Ipswich Town 3 Plymouth Argyle 2

October 29, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

All of a sudden, summer turns to winter overnight, and it happens today, well tomorrow morning at 2 am to be precise, but as Brexit proved facts aren’t really important anymore. Looking forward to another hour in bed or staying up late without really staying up late, I kiss my wife goodbye, step out of my front door and head for the railway station. The pale autumn sun shines down upon me. As I cross the bridge over the railways tracks a man in pale grey trackie bottoms, pale grey sweatshirt and pale grey adidas baseball hat engages me in conversation about Ipswich Town’s remarkable start to the football season. Damn, he must have noticed my blue and white scarf, which I donned thinking the weather is cooler than it is. I don’t really know what to say to him, I don’t talk about football if I can help it, but nothing surprises me in football anymore. After fifty-two years watching mostly Ipswich Town, but with sizeable dollops of Colchester United, Brighton and Hove Albion and Wivenhoe Town, I’ve seen it all, haven’t I?

As I sit and wait for the train, which is a minute late, two ladybirds are also seemingly attracted by my blue and white scarf, but thankfully they don’t ask me any questions, they just settle on it until I blow them away and tell them their houses are on fire. The train arrives, I get on and am unfortunate enough to sit where I can only see out of half a window, whilst on the other side of the gangway three men, a woman and two children discuss blood pressure, although to be honest the children don’t have an opinion, they just witter and gurgle as children do. I move to a seat that is situated with a full window view. The carriage smells of whatever it’s been cleaned with and I’m feeling very warm indeed. Behind me a man says “Is it a glamorous building?” The woman with him replies “Well, it’s nice”. I remove my jacket, scarf and jumper and reflect on what has gone right and what has gone wrong with my day so far.

The train arrives in Ipswich and I make swift progress down Princes St into Portman Road, where I purchase a programme (£3.50) at one of the blue booths that looks to me like they should also sell ice creams. The programme today has a picture of the excellent Massimo Luongo on its cover, he is clenching his fists and thrusting forward his groin whilst lifting one foot off the ground as if he might be ostentatiously breaking wind. Middle-aged men and older sit on the rail fence to the nearby car park and eat packed lunches. It’s one of those days when people catch my eye and half smile as if they know me. I check to see if the zip on my trousers is undone, it’s not, but it was on Thursday morning when I took in a parcel for my neighbour from the DHL delivery man.

In time I inevitably reach ‘The Arb’, which is very busy, and I join a queue at the bar. An obese man with shiny pink lips and waxy complexion annoys me a little by “cutting the line”, as Americans say, and getting served before me. Behind the bar the one female member of staff has brightly coloured hair, and for one fleeting, fanciful, enjoyable moment I imagine it’s TV’s favourite physical anthropologist professor Alice Roberts, but of course it’s not. When it’s my turn, I order a pint of Wolf Brewery Werewolf (£3.87 with Camra discount) before retiring to the beer garden where I look at my mobile phone and notice that Mick has tried to call me, twice. I call him back and he explains that he is late because he has been called out to Felixstowe to collect a dead person. He’ll be with me later. I have drunk my first pint of Werewolf and started a second when Mick arrives at about a quarter past two with his own pint of Werewolf. We talk of the bottles of Lancelot organic beer I brought Mick back from Britanny, of Lorient and Brest and bowels, prescriptions and mutual friends. At about twenty to three we leave for Portman Road, exiting through the back gate.

Portman Road is clogged with queues for the Cobbold Stand and there are queues at the turnstiles for the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand too. Happily, the queue at turnstile 62, my favourite turnstile because 1962 was when Ipswich won what is now called the Premier League, is a bit shorter than most. I wave my season ticket vaguely in front of the screen-thing, unable to remember which bit makes it work. The bloke behind me says it’s the bit on the left, or he may have said it’s the bit on the right, I can’t remember now and will do the same thing again when I come to the next game. Either way, I pass through the turnstile and having vented some surplus Werewolf, join Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood, who are as ever already in their seats and applauding the teams as they process onto the pitch. Pat from Clacton is absent today, she’s playing whist in Mauritius. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the names of the teams, but he is no Stephen Foster and hopelessly fails to synchronise himself with the scoreboard as it displays the names of the Town players, which he garbles leaving insufficient space between first and second names to facilitate the bellowing of the players surnames by the crowd as if we were French.

