Ipswich Town 1 Southampton 1

August 19, 2025August 19, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

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 1 AFC Bournemouth 2

December 10, 2024December 13, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It was a dark and stormy night, but luckily today is just grey and stormy…and wet. The illuminated reindeer in the garden over the road, which actually looks more like a somewhat effete ‘Monarch of the Glen’ has fallen over, and I think its head might have come off too. But life is not all good, and sadly I have to venture out on this inclement Sunday afternoon to watch Ipswich Town play AFC Bournemouth at the very un-footbally time of two o’clock. I imagine the kick-off time is dictated by the match being broadcast on some obscure subscription tv channel owned by a billionaire, who likes to tinker with the lives of us little people.

Before AFC Bournemouth were AFC Bournemouth, this happened in 1972, they were Bournemouth and Boscombe Athletic and had a club crest featuring birds, fish, lions, and a tree, all things I like to think were commonplace in the two seaside towns. The crest also featured the Latin motto ‘Pulchritudo et Salubritas’, which isn’t a pithy line from the Catholic mass but rather translates as ‘beauty and health’, and sounds a bit like the name of a magazine for nudists, much enjoyed by schoolboys in the 1960’s and 1970’s, called Health and Efficiency. As well as changing their name for the worse in an attempt to at least be top of an alphabetical league of football clubs, if not top of one based on footballing merit, AFC Bournemouth then changed their club crest to one in which a football hovers above the head of man with a receding hairline, who looks a bit like Ron Futcher, the former Luton Town and Tulsa Roughnecks centre-forward. The 1970’s would also see AFC Bournemouth provide a manager to Norwich City in the form of John Bond; such is their place in history. I think Bournemouth was also possibly the only town in Britain where I ever rode on a trolleybus, but I can’t be sure.

The train to Ipswich is on-time, but the journey is dull like the weather as the high-backed seat in front of me shields my eyes from glimpses of fellow passengers, but at least I see a polar bear through the train window, albeit a rather grubby looking one. I guess it’s difficult staying a whiter shade of pale when you should be in a snow field, not a muddy field. Emerging from Ipswich railway station, I am met by wind and rain and murk. I hurry across the bridge over the river and down to Portman Road, where I buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the blue kiosks, which look they should sell ice creams. Reaching ‘the Arb’ I swear under my breath at the throng of people just inside the door who are between me and the bar. One of them it turns out is Mick and he buys pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride while I head outside into the beer garden to find seats. Mick’s eventual arrival outside with the beers more or less coincides with the departure of another group of drinkers and we take their places in the shelter to discuss defeat to Crystal Palace, Syria, ultra-processed food, a forthcoming trip to Reims, what it’s like in Monaco and a text from Gary telling me he’d pulled a muscle in his chest and wasn’t going to make the walk up to ‘ the Arb’ today. Another pint of Suffolk Pride and a Jameson whisky for Mick follow before with everyone else having left for Portman Road, we do too. We part on the corner of Sir Alf Ramsey Way.

Unexpectedly, I make it to my seat alongside Fiona and next but one to Pat from Clacton and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the excitable young stadium announcer in the cheap looking suit has read out the teams, and I am therefore happily able to bellow out their surnames in the manner of a Frenchman. “What a match we have for you this afternoon” witters the gangly announcer ridiculously, “Bournemouth”. “Super Kieran Mckenna” chant the North standers, and Town get first go with the ball, kicking it towards me and my fellow ultras. The Bournemouth fans up in the Cobbold stand sing the ‘Red Flag’ perhaps in solidarity with the Tolpuddle martyrs who would probably have been Bournemouth fans given the chance, being only 35 kilometres away. Sam Morsy wins an early corner.

“You got here on time today then” says Pat accusingly. “Only by accident” I tell her. But now Bournemouth head towards the Town goal and their fans reveal that they probably bought their SatNavs from a dodgy looking bloke down the pub as they sing “Small Town in Norwich, You’re just a small town in Norwich”. Liam Delap is booked for the sort of foul that school bullies commit, and I imagine him smirking as the referee tells him off; he is the Nelson Muntz of the current Ipswich team. Bournemouth earn a corner of their own, but Ipswich have started the game very well and Sam Szmodics now wins a corner for Town after a flick at goal is deflected away. “Come On You Blues” I bellow, just like everyone seemed to years ago.

It sounds like the Bournemouth fans are singing “Down with the Palace”, which I don’t think is some republican protest to accompany their singing of the ‘Red Flag’, but rather a reflection of where they think Ipswich will finish in the league table. I realise later that they’re not singing “Palace” either, but rather “Scummers”, because seemingly everyone on the South Coast hates Southampton. The Bournemouth No15, who very peculiarly given his team’s fans singing of the Red Flag is called Adam Smith, is rolling on the ground whilst the crowd serenades him with a chorus of “There’s nothing wrong with you”. It’s an enjoyable interlude, but although we don’t know it, the football will soon be more so.

Almost twenty minutes have gone when Cameron Burgess heads an Omari Hutchinson cross over the bar in the aftermath of a corner, “Come on you Blues!”. Then Hutchinson shoots over the bar himself. If this was a wrestling match Town would have Bournemouth in a headlock, and a minute later the ball is pulled back from the left for Conor Chaplin to despatch into the goal net with his customary aplomb, and Town lead 1-0. “Conor Chaplin, Baby” sings the other end other ground to the tune of the Christmas number one record from 1980.

