and Sick Boy in the film of Trainspotting.

The game is a little more than two-thirds over and I’m beginning to feel a bit annoyed like Pat from Clacton, but my irritation isn’t down to talking and chewing, but down to the Brentford players who, when not charging at the Town players ( I think it’s called ‘pressing’), seem a whingy, whiny lot who are constantly running to the referee, ‘pressing’ him to give them free-kicks.  I begin to wonder if Brentford aren’t called The Bees because they’re always buzzing around the referee, although having grown up in the country I’d be tempted to liken them more to flies around a cow’s arse.   

Another Brentford corner brings another VAR check for a possible penalty, which is again turned down, this time with the explanation that there had been ‘mutual holding’,  which in the privacy of one’s own home sounds quite appealing and probably explains why no one was booked this time. Less appealing is a somewhat reckless overhead kick by Yoane Wissa which makes contact not with the ball, but with Jacob Greaves’ face, although fortunately he is not hurt and manfully he carries on despite the taste of dubbing.

The closing fifteen minutes of the match play out in a way that cruelly allows Town fans to retain hope of an equaliser,  which of course never comes.  Sam Morsy shoots over, George Hirst bursts through and shoots powerfully wide, Omari Hutchinson shoots beyond a far post too and Town win more corners.   Today’s attendance is announced by the now unctuous sounding but still excitable young stadium announcer as 29,511, of whom 2,953 are here for ‘the Brentford’ and indeed “You’re only here for the Brentford” is what they touchingly sing to one other.  Five minutes of added on time produce another shot on goal for Town which I think is saved, but before it was it had me off my seat almost thinking it was a goal.

The final whistle is greeted with applause for the Town players today and the realisation that with a bit more luck we might have got a draw and we would have deserved it, and so perhaps, like the season as a whole, it hasn’t been a complete waste of time.

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been cold lately, which is reassuring because it is January, and low air temperatures at this time of year are part of the recurring pattern of life that means the FA Cup third round is upon us, albeit a week later than it was when I were a lad.  Neolithic farmers had stone circles and henges aligned to the  stars to mark the changing seasons, we have football fixtures.

Feeling at one with Mother Earth, I walk beneath a pale blue, winter afternoon sky to the railway station, where I meet Roly, who will be attending his first  game of the current season after three failed attempts to score a ticket for a league match, which has left him bitter and disconsolate; this is what being in the Premier League does to people.  A young girl stood next to us on the platform with what are possibly an older brother and her mother, remarks that I am wearing odd gloves (a blue and red one and a black and orange one) and so I explain to her that the other halves of the pairs of gloves had holes in them, although I don’t tell her that one of the gloves is a “Marcus Stewart” glove, because I guess that she wouldn’t know who Marcus Stewart is. Her brother supports West Ham, and her mother seems to be ignoring them both, and I sense the children are pleased that someone is talking to them, even if it’s Roly who is now feeling left out.

At the first station stop, Gary boards the train and soon joins us on our journey having made his way down the carriage.  Like the three witches in Macbeth in reverse, we discuss when we all last met and decide that like so much, it was ‘before lockdown’.  But then, if you’re no longer at primary school most things were before lockdown.  We continue to talk aimlessly until like pensioners on a sightseeing trip we all peer out of the window to catch a glimpse of the polar bears that mark the approach to Ipswich.  I think I see one lying on its back as if sunbathing, but it might just be my excitement playing tricks on me.

Once in Ipswich, I struggle at the platform barrier with my electronic ticket as Gary and Roly, who relied on cardboard but had to kill a tree in the process, wait patiently on the other side.  We amble up Princes Street and Portman Road and take turns to buy programmes from one of the ice cream kiosks, and then complain that there is no groovy design on the cover, (damn you Umbro) or anywhere come to that, and the programme is a bit thin for £2.50. “Less of the usual rubbish to read though “I say cheerfully as we walk on up to the Arb, and occasionally I steer Roly in the right direction, as he seems to have forgotten the way; he’s only forty-seven.