The game begins with today’s opponents Plymouth Argyle getting first go with the ball, which they aim mostly in the direction of me, the river and railway station. Town are inevitably in their signature kit of blue shirts and socks with white shorts. At first, I think Plymouth are wearing white shirts and black shorts, but a less cursory glance reveals that their shorts are a deep grey, and their shirts are a very pale, washed-out pink. I can’t decide if this is a tribute to prog rockers Caravan’s 1971 album ‘In the Land of Grey and Pink’ or if Plymouth had accidentally put their shirts in the wash with Exeter City’s. There could of course be a sensible explanation like the kit being dedicated to breast cancer awareness month, and for readers who like ‘boob jokes’, the city of Plymouth is coincidentally twinned with Brest in France.

With tickets sold out, Portman Road is loud just from people talking, but there is singing too and Christmas soon arrives with a burst of “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” quickly followed by a rendition of “ We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, He knows exactly what we need…” and it’s just as well he does because the match is not seven minutes old and Plymouth’s Morgan Whittaker plants a curling shot into the top right hand corner of Vaclav Hladky’s goal and Town are trailing one-nil. It’s a goal that inspires mass gloating from the Devonians up in the top tier of the Cobbold stand as the Argyle fans go inexplicably Spanish and start to sing “Championes, Championes, Ole, Ole, Ole” as if trying to convince us that they’re all linguists as well supporting the team that somehow pipped Town to the third division title a few months back. My inner superstitious pessimist is unexpectedly awoken by the noise, and I start to think to myself “Oh no, it’s game thirteen and we’re going to lose”. But I soon snap out of it and as Town respond with a corner, I repeatedly sing “Come on You Blues”, although solo. “No noise from the Tractor Boys” chant the Argyle fans, which, as I tell Fiona, is harsh on me, but not untruthful otherwise. Fully in character as vainglorious bastards, the Argyle fans proceed to sing “One-nil to the Champions”, and plagiarise the Pet Shop Boys in the process.

Town win a second corner and a third and Conor Chaplin has a shot blocked. A Plymouth man goes down and whilst he receives succour, everyone else has a drinks break and catches up on the coaching they’ve forgotten since walking onto the pitch twenty minutes ago. Meanwhile the away fans deliver a strangely muffled chant of “Small club in Norwich, you’re just a small club in Norwich” displaying a lack of wit normally only associated with supporters of small clubs genuinely in Norwich. Plymouth make the first substitution of the afternoon as Ryan Hardie quits when his team is ahead to be replaced with Mustapha Bundu. “Substitution for Leeds United” announces Murphy over the PA, crowning his inept performance so far this afternoon, before just announcing “Plymouth Argyle” with no accompanying word of apology or explanation for those who hadn’t heard his gaff. Bring back Stephen Foster and his best man’s suit and poorly matched shoes I say.

Nearly a quarter of the match is gone for ever and the home crowd is beginning to sound and feel fractious, like toddlers who have been up too long and need a nap. “A bit sloppy there” says the bloke behind me as Plymouth busy themselves around the Town penalty area. “Unlucky” says the bloke continuing his commentary as Omari Hutchison makes a not very good cross. Town win a fourth corner and a fifth. “Come On You Blues” I chant again, and again, and miraculously the rest of the stadium join in. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, he’s phenomenal today, he is” says the bloke behind me of Brandon Williams as the on loan full-back performs a ‘full-blooded tackle’. “He’s on another level”.