The goal is followed not by Bournemouth pressure and an equaliser but by two more Town corners, the second one of which is headed imperiously into the net by Cameron Burgess to give Town a 2-0 lead for a second or two until it is disallowed by referee Mr Salisbury, whose name suggests to me some sort of Wessex conspiracy. VAR confirms that it was Liam Delap’s fault because he fouled someone, but no one really believes it.

The disappointment of the disallowed goal is followed by more anguish as a Bournemouth shot strikes a post, but fortunately rebounds back out, and to make us feel a little better Mr Salisbury conducts a long distance booking of someone on the Bournemouth bench. “Wanker, wanker” chant the Bournemouth fans at Mr Salisbury and then “Down with the Scummers” as they struggle to find anything nice to chant about anything. Bournemouth win a corner and the words “Hot Sausage Co” shine out in lurid, illuminated lettering progressing across the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand as if it’s a seaside pier.

The last ten minutes of the half belong more to Bournemouth than to Ipswich as a brilliant last ditch Cameron Burgess tackle saves Sam Morsy’s embarrassment after he loses the ball, and Bournemouth win a succession of corners, but still the home fans sing “Blue and White Army”. Three minutes of added on time are added on but cause no pain or joy.

Half-time, and it’s time to talk to Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison, and Dave the steward. So deep is our conversation that I leave it a bit late to visit the facilities and by the time I have adjusted my attire and come back up the steps into the stand again, the match has already re-started. “At least you’ve managed to miss the start of the second half today” quips Fiona, although ironically this afternoon we will all live to regret not missing the end of the half.

Nine minutes gone of the second half and Leif Davis wins a corner for Town, but then mysteriously his team-mates go to pieces allowing an admittedly busy, hyper-active Bournemouth team to run all over them causing mayhem on the grass right in front of us. Only the ball going into touch and Conor Chaplin having a sit down on the turf until everyone has calmed down and received some remedial coaching prevents footballing catastrophe. When order resumes Bournemouth make two substitutions and win a corner all in the space of three minutes, and we start descending into the final fifth of the game, and like characters in a Thomas Hardy novel unknowingly towards our terrible fate.

Sixty-nine minutes lost, another Bournemouth corner and a shot straight at Muric the Town ‘keeper. But Town have a chance too as Szmodics shoots and Delap can’t get to the re-bound off the Bournemouth ‘keeper. I wonder to myself if Pat from Clacton has had her lunch today or will she eat when she gets home, but I’m too engrossed to ask. “I—pswich Town, I-pswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” sing the crowd with earnest belief.

Seventy-four minutes closer to a Town victory and Bournemouth make more substitutions, including David Brooks, who makes me think of Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Mrs Brooks the owner of the stylish lodging house in Sandbourne (Bournemouth) where Tess murders Alec d’Urberville. This afternoon’s attendance is announced by the excitable young stadium announcer as 29,180 of whom 2,144 are crusted characters from Hardy’s Wessex. “Thank you so much…” gushes the fawning young announcer. “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” sing the Bournemouth boys, perhaps ironically, perhaps not.

The seventy-eighth minute is here with a Bournemouth corner and then Town’s first substitutions, Al-Hamadi and Jack Clarke replacing Delap and Szmodics. Eighty-three minutes, and Bournemouth have another corner. Surely, we will win now, we haven’t really looked like conceding, as nippy and nimble as Bournemouth are. Eighty-six minutes and Bournemouth replace someone called Ryan Christie, a relative perhaps of Julie Christie who played Bathsheba Everdene in the 1967 film of Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd, with James Hill. Surely we’ll win now with Bournemouth resorting to bringing on Jimmy Hill.

A minute later, a punt forward, Muric rushes out, the ball goes over him and is bundled into the goal at the far post as for once Cameron Burgess can’t get his foot to it to clear. Bugger. Bugger Bournemouth as King George V should have said. Perhaps we’ll score again, we’re good at scoring late goals, aren’t we? “Who are ya?” chant the Bournemouth supporters, seemingly having lost their memories in all the excitement.

Our depression is barely relieved by six minutes of added on time, time to win, time to lose. We lose after three Town players are attracted to the man with the ball, another runs past un-noticed and rolls the ball into the six-yard box where legs flail and one with a black sock on strikes it into the roof of the Town net. I’ve not felt so bad in a while. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory has seldom been so unpleasant because victory was so sorely wanted and for the most part deserved. The truth about the Town team bus running over a whole cattery full of black cats will surely make the papers any day now.

The game ends and I forget what happens next. I can’t even think of any tenuous links to Thomas Hardy.

Ipswich Town 2 Coventry City 1

December 3, 2023December 4, 2023 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

Some Saturdays, when I wake up early in the morning, I am full of enthusiasm and ideas about how to fill the time before I set off for Portman Road. On other Saturdays however, I simply can’t be bothered, I just want to turn off my mind, relax and float down stream. When I go to bed on a Friday night, I rarely know what my state of mind will be when I awake. Today, I am proud to report, is one of the enthusiastic Saturday mornings and I proceed to clean the kitchen shelves, top up the bird feeders in the garden, separate the recycling, put the week’s vegetable peelings on the compost heap and try, but sadly fail to mend a roller blind. It may not sound a lot, but to me it’s like a lifetime’s achievement.

By the time I bid my wife farewell and leave for the railway station I feel flushed with success and optimistic for this afternoon’s match versus Coventry City, a fixture which always conjures distant memories of disappointing low scoring draws and floodlight failure. The train is on time despite the app on my mobile phone telling me it is delayed; it is also quite full, and I end up in one of those annoying seats which only has a half a window to look out of. I spend my time trying to avoid staring at a man on the opposite side of the carriage who sports mutton chop whiskers and a tweed flat cap of a type you might expect to see on the heads of drivers in the London to Brighton veteran and vintage car run. Unhappily, the name Rhodes-Boyson also pops up in my unfortunate mind. More fortunately however, I know that Gary will be getting on at the next station and I text him precise instructions of where to find me on the train (in the middle of the third (middle) carriage).