On High Street, Roly reaches the front door of the Arb first, but ushers me through before him like a man much practiced in avoiding buying the first round, or any round. But then, he does have a wife and child to support, and he clearly gets his haircut more often than me too, although he doesn’t buy many razor blades.  We are soon clutching pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, Nethergate Venture and Lager 43 (£13 something for the three with Camra discount) and greeting Mick, who is already sat in the shelter in the beer garden with a pint of Suffolk Pride of his own.  We talk of this and that and sometimes we laugh.  Gary buys another round of drinks after a while, but this time he and Roly only have halves and Mick has a whisky.  By twenty-five to three our glasses are once again empty and so with at least one other Town supporter still in the bar, if his shirt is to be believed, we leave for Portman Road.

In Portman Road the queues at the turnstiles are impressive in their length and the variety of speeds at which they move.  We join the queue for turnstile 62, but as ever it seems slower than the others and so we slip across towards turnstile sixty as two young women wave illuminated scanners at us. I tell them I can save them some effort if they let me know what they are looking for; apparently it’s weapons.  We hand over our assault rifles and grenades and move on up the queue.

Once in my seat, I find I have missed the excitable young stadium announcer’s reading out of the team, which is mildly disappointing, but more so is the absence of Pat from Clacton, although Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here, even if many other regulars aren’t.  Fiona tells me that Pat had said she wasn’t going to come to this game, sadly it seems she’s no longer turned on by the FA Cup like we all are.

It’s the Town who get first go with the ball, which they pass around in the general direction of me and my fellow ultras; Town wear blue and white of course, whilst Bristol Rovers sport a change kit of plastic green shirts decorated with areas of black check, like a small geometric rash; their shorts are black like the rash.  The words “External Render” flash across the illuminated strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the Bristol Rovers supporters mournfully sing of when the Gas go marching in, and how they want to be in that number, or pipe, when it happens.  It’s the sixth minute and Ipswich have a free kick from which they win a corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues”.  Fiona gamely joins in, but we are lone voices in a sea of silence.  A second corner follows but things don’t improve chorally. “You’re supposed to be at home” sing the Bristolians to the tune of Cwm Rhondda and then they shout a short chant of “Football In a Library“, which quickly fades away into a stifled mumble as if someone had disapprovingly raised their finger to their lips and pointed to a sign that says “Silence”.

It’s the twelfth minute of the game now and Jack Clarke falls to the turf in the Rovers penalty area, raising his head and looking pleadingly at the referee as he does so.  He should probably be booked for such a poor attempt at scamming a penalty but isn’t.  Meanwhile, the Rovers supporters start singing “Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be, We’re going to Wemb-er-ley, Que sera, sera” revealing an unexpected love of the hits of Doris Day, a healthy optimism and a sense of the ridiculous all at once. Town have a corner, and a game of head tennis follows before the ball is claimed by the Bristol goalkeeper Josh Griffiths, and the Rovers fans begin to goad the pensioners and small children in the adjacent Sir Alf Ramsey stand by singing “Small club in Norwich, You’re just a small club in Norwich”.  The Rovers fans will later realise their mistake as they begin their drives home by looking for the A11.

Town are dominating the game, which is taking place mostly around the Bristol Rovers penalty area and with seventeen minutes lost to the history of the world’s oldest cup competition, it is from just outside that penalty area that Kalvin Phillips strikes an exquisitely placed shot into the left-hand corner of Griffiths’ goal, and Town lead one-nil.  For a while, Phillips’s name and image do not appear on the scoreboard, almost as if they can’t be found because he hadn’t been expected to score, but eventually we get to see him, and his haircut.  “Sing when you’re winning” chant the Rovers fans and they’re not far wrong, except today most of us aren’t even doing that.

Town’s one-nil lead lasts just six minutes and then makes way for a two-nil lead as Jack Clarke is suddenly left with the simple task of passing the ball into an unguarded net after a shot by Ali-Al-Hamadi is blocked.  “Fawlty Towers Dinner Show” announces the illuminated advert strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand before the game descends towards half-time, and as Griffiths receives treatment, everyone else receives fluids, succour or remedial coaching on the touchline as required.