Nearly a third of the way through the game and the first airing of referee Gavin Ward’s yellow card is in the direction of Plymouth’s Mikel Miller, whose name reminds me of probably the most famous racing greyhound of all time. “Diana Nicholson, report to the nearest steward” announces Murphy putting on the sort of serious voice that might get used when talking about Jimmy Savile or Rolf Harris. Town win another corner, our seventh? I think I might have lost count. The name of Massimo Luongo joins that of the famous racing greyhound in Mr Ward’s black book. “You don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Sir Boby Robson stand predictably. Town win an eighth corner and a Nathan Broadhead header over the cross bar elicits polite applause. Town win a ninth corner before, with five minutes to go until half-time Plymouth win their first and the away support debuts their rendition of “Argyle, Argyle” a soulless dirge in which the syllables in the word Argyle are elongated to depressing lengths. A minute late the blokes behind me head for the bar.

Two minutes remain before the tea break and Whittaker breaks forward for Argyle and falls to the ground as George Edmundson makes a lunging challenge from behind. Whittaker claims a penalty, well he would, wouldn’t he, but Mr Ward is watching a different match, the same one I’m watching, and whilst it looked like a penalty perhaps, I don’t think Edmundson touched Whittaker at all. It’s soon forgotten as Town claim yet another corner and four minutes of added on time appear before us. From the corner I can’t see what happens as it’s up the other end of the pitch and I’m in the cheap seats. But then a roar goes up and it seems we’ve scored, I’ll take everyone’s word for it I tell Fiona. Massimo Luongo is given the credit and half-time soon follows.

With the break I talk to the man from Stowmarket, and he tells me how his son-in-law is a Norwich City supporter and how he went to a Norwich match with him and was lucky enough to see Norwich lose 6-1 at home to Manchester City. Having syphoned off more spent Werewolf and stared blankly up at the half-time scores on the TV in the concourse below the stand I talk to Dave the steward. We agree that we can’t quite decide what Town need to do to win the match other than score some more goals.

The football resumes at, I think, six minutes past four and Vaclav Hladky is soon saving at the feet of Plymouth’s Finn Aziz, whilst the blue skies above begin to turn more grey with gathering cloud. But then Town win yet another corner and it seems there has been a change in tactics with the ball being dropped behind the Plymouth defence as well as passed through and around it, but I could be wrong. A meagre fifth of the half has trotted off into he mists of time when Leif Davis sends a through ball for George Hirst and his accompanying marker to chase. Hirst wins and curls the ball beautifully beyond the despairing dive of the Plymouth ‘keeper and perfectly inside the far post. Although I’m in the cheap seats, I doubt my view of the goal could be bettered on this occasion. It’s a goal to prove that going two one up having been a goal down is worth the initial suffering, and the sense of relief is palpable. “Ei-Ei-Eio, Up the Football League We Go” chants the Sir Bobby Robson Stand cheerfully to prove the point.

The home crowd had been quiet and a bit miserable for most of the first half, but we really do only sing when we’re winning. Plymouth win a second corner, but Town win a twelfth or thirteenth; I’m no longer counting. Omari Hutchison has a shot deflected wide when I was convinced the ball was in the net and Conor Chaplin heads over the Plymouth cross bar. Mr Ward the referee does something which inspires the lad who sits in front of me to say “The referee’s a talking point”, previously I’ve mostly heard referees described as bastards.

Three-quarters of the match is now historical fact and I turn to Fiona to tell her it’s about now when Pat from Clacton usually tells us what she’s having for tea. I ask Fiona what she’s having; she’s having fish and chips. I tell her I’m having left over curry. On the pitch, Town make substitutions and Mr Ward produces a rash of yellow cards, mostly directed at Town players, just to confirm his status as a talking point. Conor Chaplin and Omari Hutchison continuously almost link up well down the right, but frustratingly never quite manage it until Kayden Jackson replaces Hutchison with less than fifteen minutes left of normal time. After the substitution, Hladky makes a superb flying save following a meagre third Plymouth corner, and Murphy announces this afternoon’s attendance as 29,028; “Thank you for your continued support” he says obsequiously, sounding like Uriah Heep would have if Charles Dickens had made him a stadium announcer at the weekends.