Once the train has stopped and moved off, it’s a little while before Gary appears, a vision in orange at the far end of the carriage, tottering between the rows of seats towards me. As he sits down, he questions whether I am not actually in the fourth carriage. “Bloody cheek” I tell him and draw his attention to the display directly above us which helpfully says ‘you are here’ in the middle of a diagram of five railway coaches. We don’t let it spoil our friendship of about thirty years however, and we are still talking merrily as the train draws into Ipswich station and we become small particles in the mass of humanity that squeezes over the footbridge, through the ticket barriers and spills out onto the plaza in front of the station. I tell Gary that I think the progress through the station was particularly slow today because everyone is wearing big coats.

We head up Princes Street and Portman Road, pausing only for me to buy a programme (£3.50), and we discuss how the club could offer supporters a deal, much like the East Anglian Daily Times ‘goody- bag’, of a programme and an ice cream for four quid. In due course we arrive at ‘the Arb’ where I buy a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and by way of a change a pint of Nethergate ‘Black Adder’ for myself. As I am about to pay, Mick appears and I buy him a pint of his ‘usual’ Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride. (£12.54 for the three including Camra discount). Gary tells us that Lager 43 is much better than Lager 42, and we retire to the beer garden to sit in the cold and talk of Henry Kissinger, Terry Venables and Shane McGowan, cheap rail travel for the over sixties and bus passes. Before we talk more of counting the carriages on trains and eventually leave, Gary buys another pint of Lager 43 for himself, a pint of Suffolk Pride for me and a Jamieson whisky for Mick.

The beer garden has cleared by the time we depart for Portman Road and we soon join the gathering masses as we cross Civic Drive and make our way across the Portman Road car park before Gary and Mick break away down Sir Alf Ramsey Way towards their seats in the West Stand and I continue towards the Sir Alf Ramsey stand. Turnstile 62 has a slow-moving queue, and I would probably do better to jump ship to turnstile 61, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Happily, my life proves long enough to stand some queuing and I am soon edging past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat. Of course, ever-present Phil who never misses a game is already here, but absent today is his young son Elwood and most surprisingly, Paul, the man from Stowmarket.

The names of the teams are read out by Murphy the stadium announcer, and unusually he does okay today, for a while anyway, until he gets to “Conor Chaplin”, which he announces as if it’s all one word, wrecking all attempts by people trying to be French and bawling out the players’ surnames as they are announced. I might have to write to the club about Murphy, he’s certainly no Stephen Foster. Disappointed, but not surprised I await the start of the match and enjoy some magnificently fulsome “Na-na-nas” as the crowd joins in with “Hey Jude”.

The game begins and Town get first go with the ball. Coventry have their backs to us and wear shirts of black and green halves and black shorts; a kit which harks back to the Coventry City of the 1960’s and 1970’s, although it was in stripes back then. Town of course are in blue and white. It’s a gloriously grey afternoon, which is oddly how I remember the 1970’s, but the strains of the Eton Boating Song emanating from the Coventry supporters in the Cobbold stand give it a somewhat surreal edge. “Wolfy at the back, Ladapo in attack” sing the North Stand uninterested in facts. “Wolfy” appears to have had his hair bleached again, which might explain why he didn’t play on Wednesday. Mist and fog swirls around above the pitch like wraiths, the ghosts of Saturday afternoons long past come to see the best football at Portman Road in almost a generation.

“Football in a library, der-der-der” chant the Coventry-ites jealously and, for the time being, slightly mysteriously. Five minutes pass. The ball is played out of defence, Nathan Broadhead jinks past an opponent and slips a precision pass through for George Hirst to chase, he steps across his pursuer, slowing him down and creating the space and the angle to shoot perfectly beyond the Coventry goalkeeper. Yet again, a goal, a thing of beauty. Town lead one-nil and immediately look to increase their advantage, earning a corner almost directly from the re-start. “Come On You Blues” I chant repetitively, along with ever-present Phil and no one else at all.

“Addy, Addy, Addy-O, ITFC, they’re the team for me” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers and the volume seems to rise a notch as Town regain possession. Fourteen minutes have gone and Nathan Broadhead materialises in the penalty box, ghosting out of the miss, but as I tense my leg muscles ready to leap from my seat he sends the ball inexplicably wide of the far post. I had the faith, why didn’t he score? May be he’s not the Messiah after all.

It takes nearly twenty minutes for Coventry to win a corner and then shoot over the cross bar. “Carrow Road is falling down” they chant at the far end of the ground and through the fog the tops of St Clare House and the AXA buildings peak over the Cobbold Stand as if taking a look at what’s going on. The Eton boating song is heard again; who knew so many Coventry fans went to public school? Time rolls on. Wes Burns shoots over the Coventry goal, Nathan Broadhead heads over it from a corner. The Eton boating song is aired again and Coventry put the ball in the Town net, but the ‘scorer’ was offside. Half-time creeps nearer, Massimo Luongo is booked for an innocuous looking foul and the fella in front of me informs us that he’ll be suspended for next Saturday’s match, Luongo that is, not the bloke in front of me.