With eight minutes of the first half remaining, Town score again as Jack Taylor is suddenly stood before Griffiths with no one else near, and confidently strokes the ball past him, almost as if taking a penalty.  The excitable young stadium announcer weirdly tells us that the goal is scored by “our Jack Taylor” and we wonder if Bristol Rovers score will he say the goal is scored by  “their” whoever.  We very nearly find out in the forty-third minute as Aro Muric passes straight to a Bristol player, but Muric then saves the resulting shot with his feet.  He hasn’t had much to do in the first half, so perhaps it was just Muric’s way of keeping his eye in.  The half ends with another Town corner courtesy of Wes Burns, and two minutes of additional time, but no more goals are scored and with the half-time whistle it’s time to quickly visit the facilities, because it’s a cold day and those two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride were seemingly only on hire.

Three-nil up with not much effort and the second half is anticipated eagerly, pregnant as it is with the possibility that ex-Town players Grant Ward or James Wilson might score own goals, and the excitable young stadium announcer will say that the goals are scored by “formerly our” Grant Ward or James Wilson.  Half-time passes with me turning round and recognising the man sat behind me; we both used to drink before matches in St Jude’s Tavern; apparently, he doesn’t anymore because his knees mean he no longer rides his bike.

The football resumes at four minutes past four and our Ben Johnson, as opposed to the seventeenth century playwright and poet, replaces our Wes Burns, as opposed to just any Wes Burns.  Mick is eating a vegan pie, which he says is very good.  After five minutes Town earn another corner and then a minute later are awarded a penalty as Grant Ward (not to be confused with Grant Wood, painter of ‘American Gothic’) does his former team a favour by handling the ball.  Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to fool Griffiths by shooting hopelessly wide of his right-hand post with one of the worst penalty kicks ever seen at Portman Road.

The embarrassment of the penalty miss seems to put a damper on the whole match now, which like me never seems to recapture its initial zest for life.   At half-time the names of two-hundred people (mostly children by the look of their fashionable 21st century names) attending their first game appeared on the electronic scoreboard and I’ve now come to notice several people in pristine examples of what can only be described as ‘this season’s blue and white knitwear’.  My reverie is broken by a rare Rovers corner. “Come on Rovers, Come on Rovers” chant the Bristolians, and I enjoy the burr of their west country accents, which can plainly be heard in the word ‘rovers’.  Bristol’s brief brush with attacking football ends with a free-kick to Town, which displeases the travelling supporters.  “Wankerr, Wankerr” they chant at the referee Mr Langford, and then, strangely obsessed with masturbation “He wanks off the ref, He wanks off the ref, Ed Sheeran, he wanks off the ref” to the tune of Sloop John B, something that Brian Wilson probably never foresaw, despite tripping on LSD, when the Beach Boys popularised the Bahamian folk song back in 1966.

The match drifts on towards the inevitable final whistle; I tell Mick that I saw some of the ‘new’ film version of ‘West Side Story’ on tv the other night and liked it, a bloke somewhere behind me believes Al-Hamadi is trying too hard and Mick and I agree that a city the size of Bristol should really have a team in the first division, “Like Lincoln” says Mick, misguidedly. 

There are still more than twenty minutes left as Bristol bring on the clunky sounding Gatlin O’Donkor in place of Chris Martin, who in another world would have been made to play alongside Michael Jackson (Preston & Bury) and Paul Weller (Burnley & Rochdale).  I tell Mick that I think we’ve reached the stage where someone now needs to release a dog onto the pitch.  More substitutions ensue for both teams, but they don’t compare to bringing on a dog, and then the excitable young announcer thanks all 27,678 of us (541 from Bristol) for our ‘incredible’ support.