Into the last ten minutes and Hladky makes another stupendous save, perhaps the most stupendous yet; this time from a close range shot by Joe Edwards. So perfect is Hladky’s performance in the second half that I am beginning to fear he might have sold his soul to the devil during the half-time break. “That’s better than a goal, that is” says the bloke behind me, getting a bit carried away.

Four minutes of normal time remain and Town are looking leggy whilst Plymouth still look fresh; Town are hanging on but somehow retain an attacking threat because of the nature of our players, we simply have a team designed to create and score goals, apart from Vaclav Hladky that is. Sam Morsy sends Leif Davis down the left, he crosses the ball to Marcus Harness who shoots from perhaps ten metres out, but his shot strikes a defender, only for the ball to rebound to him and allow him a second chance, which he takes. These things didn’t used to happen, but now they do, and Town lead 3-1.

There will be at least six minutes of added on time. Hardly a minute of that time expires and Plymouth score again, a low cross knocked in from close range after Hladky apparently renounces Satan, and we’re back where we were. Plymouth won all the points they needed to pip Town to the third division title and more in the closing minutes of games last season, but not today, and Town succeed in closing the game down by passing the ball amongst themselves and thereby draining the hope and possibly the will to live from the Argyle players. Mr Ward is keen to remain a talking point and adds a bit more time onto the six minutes but it doesn’t matter and Town win again.

With the final whistle Fiona departs and so does the man from Stowmarket, but I stay a few minutes to applaud, whilst others seem keen to jeer the Plymouth players, I’m not sure why. It has been a very close game, but Town have won yet again, and without having to rely on penalties or offside goals, or flukes. Summer and now British summer time might have gone, but since Kieran Mckenna arrived it’s been perpetual Springtime in Ipswich.

Ipswich Town 3 Cardiff City 2

September 3, 2023September 29, 2023 / 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 Port Vale 1

April 20, 2023July 29, 2024 / 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.

Cheltenham Town 1 Ipswich Town 1

April 12, 2023April 13, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I’m not sure I have ever been to Cheltenham before. If I did ever rock up here, most likely during a family holiday in the 1960’s or 1970’s, I don’t remember it, although for what it’s worth I know I have been to nearby Gloucester. Today however, I am definitely in Cheltenham after a roughly ninety-minute, 120-kilometre drive from Chineham near Basingstoke, where I have craftily engineered a weekend stay with step-son number three and his family in order to both make my wife happy and to ensure I don’t have so far to travel in Bank Holiday Monday traffic.

It’s been a pleasant enough drive in my planet-saving Citroen e-C4, despite Hampshire being wet and grey when I set off passing signs for Aldermaston and Greenham Common, locations that loom large in the history of British people bothering to protest about things. But by the time I was skirting Swindon, the sun was successfully dodging the clouds and as I descended Leckhampton Hill and the appallingly pitted, broken surface of the Old Bath Road, Cheltenham lay stretched out invitingly below. It’s only about a quarter past twelve, so having parked up in a street that could easily double for somewhere on Ipswich’s Gainsborough or Racecourse estates I visit the Cheltenham Town club shop to check out the essential club-branded pencils, rulers, teddy bears and fridge magnets. After not entirely unexpectedly bumping into ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and a man called ‘Cookie’, who gives me the news that he had to have his gall bladder removed, I leave the lounge-diner sized ‘boutique’ with its artexed ceiling, clutching a match programme (£3.00), and a pennant (£7.99) to add to the collection that hangs above the cistern in my upstairs toilet.

‘Cookie’ is heading off in search of a local chip shop, but having placed my purchases in the Citroen I make for the town centre in search of the elegant Regency architecture for which Cheltenham is known. Although Ipswich and Cheltenham are of a similar size, they mostly look very different. Whilst Cheltenham became fashionable in the late eighteenth century, after the visit of King George III to its spa, the ensuing years before the construction of the wet dock seemed to pass Ipswich by, and Lord Nelson even shipped his wife off to the town, probably because Ipswich was the sort of place where he and Lady Emma Hamilton and everyone else could forget about her. So, Ipswich stayed mostly medieval, whilst Cheltenham went all John Nash and Jane Austen, and so they remain. But whilst Cheltenham looks and sounds a bit ‘poncey’ on the surface, with its ladies’ College, tasteful terraces, and various festivals firmly aimed at a middle-class audience, like everywhere else it has its underside because someone has to clean the well-off people’s toilets, fix their Audis and deal their cocaine.