There are four minutes until half time. Town should have scored more goals and I’m beginning to wonder if a one-nil home win could be a reality. Conor Chaplin produces a majestic cross field pass to Leif Davis. Leif Davis does the same, but to Wes Burns. For a bit of variety, Wes Burns doesn’t attempt to go past the full-back and cross the ball, but instead he cuts inside on his right foot and drifts past two surprised Coventry players. Burns is still 20 metres out but there’s a gap, but the ball is to his right, he can only hit this on the outside of his right boot, surely not. Town lead two-nil and it has to be the best Town goal of the season so far, it might be the best this century. Wow. “Burns, Burns will tear you apart again” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand delving into their parent’s and grandparent’s record collections.

Murphy announces three minutes of added on time and the otherwise joyful mood is brought down by the usual dirge-like rendition of “When the Town going marching in”, the miserable, plodding tempo of which suggests that when the Town do go marching in we’re all gonna jump off the Orwell bridge.

Half-time is a glorious release from the misery of the Sir Bobby Robson stand song book and it’s time to siphon off some excess Suffolk Pride and have a chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison about nothing in particular, except of course that goal.

With the start of the second half I eat a Nature Valley cereal bar and Pat from Clacton takes a selfie with Fiona, I think to show how wrapped up against the cold they are today, and indeed they do look as if they will be going back to their igloos after the match. On the pitch, Coventry’s Sheath shoots over and then Vaclav Hladky has to perform a decent save, which prompts more boating for the Eton old boys up in Cobbold stand. Jimmy Hill has a lot to answer for, although he’s probably not responsible for what follows next which is the singing over and over again of the 1961 song, Twist and Shout, although this does at least explain why, when the Beatles covered it on their “Please, Please Me” album, they kept it down to a listenable two minutes and thirty-three seconds, clearly understanding the maxim ‘leave them wanting more’, not less.

Coventry are having the better of the second half in terms of possession and they have succeeded in preventing Ipswich from looking like scoring whenever they go forward. A Coventry corner is headed wide and with the game two-thirds over the first Town substitutions are made. “Na-Na-Na-Sky Blues” sing our guests before justifiably pointing out “ Two-nil and you still don’t sing”. Coventry gain another corner and the atmosphere can best be described as tense amongst the preternaturally pessimistic Town fans. It’s hard to sing when you feel sick. Pat from Clacton is so worried she’s thinking about releasing her Cambodian masturbating monkey charm. I tell her it’s a bit too cold for anyone to have their trousers down today, and together Fiona and I question whether he’s a brass monkey.

Murphy announces this afternoon’s attendance as 29,378 with 1,970 being from Coventry. He thanks us for our support but happily doesn’t describe it as ‘amazing’ or ‘incredible’, so he is improving, if only very slowly. Coventry win yet another corner and then, more worryingly, a penalty as Harry Clarke’s foot accidentally makes contact with the shin of Tatsuhiro Sakamoto who inevitably then makes contact with the pitch as if hit by a tram. “Miss it, miss it, miss it, miss it, miss it “I chant to myself and the mantra works as Godden smacks the ball against the cross bar. The penalty miss seems to shut the Coventry fans up and Massimo Luongo has a shot saved as the fates smile on Ipswich again giving Kieran Mckenna the confidence to make two more substitutions. “Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand sensing the need for a moment’s support.

The final ten minutes of normal time find Pat from Clacton looking forward to her baked potato when she gets home as well as some sticky chicken drumsticks; Marks & Spencer were out of the usual ones. Coventry have another corner and their number twenty-two Joel Latibeaudiare shoots hopelessly over the cross bar. Five minutes of added on time are to be played and our thoughts are turning to the next match at Portman Road, which is the Norwich game. Pat from Clacton hates the Norwich match. “You get that lot up in the Cobbold singing their stupid On the Ball City song” she says, and she’s right, it’s not a pleasant experience, unless Town win of course, but the match has to be endured before that. The fifth additional minute becomes the sixth and the ball is crossed into the Town penalty box where Brandon Williams looks to be shoved by the hefty Ellis Sims causing the ball to bounce off Williams’s torso and inside the far post to gift Coventry a goal that they seemed incapable of scoring by the usual, conventional means. The goal however, is the last but one ‘kick’ of the match, as time is called as soon as the game kicks off again.

Town have largely had to defend their lead in the second half, but they did it quite comfortably and overall the game was just the latest in the steady procession of Town victories since the start of last season. But the special ingredient today was ‘that goal’. No one here today will surely ever forget that, and I can only guess that when Wes Burns woke up this morning he was definitely feeling enthusiastic for the day ahead, just like me.

Ipswich Town 3 Millwall 1

November 30, 2023December 1, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The promise of an evening kick-off at Portman Road has been enough to drag me through the drudgery of a Wednesday at work, albeit only the at-home form of work, which doesn’t involve having to go outside in the cold and travel on public transport early in the morning. Today, I get to use public transport at a far more civilised hour, when the late afternoon becomes early evening and people have their tea. Outside it is bloody cold. But I have an extremely warm coat, a hat, scarf and fingerless gloves so I’m ready for anything. A slightly less than circular, pale, golden moon hangs low in the sky and the train arrives a minute late; I board and find I’m in a carriage where all the seats seem to face where I’ve just come from rather than where I’m going. But it’s dark now so it doesn’t matter, it’s like being in a very, very long tunnel. “Shudda scored, it was all Fiorentina second ‘alf” says a voice from somewhere behind me. On the other side of the carriage sits a man who looks like a bearded Trevor Eve, but shorter. “Second time this season, Scum two-nil up and lose three-two” says the voice. From the seat in front of me I can hear snorting noises. I tune out and text my sister to ask her how she enjoyed Thanksgiving (she’s just got back from New York) and what she wants for Christmas.