A seventy-eighth minute corner for Town raises a spark of interest and mysteriously several people all around the stadium illuminate the torches on their mobile phones; Aro Muric is swapped for Cieran Slicker, who Gary is convinced is no longer an Ipswich Town player. Not ‘our’ Cieran Slicker at all then, according to Gary.  A final hurrah sees George Hirst lob the ball over both Griffiths and the Bristol cross bar, and some late enthusiasm amongst the crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand has some gobby pre-pubescent chanting “Blue Army” and a lot of people echoing his chant; it sounds dreadful, and I imagine the participants all with drippy grins on their faces thinking how cute it is.

Just a minute of added on time is to be played, which is unbelievably brief given the number of substitutions made, but I guess the fourth official is as keen for this all to end as I am.  Town have won, and won easily, and it’s not what we’re used to anymore.  As the man from Stowmarket (Paul) said at half-time, it’s bit of a Sunday afternoon game, one put on for the children.  Gary and Mick are quickly off into the night after the final whistle and I soon follow, for what else is there to do but await the fourth round draw.

Ipswich Town 0 Newcastle United 4

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I had hoped that I might be able to acquire an extra ticket for today’s game, which I would have given to my friend of forty years or more, Jah, who is a Newcastle United fan.  Predictably perhaps, the slender avenues of opportunity were few and they proved to be culs-des-sacs.  I’m not a member, and having a season ticket continuously for over forty years counts for nothing; I was resigned to my fate.  There are now, no doubt some who having read the above are apoplectic with rage that I should consider buying a ticket for someone supporting the opposition team.  To them I say “Grow up, it’s only a game” and “Yah boo, sucks”.

It’s the Winter Solstice today, a grey day, like most days lately, but the train is on time and I see a polar bear through the window  as we descend into Ipswich through Wherstead, which is better than seeing one inside the carriage.  Gary is not with me again today; after going to previous matches with his brother and then having hurt his chest, which made him unable to make the hike up to the Arb, he has now awoken to find a toenail hanging off and so once again cannot make the trek to the pub.  Alone, but in the company of hundreds of other people sporting blue and white favours, I make my way to Portman Road to buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the booths that I hope will one day also sell ice creams, and observe the gathering crowd.  The Bobby Robson statue sports a “half and half” scarf, which controversially suggests he was what people younger than me call a “plastic fan”, when in fact he’s probably made of bronze.  People are having their photographs taken with the statue and I think of two songs by the Kinks, ‘Plastic Man’ and ‘People take pictures of each other’

At the Arb, I am mercifully served quickly and take my pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£4.14 with Camra discount) into the beer garden where I sit at one of the tables in the shelter, opposite a couple who are probably in their forties and seem pleased that this part of the shelter has the benefit of two electric heaters, even if it’s not going to help save the planet. I am a minute or two early; I’d arranged to meet Mick at 13:45 and an exchange of text reveals he is only now leaving home, so I read the programme I bought earlier and reflect on how the pieces by the manager , CEO and captain are just like every other piece by a manager, CEO or captain I have ever read before , but then, what is there to say?  Today’s front cover, which isn’t the front cover (it’s inside the back page) is by a designer called James Hobson, who if his picture is to be believed, wears 3D glasses possibly as a fashion accessory, or possibly when working or just when having his photo taken. Either way, I decide that I like his design, which is reminiscent of some of the more graphically adventurous programmes of the early 1970’s, of which Ipswich Town’s was sadly not one.  

In due course, Mick arrives and we talk of my wife, our siblings, Mick’s recently deceased neighbour, the smoke detectors in the flat in Felixstowe where Mick’s paramour lives, Christmas, how sentimental people are nowadays, and Gary’s absence.  At some stage I obtain a further pint of Suffolk Pride for me and a Jameson whisky for Mick (£8.80 with Camra discount) and we talk until a quarter to three, by which time we are alone in the beer garden and this makes us wonder why everyone is so keen to not just turn up as the game is about to begin.   After the easy downhill walk to Portman Road, we part at the junction of Sir Alf Ramsey Way and I make it to my seat in time to bawl out the surnames of three of the Town team as the excitable, although today very serious sounding young announcer reads the team line-up to us.  Naturally, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are already here.