I discover that there are indeed plenty of Regency buildings in Cheltenham, but they’re not really to my taste, a bit too pretty and neat. I prefer the stained concrete of the 1970’s Post Office building to the warm Cotswold stone. I also prefer Marks & Spencer chicken and bacon sandwiches (£3.75) and a bottle of orange juice (£2.00) to chip shop fare. Having eaten the sandwiches and drunk half the juice, whilst sat on a bench under the plane trees on The Promenade, I wander idly about finding statues of Gustav Holst (born in Cheltenham) and a hare sat next to the Minotaur, (no idea why). After a while I decide it’s time to re-trace some of my steps and head back towards what is currently known as the Completely-Suzuki Stadium, but in simpler times was just the Victory Stadium or Whaddon Road.

Whaddon Road is a suburban street with a recreation ground, bowling green, a groovy 1960’s Evangelical Presbyterian church, a small parade of shops and a football ground sat amongst twentieth century houses. The football ground sits beyond a large car park and betrays its non-league roots with a cluster of modest, ugly, cheap-looking buildings set about what looks like a pre-World War Two main stand, although my copy of ‘Football Grounds from the Air, Then and Now’ tells us it was built as recently as 1963. Red painted signs and sponsors’ logos abound. I queue at Gate 2 and the QR code of my ticket is read by a friendly man with a mobile phone; I click through an aged red turnstile that must pre-date the swinging sixties. Inside the ground, bright sunlight streams through the skylight in the four-urinal gents toilet, which smells surprisingly sweet and better than many after shaves. I ascend a flight of stairs and find myself at the front of the stand looking down on a terrace. A walkway passes through the directors’ box; if any directors had been sat in the front row with legs outstretched I might have tripped over their feet.

I carry on to the middle of the stand past rows of original, wooden, tip-up seats. “Are you Row C seat 34?” I say to a large coated, bearded man in the seat next to mine. “I am” he says. “Well, I’m seat 35” I tell him, “Pleased to meet you”. When I sit down, I find the leg room so tiny that I am wedged into the seat. “It’s a bit tight, isn’t it” I say to my neighbour. “It is if you’re tall” he says, being generous to the 1960’s architect, “But very good for your posture”. He’s right, there is no option but to sit bolt upright. In a sort of window box on the front of the stand sit a row of half a dozen blokes with lap-tops and earphones. The seats in front of us fill up. A man shows the QR code on his phone to the man sat next to him. “When he scanned this, it said the ticket had already been used” says the man, shrugging his shoulders. “I says I don’t know why. So he let me in anyway, said he couldn’t be arsed to query it”.

Eventually, the teams appear from beneath us somewhere off to our left. The ska classic ‘The Liquidator’ by The Harry J All Stars plays over the PA system and singularly fails to provoke any response from the crowd, except for a bloke behind me who occasionally claps in time to the beat. The referee breaks up the Ipswich team huddle, which had been going on for a while, and the game begins. In the corner of the ground the electronic scoreboard reads “1^st half”, just in case anyone is experiencing déjà vu or is any doubt that the game has only just begun. Ipswich get first go with the ball and are kicking roughly in the direction of the town; the Cheltenham racecourse is somewhere off behind Christian Walton’s goal. Both teams wear their ‘proper’ first choice ‘home’ kits as they should do when there is no clash of colours. My raincoat, which I’m glad to say I haven’t really needed, is trapped under the tip up seat of a balding man in seat 36, I ask him if he’d mind getting up for a moment to free my coat; smilingly he obliges.