I exit the train hastily on arrival in an Ipswich wreathed atmospherically in winter fog and police officers in day-glo jackets. I think of Poly Styrene and X-Ray Spex as I head up Princes Street and Portman Road towards ‘The Arb’, pausing only at one of the blue booths to buy a match programme (£3.50). It’s too cold for ice cream tonight, but the streets look wonderful, everything looms out of the mist and is almost monochrome. In ‘The Arb’ I am quickly to the bar and order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, whilst a woman next to me talks to her accomplice about Nethergate White Adder, before buying a glass of Rose. The bar is busy and as I head for the beer garden I meet Mick coming in the opposite direction. We meet again in the beer garden after Mick has bought his own beer. We talk of Ipswich Town conceding early goals, of the person whose funeral I went to last week, of bowels and food diaries, of houses of multiple occupation, of the Lord Lieutenant of Suffolk and what is to be done about the poor.

Our conversation rattles on, breaking only while Mick returns to the bar for a whisky for himself and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me. It’s a good job it’s an eight o’clock kick-off tonight or we’d miss the start of the game and Mick momentarily panics when I tell him it’s nearly twenty to eight. We bid each other adieu until Saturday at the corner of Sir Alf Ramsey Way. Portman Road is less thick with crowds than usual and at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I do not have to queue at all at turnstile 62 and am soon standing between Fiona and the man from Stowmarket whose name is actually Paul. A row or two in front of us is ever-present Phil who never misses a game, but tonight there is no Elwood or Pat from Clacton, who I suspect has been kept indoors by the cold and her arthritis.

Murphy the stadium announcer speeds through the team names as if they’re not important and I give up trying to call out their surnames as if I was French because Murphy is onto the next name before I have uttered a syllable; the names flow freely from Murphy’s mouth like diarrhoea. As the teams parade onto the pitch flames shoot from little black boxes arranged around the touchlines, and we hold our hands out as if warming them by the fireside. I’ll bring marshmallows next time. An enthusiastic hand-warming minute’s applause for the recently deceased Terry Venables follows before tonight’s opponent’s Millwall are given first go with the ball, which they mostly try and direct towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the goal in front of it. Town are as ever dressed in blue and white, whilst Millwall are dressed perfectly for a foggy night, in all over orange, looking like Lyons Maid Mivvis, or how Ipswich will look when we play away to Millwall.

“Millwall, Millwall – Millwall, Millwall, Millwall – Millwall, Millwall, Millwall- Millwall, Millwall“ sing their fans imaginatively to the tune of Que Sera Sera. “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” is the quite a bit less tuneful Ipswich response, and the mist and fog rolls in over the roofs of the stands to replace all the condensing moisture burnt off by the flames moments before. “Addy-Addy, Addy -O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand . Barely six minutes of the usual opening exchanges passes and Wes Burns takes on the Millwall full-back and gets beyond him to cross the ball for George Hirst to head down and back for Conor Chaplin to half volley into the Millwall goal past Bartosz Bialkowski, and Ipswich lead one nil having not conceded an early goal. Conor Chaplin thanks Goerge Hirst who thanks Wes Burns and Sam Morsy gives thanks to Allah.

The cold and the fog are forgotten, everyone is happy. “We’ve got super Kieran Mackenna, he knows exactly what we need” sing the north stand, but it’s only in my imagination that they carry on to chant “Wolfy on the bench, Ladapo on the bench and other people in the team instead”. Town are dominant and surge forward on the end of through balls with regularity. Wes Burns hurdles the perimeter wall to join the people at the front of the West Stand as he evades a challenge from Millwall’s Murray Wallace. The twelfth minute arrives and following an eye crossing sequence of short passes, Conor Chaplin sets the ball back for Massimo Luongo to belt into the net from near the edge of the penalty area ; it’s the second life enhancing goal of the evening and it’s possible Bialkowski never saw it.

A minute later Bart tips a first time George Hirst shot over the cross bar to give Town a corner and ever-present Phil and I manfully chant “ Come On You Blues” as the rest of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand looks on in puzzled silence. Behind me a bloke who doesn’t sound like the usual ‘bloke behind me’ explains Town’s recent success to his accomplice as something to do with passing, but with liberal use of the word ‘fucking’. I don’t think it can be the same as Ruud Gullit’s ‘sexy football’. Town win another corner I don’t pause for breath between lonely shouts of “Come On You Blues”. I can only think all the noisy people I stood alongside in Churchman’s forty years ago have gone to an early grave.

Town are cruising and even let Millwall have a corner, and Vaclav Hladky also makes a neat save. As the man from Stowmarket will say at half time, it’s as if we’re inviting Millwall to have a go and then we’ll just hit them on the break. I feel a little sorry for Bartosz Bialkowski, although he has the consolation of a psychedelic purple kit with abstract shapes that make him look like he’s wearing the sort of “dazzle” camouflage applied to ships during World War One, which Picasso claimed was invented by Cubists, the camouflage that is, not World War One.

With a quarter of the game gone for ever, except on Sky tv highlights, Massimo Luongo is the first player to see the yellow card of referee Mr Bramall, apparently because of a supposed foul. Wes Burns makes things a bit better with a shot that hits a post that almost lives up to the description “cannons off”. I notice that I am being dripped on by droplets of moisture condensing on the cold steel girders of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand roof, and the North stand deliver a funereal version of “When the Town go marching in” before upping the tempo for a brief encore.