Ipswich get first go with the ball this afternoon, but you wouldn’t know it, because no sooner has the game begun than Newcastle are one-nil up as a long ball forward, a cross, a very poor clearance and a bouncing shot puncture all our hopes of the sort of straightforward home win we crave.  There is a long wait of over a minute for VAR to dismiss the possibility of offside and predictably it does so.  “ Newcassul, Newcassul, Newcassul” sing the Geordies in the Cobbold stand and then “Haork, noww heeya …” with their accents coming across far clearer than the words they’re singing, in a way that is unmatched by supporters anywhere else in England.  The Town fans fall silent but then a brief chorus or three of “Come On You blues” rings out, before fading feebly into the gloom as darkening drizzle sweeps across the pitch and Newcastle dominate play, seemingly at times just through being bigger blokes.  Fifteen minutes up and it should be two-nil as Anthony Gordon heads down and the ball bounces over the Town bar.  Ipswich are incapable of holding onto the ball for more than a couple of passes, being brushed off the ball by these bigger boys; it’s like watching Under 15s play Under 13s.

The worst of it is that whilst Town are of course in blue and white, Newcastle have not turned up as Newcastle United in their famous black and white stripes, black shorts and stockings; no, they’re in some weird, needless arrangement of white shirts with green sleeves and green shorts, the colour of the Saudi Arabian flag.  “He’s good that thirty-nine” says the bloke behind me.  “He’s always available” .  “It’s Graham Harbey, isn’t it?” says the bloke next to him.   Twenty minutes gone and Jens Cajuste conjures Town’s first shot on goal, one that flies above the cross bar and hits a woman a few rows away.  Sam Morsy makes a saving tackle and is serenaded; I hope he likes Oasis.  “We’ve been a bit more involved, the last five minutes” says the bloke behind me and the drizzle has become rain and has begun sweeping in beneath the roof of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. My trousers are flecked with spots of rain.

It’s the thirty second minute, Newcastle have the ball, just passing it about around the Town penalty area, then they’re two-nil up.  A bloke with the unpromising name of Jacob Murphy just fires the ball into the roof of the goal net. Apparently he used to play for Norwich City, and Wikipedia tells us he is a nephew of former Town bench-warmer Tommy Parkin.  The goal happened so quickly it feels like Newcastle have scored without even bothering to have had a shot.  Hurt, but not beaten I chant “We’re going to win 3-2”, to the tune of Blue Moon, the 1934 song by Rodgers and Hart, but I feel as if I’m being ignored.  I tell Fiona that I recall Town beating Newcastle 5-4 back in March of 1975 “I remember it was a wet afternoon like this….” I tell her wistfully.  I also recall Town losing 0-3 to Newcastle the following August, but I don’t mention that.

The bloke sitting beside me and the blokes behind me leave for the bar, being two-nil down is evidently more than they can bear without the crutch of alcohol, they may need help.  “Bruno, Bruno” chant the Newcastle fans, and then “There’s only one Bobby Robson”, although in truth there is either no Bobby Robson anymore or there are several of them, all of whom remain, so far, unknown to us.  There are ten minutes until half-time and Conor Chaplin takes his usual sit down on the turf to allow everyone a few moments of remedial coaching on the touchline and to put in their orders for half-time refreshments.

With play resumed and half-time fast approaching, Muric makes a flying save from a shot by someone metaphorically draped in the Saudi flag. The approach of half-time is then slowed down as four minutes of added on time are announced and Sam Szmodics replicates Jens Cajuste’s earlier shot over the cross bar, meaning Town have at least now had two attempts at scoring.  But seeing a goal not scored at the far end, Muric then seemingly decides to try and create one at his own end as he suggests belief in the infallibility of Jens Cajuste by passing to him when there is a Newcastle player directly next to him.  Sadly, Jens is not infallible, and an outstretched leg robs him of the ball which runs to Alexander Isak who has the embarrassing task of scoring from a just a few yards out.  Now trailing three-nil, Town win their first corner of the game and I chant “Come On You Blues” with decreasing enthusiasm as hope is sucked from me by the aura of gloom all around. Inevitably the bigger boys get the ball away.