“Ole, Ole, Ole” sing the Town fans off to my right, whilst opposite in the corner of the brilliantly named Colin Farmer Stand, a Cheltenham fan beats a drum. Six-minutes pass and Town win a corner after a Wes Burns cross is met by George Hirst and deflected away. George Hirst is involved in an ongoing battle with his marker Tom Bradbury who has hold of Hirst’s shirt and won’t let it go. Hirst has to try and beat him off as he runs across the pitch. This is taking man to man marking to extremes and Bradbury seems obsessed with his task beyond all reason and is rightfully booked by referee Mr Stocksbridge, who because he has a fine head of grey hair, makes me think of Alan Woodward of 1970’s Sheffield United, and by association the wonderfully monikered Len Badger. Sam Morsy takes a shot which is comfortably saved. It might be Easter Monday, but the Town fans won’t give up on Harry Belafonte’s “Mary’s Boy Child” as they imagine a far-off time when Town still played Norwich on Boxing Day. Easter, Christmas, Passover, Ramadan, it’s all the same to some people.

The afternoon is bright, but a strong wind is blowing from the direction of the town holding up any high kicks from Christian Walton. Town are happy to pass the ball about between Morsy, Woolfenden, Burgess and Clarke and draw Cheltenham on to them. When a pass is intercepted Cheltenham win a corner and Walton has to make a sharp save from a header. White cloud populates the blue skies above the Cotswold Hills that form a dramatic back drop to the low stands opposite. It’s a blustery afternoon of coarse shouts, harsh voices and jeers which are carried on the wind whenever a pass goes astray or a player goes to ground. Wes Burns runs at the Cheltenham defence and shoots, but straight at the goalkeeper. Eighteen minutes have gone and a decent passing move around the Cheltenham penalty area releases Marcus Harness, he has just the goalkeeper in front of him but shoots wide; he could and probably should have scored. Conor Chaplin then shoots high over the bar from another low Wes Burns cross. “Come On Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chant the Town fans as frustration and nerves bite. “Come On Norwich” calls someone off to my right sounding like he thinks he is being witty; perhaps just saying ‘Norwich’ is enough to get a laugh in these parts, although I can’t hear much evidence of it.

The half is half over and after several failed attempts at tackles and clearing the ball by Town players, Cheltenham’s Alfie May gets free on the left and sends the ball across the face of the Town goal; only nifty footwork from Leif Davis averts embarrassment. Town aren’t playing badly but they’re not playing that well either, despite having most of the possession. Perhaps the wind and condition of the pitch are having an impact, or perhaps Cheltenham’s harrying is working. On the touchline, the Cheltenham manager is at times like an irritable toddler, in contrast to Kieran McKenna who, in his black roll neck jumper and slacks looks like he could be about to sit back and listen to some mellow jazz. But occasionally his frustration shows itself and at one point a bit of white shirt breaks loose between his jumper and waistband. Thirty-six minutes gone and Sam Morsy is booked for a trip. Four minutes later there is more mayhem in the Town penalty area as for a second time the ball escapes Town control and crosses the face of the goal before Luke Woolfenden lashes it away for a corner. The half expires, but two minutes of time are added on and the screen in the corner reads ‘2 Added Time,’ just so anyone who suddenly woke up and looked at the screen would know it would soon be time for a half-time cuppa.

With half-time there is a mass exodus from the stand down a flight of stairs between me and the director’s box. I finish off my orange juice, taking care to dispose of the plastic bottle in a large bin at the side of the press box, then take a wander down the stairs; I find myself out in the car park. Unimpressed, and curious, but not that curious to see where everyone went, I return to my seat and await the second half.

Kyle Edwards has replaced Marcus Harness and Cheltenham swap one anonymous midfielder for another so as not to feel left out. The attendance is announced as 5,445, which means the ground is only three quarters full. In the corner, the electronic scoreboard reads “2nd Half”, presumably as proof that football is a always a game of two halves.