I’m beginning to think it’s been a while since I saw a goal, but as half-time beckons Wes Burns crosses from the right and Cameron Burgess moves into space in front of the penalty area. Everyone wants him to shoot thinking that he’s been possessed by the spirit of Bobby Charlton, but wisely he lays the ball off to an overlapping Leif Davis whose cross is met full on by Nathan Broadhead, who lives up to his name with a very straight and well directed header into the far corner of the Millwall goal net. Town lead 3-0 and every goal has been a sight to commit to memory and treasure. There is not a hint of irony tonight as we all sing “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen”. Three minutes of added on time are surprisingly not enough to give Town a fourth goal, but the applause and appreciation are not diminished by this as the teams leave for their half-time break and I make the short journey to the front of the stand to chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison, who is much taken with ‘new’ Beatles single, which I can’t remember the name of. I tell him it’s not as good as their old stuff, so everything they ever did before really, even Yellow Submarine. I haven’t seen Ray for several weeks and I learn that he has been on two back to back cruises and not on the Orwell Lady either, but down to Madeira and southern Spain.

Back in my seat, I quickly scoff a Nature Valley cereal bar as the fog is thickened by use of the Versailles fountains on the pitch, before the game resumes and Nathan Broadhead is viciously hacked down by some Millwall oik who is then shoved by George Hirst who seems to have come over all protective of his team mate Nathan. An unseemly melee ensues as if the players hadn’t been drinking tea or isotonic drinks at half time but pints of Stella. Eventually however, the original perpetrator, the deceptively bitter George Honeyman, is booked by Mr Bramall and everyone simmers down.

More bookings follow for both teams before the game reaches its 60^th minute birthday ,and Millwall make a double substitution with the plain sounding Billy Mitchell replacing the more exotic Casper de Norre and the boring sounding Kevin Nisbet replacing the equally dull sounding Tom Bradshaw. Town have a brief flurry of attacks, Massimo Luongo shoots very narrowly wide and Bialkowski makes a save, but the fog has thickened and I couldn’t swear to having seen any of it very clearly, and up in the Cobbold stand the Millwall fans are singing “ We can’t see a fucking thing” to which the wittiest of the Ipswich fans in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand reply “We forgot that you were here”, and all to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

The second half is not as entertaining as the first and with twenty minute to go Keiran Mckenna, who must be freezing in what my friend Pete’s mum would have called “just a shorty-arsed jacket”, commits to a mass substitution as Marcus Harness, Omari Hutchison, Dane Scarlett and Kayden Jackson usurp Nathan Broadhead, Wes Burns, George Hirst and Conor Chaplin. Moments later Murphy tells us that there are 27,702 of us here tonight of whom 1,270 are from Millwall, and no one likes them. Murphy thanks us very much for our support, but unusually applies no adjectives to it, which is a good thing.

With time slipping away, empty blue seats are appearing in the Cobbold stand and Millwall supporters would seem to be slipping away too, but then with twelve minutes of normal time remaining a deep cross drops to the far post and Nisbet’s leg reaches in front of Cameron Burgess and he hooks the ball into the net for a Millwall goal. ”We’re gonna win 4-3” sing the Millwall fans admirably, and then “How shit must you be, we’ve just scored a goal” showing a streak of self-deprecating humour not expected from fans of London clubs, although Fulham supporters also have it. For a few minutes Millwall’s supporters have renewed hope as their team get forward, but don’t really threaten the Town goal. It might just be that they are trying to keep warm, but there are some roars of encouragement , a chorus of “We Are Millwall, No one likes us” and one of “One-nil in the second half”, all healthy signs of supporters who know winning isn’t essential and have learned to get their fun where they can.

As the cold begins to get to grips with my woollen socks the sound of the final whistle can’t come soon enough. Jack Taylor replaces Massimo Luongo with a minute of normal time left and, we quickly learn there will be a mercifully brief four minutes of added on time. Man of the Match, Murphy tells us is Conor Chaplin, which draws an impressively uninterested response from the crowd and the final whistle is met with a sharp exit into the fog on all sides of the ground.

It’s been yet another enjoyable game at Portman Road, made even more memorable by three excellent goals, fog and freezing temperatures. Whilst I loved the football, what I think I learned most from tonight is that fingerless gloves do work, I have a very warm coat, but my socks could be better.

Ipswich Town 3 Swansea City 2

November 12, 2023October 13, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

This morning at about half past one I suddenly awoke from what had been a deep sleep, and as I tried to return to my dreams my mind began to race and I was thinking of the first time I saw Ipswich Town play Swansea City, almost exactly forty-two years ago, on 7^th November 1981. Swansea, enjoying a very good start to their first ever season in what some people now call the Premier League, went on to win by three goals to two. I was only twenty-one years old, and recall being royally pissed off at what I think was the Town’s first home defeat of the season. The following March, I drove down to the Vetch Field, Swansea with my friend Tim in his 1968 Morris Minor 1000, and despite the best efforts of referee Clive Thomas, who awarded the home team a highly dubious penalty, we witnessed Town exact revenge as we won by two goals to one. We stayed the night in Swansea, and spent an evening crawling the city’s pubs. Sadly, all I really recall, apart from correctly pronouncing Cymru Cenedlaethol on the side of a bus, is playing pool in a pub and leaning down to look along my cue and seeing beyond it and the cue ball and the cushion and up the dress of a young woman sat on the other side of the bar, opposite the pool table. I was a shy, single, young man so I probably blushed, but shamefully I cannot deny that the sight of this young woman’s red pants has stayed with me ever since. In their early twenties my grandfathers and my father had all been tasked with killing Germans, but I just had to cope with the freedom they helped win.