Half-time is a relief as I get to jettison excess Suffolk Pride, look at the half-time scores and eat a Nature Valley Crunchy Oats & Honey bar.  It is six minutes past four when the match resumes with Ali Al-Hamadi having appeared in place of Omari Hutchinson; within four minutes a busy Al-Hamadi has a shot blocked.  A glowing advert for Hawk Express Cabs makes its way along the front of the North Stand offering a number to call for anyone lacking the mental strength needed for Premier League football and seeking a means of escape.  Fortunately, none of the Town players’ shorts look large enough to conceal a mobile phone inside, except perhaps Jack Clarke’s, but he’s only a substitute today.

The situation nearly worsens as Bruno hits a post with a header in the fifty-first minute, but this  is a mere stay of execution as three minutes later Isak completes a hat-tick  of goals, unexpectedly stabbing the ball into the net past Muric as Town defenders flounder all around him. “Damage limitation now” says the bloke behind me, although I’m feeling that the damage is already done.  Over in the Cobbold stand, the away fans go all folksie and start singing  the Blaydon Races and Fiona says “ I can’t hear you singing we’re going to win 5-4” .  Perhaps because we’re not going to.

Town substitutions are made in the sixty-second minute as Cajuste and Chaplin wish good luck to Phillips and Taylor.  A minute later Wes Burns gets down the wing and puts in a deep cross, or is a shot? Either way it evades the far post, but is worth a round of applause before Newcastle make their own substitutions and Sam Morsy is booked.  “Is it worth getting Monkey out? “ asks Pat from Clacton, hoping to revive the Town via the mystical properties of a key ring from Vietnam featuring a masturbating monkey.  “He’ll have his work cut out” I tell her “it’ll exhaust him”.  But it’s Newcastle who win a corner and when it’s passed, I ask Pat what she’s having for her tea.  The answer is a baked potato with chicken in sticky sauce from Marks & Spencer.  Fiona doesn’t know what she’s having for her tea yet, and I don’t either. 

Twenty minutes left until we can go home and Town win a second corner of the game, Leif Davis holds the ball above his head before he takes it to indicate that it’s one which a Newcastle player will boot clear.   Six minutes on and Al-Hamadi is booked before Town’s final substitutions bid a farewell until next time to Szmodics and Wes Burns, and “Hello” to Ben Johnson and Nathan Broadhead, who is soon having a shot saved by the diving Newcastle goalkeeper, which possibly makes Nathan our man of the match in an attacking sense.  Today’s attendance is announced as 29,774 with 2,991 being potential extras for TV series such as ‘Vera’, ‘Spender’, ‘Our friends in the North’, When the Boat Comes In’ and ‘The Likely Lads’.

“Na Na, NaNa, Na Na” sing the Newcastle fans to the tune of the 1969 hit “Na Na, Hey Hey, Kiss Him Goodbye”, just as Bob Ferris and Terry Collier might have done at the time had they been real people.   Less than ten minutes of normal time remain and Al-Hamadi shoots high and wide and the advert for the Hot Sausage Company makes an appearance between the tiers on the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but the power of advertising is waning because of a mass exodus from the stands as people believe that missing the final whistle will help them deny they were ever here.

Before we all finally slope off into the night, four minutes of added on time produce another goal for Newcastle, for a short while anyway, but this time VAR is the Town supporters’ friend as the messy goal line event is deemed to have been an offside incident.  This is a rare good thing on an afternoon of mostly bad things, and I may cherish the memory of it for some time.  My friend Jah will later send me a message to say that he was glad he wasn’t at the match because despite Newcastle being “imperious” (pfft) it’s not nice being present at the death of hope.  What he doesn’t know is that I’ve witnessed the death of hope dozens of times at Portman Road and it’s not dead yet.