Unsportingly, Cheltenham soon win a corner, and then another, and five minutes later another. Conor Chaplin shoots wide as Town restore order and behind me a single person claps. “Come On Ipswich” roar the Town supporters sensing that the early Cheltenham pressure has been weathered and when on fifty-five minutes Town win their own corner it is met with an enthusiastic cheer and a chorus of “Come On You Blues”, which is repeated almost five times, which in the modern age is probably a record. By the time the kick comes to be taken however, the stadium is a tin box of silent anticipation.

Ipswich are now on top, but not so much that I haven’t noticed that there are Leylandii peaking over the roof of the home terrace, known as the Prestbury Road end. Another corner to Town and more chants of “Come On You Blues”, then George Hirst makes space and launches an angled, rising shot against the cross bar when the goal beneath it was gaping. An hour of football has gone forever, but in the corner of the ground the scoreboard no longer says “2nd half”. Momentarily, I worry about space and time, but am quickly reassured by the wide range of modular sofas and comfortable chairs that appear on the screen in a lengthy advertisement for the local branch of FABB Furniture. Kyle Edwards makes a run towards goal and produces a bending shot that doesn’t have enough bend not to miss the goal. Cheltenham make a double substitution with blokes called Caleb and Aiden replacing Lewis and Will.

With Ipswich on top the home fans seem to be getting their kicks where they can, and seem to to be easily pleased by a tackle here and a throw-in there. We reach the sixty-fifth minute and a long throw on the right finds a way across the penalty area and Conor Chaplin almost unexpectedly just taps it into the corner of the Cheltenham goal, and Ipswich lead 1-0.

A chorus of “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League we go” rolls down the ground from the Ipswich supporters’ end, followed by every known boastful, celebratory football song; it’s like listening to an imaginary LP of K-tel’s 50 greatest promotion chants. When eventually it’s the turn of “The Town are going up, The Town are going up, and they int gonna believe us, and they int gonna believe us” the handful of singing Cheltenham fans in the corner of the Colin Farmer Stand, clearly still fearful of relegation, join in, but sing “The Town are staying up”, which I think my wife would think was rather sweet.

Twenty minutes to go, another substitution for Cheltenham as a second Will replaces Ben. The man who likes to say ‘Norwich’ continues to sing his own predictable version of any songs he hears that have the name of Ipswich in them. I can’t decide if this is borne of bitterness or stupidity, or both. Town make the usual swap of George Hirst and Freddie Ladapo, and Wes Burns and Kayden Jackson. Thirteen minutes to go, Town are top of the league and Harry Clarke surges forward and gives Kyle Edwards the chance to shoot over the cross bar, which he takes. Eleven minutes to go and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues, Come On You Blues, Come On You Blues”. The chant stops dead after four ‘verses’. Eight minutes to go and Freddie Ladapo shoots, but it’s a weak effort and too close to the goalkeeper.

I dare to think of a ninth consecutive win, a tenth consecutive game without conceding a goal. Ipswich repel a crude, up in the air attack, but the ball comes back, hoofed hopefully. Confident Christian Walton thinks he can claim this and get possession, he strides out from his goal and jumps, but the ball bounces out of the bowl he has made of his arms as he collides with two players who were ready to head the falling ball. The ball makes a break for it and runs to Alfie May and he half-volleys it into the Ipswich goal. It’s one-all. Bugger.

“You’re not top of the league” is the shout from ‘Norwich man,’ and now for the first time this afternoon the home crowd is noisy. “You’re not singing anymore” they chant, to a tune that the Evangelical Presbyterians down the road might know, even if the gloating sentiment isn’t exactly a Christian one. Janoi Donacien replaces Leif Davis just for something to do, and five minutes of added time offers five minutes of hope, but that’s all. Oh well, it was fun whilst it lasted.

Extracting myself from my seat without the use of shoe horns, spanners or tyre spoon levers I applaud briefly, out of politeness, and then make my way to the exit. I had got used to winning every game and never conceding a goal, it was nice. But it’s probably best that the run has ended, because life’s not like that, is it? Football definitely isn’t. At least I’ve now been to Cheltenham.