Since that guilty, intoxicated evening in South Wales, I have seen Swansea City a further fourteen times, but only half of those matches have been against Ipswich Town. The other seven matches were at Manchester City (one), Portsmouth (one) and Colchester (five), and Swansea didn’t win any of them. In all the intervening years I have never seen another Welsh woman’s pants and even though Ipswich are once again playing Swansea City, I do not expect to do so today as I step from my front door beneath a clear blue sky and head for the railway station. I have been looking forward to today’s game after no home match for three weeks, and in an early morning trip to the shops even bought two packets of Welsh cakes by way of celebration; I ate a couple for breakfast. I was born in Wales see, albeit in Haverfordwest.

The train is on time and not particularly busy. At the first stop I am joined by Gary who is wearing a bright orange jacket over his Ipswich Town home shirt. We talk of whether we are sat in a carriage or a car, when Gary is likely to retire, the sort of people who ‘go postal’, and on which train journeys to watch football matches it might be possible to see a Polar Bear from the train window; surprisingly Swansea to Ipswich is one of them. It seems unlikely there are trains to Svalbard, but hopefully there is football even if only with seal skins for goalposts. Arriving in Ipswich, my exit from the station is annoyingly delayed by being unable to display my e-ticket on my phone, I eventually manage to create a glimpse of it for a split second and fortunately the ticket collector seems happy with that. I will later learn of an “update”.

Gary and I stroll up Princes Street and Portman Road towards ‘the Arb’, pausing only so that I may buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the blue booths, the appearance of which tempts me to ask for a choc ice as well, but luckily I resist. At ‘the Arb’, Mick is already stood at the bar about to order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride. Now aware of our arrival, Mick generously buys two pints of Suffolk Pride, and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary, who to my knowledge never has drunk proper beer. We repair to the beer garden to talk of the horrible Suella Braverman, the ‘A Load of Cobbolds’ fanzine, the Covid enquiry and the lies of Boris Johnson, and last night’s Ligue 1 encounter between Montpellier Herault SC and OGC Nice, which despite being an open, attacking match, ended goalless. I return to the bar to buy myself a further pint of Suffolk Pride, a Jameson whisky for Mick and a half of Lager 43 for Gary (£10.40 including Camra discount). We continue our conversation, which unusually does not involve reference to death or illness today, although we do talk of remembrance poppies and Mick recalls how his father was responsible for distributing them in the Orford area and how in the days when the ‘stems’ were made of wire the poppies first had to be assembled. At about twenty-five to three we depart for Portman Road.

The queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are shorter today and seem to be being managed by stewards. I go to queue at the illustrious turnstile 62 but am ushered towards a side gate where my season ticket is scanned by a woman using a hand-held device which looks like one of those things you use to find hidden electrical wiring in walls. I arrive at my seat moments before the two teams parade onto the pitch. Naturally, the man from Stowmarket, Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his young son Elwood are all already here, although it’s Pat’s first game in a while as she’s been in Mauritius to attend a wedding. Ever-present Phil and I attempt to bawl out our players’ surnames in the French style as stadium announcer Murphy reads out the line-up, but as ever Murphy is in far too much of a hurry and has finished before the players’ faces have stopped appearing on the large screen; he really is useless, bring back Steven ‘Foz’ Foster I say.

After a minute’s silence and the last post and occupation of the centre circle by various personnel from the armed forces, things never seen or heard at football matches until comparatively recently, the game begins, with Ipswich in traditional blue shirts and white shorts getting first go with the ball, and sending it mostly in my general direction. Swansea City are today wearing an un-necessary away kit of reddish shirts, shorts and socks. Unfortunately, the reddish colour of their kit reminds me of the young Welsh woman’s pants from 1981, so I try to imagine them all with just one leg each and no heads, to make them look like a team of Lyons Maid Raspberry Mivvis.

“I do, but I don’t” says the bloke behind me about I’ve no idea what, and after three minutes Town win the game’s first corner. A couple of rows in front of me a young man is topless and the waist band of his Calvin Klein pants is visible to all. Suddenly I can smell meat and gravy and assume that someone nearby has bought a pie; it’s either that or the Army personnel in the centre circle were from the catering corp. “Blue and White Army” chant the section of the crowd up in the corner of the Cobbold Stand before a wider congregation strikes up with a chorus of “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna, He knows exactly what we need…”. The Swansea goalkeeper, whose name, Carl Rushworth, would be ideal in a match with ‘rush goalies’ is all in orange, so looks like a Wall’s Solero Exotic. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, By far the greatest team the world has ever seen” chant some of the crowd and there’s every chance I sang the very same at the Vetch Field back in 1981.

Seven minutes are almost up and rather disappointingly Swansea City score, a dinked cross from inside the penalty area being nodded into the corner of the goal by their number four, a bloke called Jay Fulton. “Who are ya?” chant the Swansea fans having presumably forgotten where they are and being too idle to look at their match programmes or tickets. “One-nil to the sheep shaggers” they continue, in more revelatory mood, and suddenly I don’t feel quite so bad about having once accidentally glimpsed a young Welsh woman’s pants in a public bar.

Town win another corner. “Come On You Blues” I shout and from a low cross, a shot goes curling over the cross bar. “Der, der, der, Football in a library” chant the Swansea fans imaginatively, getting in as much gloating as possible whilst they still can. Omari Hutchinson shoots straight at Rushworth and for the third time in the last few minutes a Town player is flagged offside, raising doubts about the parentage of the linesman with the chequered flag.

Town are giving Swansea a hard time, but all of a sudden the world is restored to its axis in truly spectacular fashion as Jack Taylor strikes a magnificent 20-odd metre shot against the inside of Rushworth’s left-hand post and the ball hurtles and spins into the back of the net. Quel but! (What a goal!) as they didn’t get to shout in Montpellier last night. From my position in the cheap seats, I have a thrilling head-on view of the ball as it speeds towards the goal. All the best goals strike the wood work as they go in; that final split-second diversion adding a thump of confirmation to the event, like having your passport stamped or hearing the pop of a Champagne cork. As Fiona observes, today’s goal is the polar opposite of Taylor’s goal at Rotherham earlier in the week, which spun in off his leg from close range, almost without his knowing it.

Ipswich Town are now almost unstoppable. Conor Chaplin shoots over the bar and Omari Hutchinson has a shot saved despite having seemingly dribbled around Rushworth. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand getting all festive and nostalgic at the same time, and just five minutes after Taylor’s goal, George Hirst heads the ball down and Conor Chaplin spins on his right foot and hooks the ball inside the near post with his left from a few metres out. The Town lead two-one. Presumably, the Swansea fans up in the Cobbold stand now answer their earlier question “Oh, it’s you lot” .

Town now just need some more goals to confirm their superiority, but instead there is a bit of a melee with players either squaring up to, pushing away or pulling apart their team-mates and opponents, perhaps depending on how zen they are feeling today. Conor Chaplin and Swansea’s Liam Cullen are booked by referee Mr Sunny Singh Gill, presumably as the instigators. In the stands there is almost the burst of a song, but then it all goes quiet, with even the away fans feeling too crushed by the turn around in scoreline to sing “Two-one, and you still don’t sing”. If there was a corner of the ground occupied by fans of a musical and literary bent, now would be the time for them to sing “ We all agree, Britten is better than Thomas”.

With ten minutes of the first half left Omari Hutchinson breaks down the right, but his low cross is just an overly long stud’s length away from being diverted into the goal by Nathan Broadhead. A couple of minutes later the blokes behind me clear off to the bar, whilst Mr Singh seems to take far too long to allow Conor Chaplin back onto the field after receiving treatment, perhaps he has been influenced by Suella Braverman and sees receiving treatment as a ‘lifestyle choice’.

In the final ‘normal’ minute of the half Sam Morsy gives George Hirst the chance to score, but Hirst’s shot is saved and as we progress into four minutes of additional time Jack Taylor surges into the box and might or might not be tripped and Portman Road reverberates to the sound of the question “Who’s the wanker in the black? Encouragingly, I don’t hear any references to Gunga Din, Gandhi or corner shops, although Mr Singh is roundly booed as he leaves the pitch.

The half-time break brings a chat with the man from Stowmarket who Pat from Clacton later discovers is called Paul. I syphon off some spent Suffolk Pride and enjoy the almost theatrical display by the pitch sprinklers before the football resumes at ten past four and Town set about getting the goals that they should have and almost did, but ultimately didn’t score in the first half. Immediately things are different as the seat next to me, which was empty in the first half, is occupied by a woman with obviously dyed hair, who might be the mother of one or more of the blokes sat behind me. Ipswich quickly win a corner after some argument, and predictably once the kick is taken a free-kick is then awarded to Swansea.

Mr Singh further endears himself to the crowd as Leif Davis is cynically shoved into the advert hoardings as he tries to run past a Swansea defender, but no yellow card is shown. Seven minutes into the half however all is forgiven, for a while any way, as Mr Singh awards Town a penalty. No one sat near me has any idea why, but we’re not too bothered, particularly when George Hirst steps up to score and Town lead three-one. There is a feeling of contentment around me and it seems like we will be happy if the score stays like this, although further Town goals will not be turned away.

The action on field follows the pattern of a team closing the game down and Swansea enjoy more possession but to little effect. There are however occasional moments of anxiety. Swansea break forward, but Leif Davis calmly first looks for the offside flag, and then realising it isn’t coming makes a perfectly timed sliding tackle inside the penalty area. Five minutes on and the first substitutions are made for Town as Marcus Harness and Wes Burns replace Omari Hutchinson and Nathan Broadhead. Pat from Clacton shares with us how much she loves Marcus Harness’s ‘lovely blue eyes’ and can’t hold back from telling her that even I had noticed those too. Harness immediately intercepts a Swansea pass and draws appreciative applause.

There are twenty-five minutes of normal time remaining as Town win a corner and the sky darkens behind the floodlights as one of the first early winter evenings descends and I can feel the chill of the air as I breathe in. “Carrow Road is falling down” chant Town fans in the furthest top corner of the Cobbold stand, but where I’m sat no one can understand what else they’re singing or whether it’s witty, abusive or stupid. Four minutes later and Mr Singh stops his charm offensive as he sends off Swansea’s Liam Cullen, we think following a second yellow card after a foul on Leif Davis. “Cheerio, Cheerio, Cheerio” sing the Town fans sympathetically.

Surely the three points are now safe with only ten men to play against, and the optimism in the stands is expressed in chants of “Ole Ole Ole” from those Town fans who just won’t let the memories of holidays on the Costas fade away. Would that Keiran McKenna, as wonderful as he is, was as colourful, as he stands in the technical area in his dull grey trousers and black car coat. If promotion to the First Division is achieved, I’m hopeful that the budget will then stretch to a stylist for Kieran. Town win another corner and the attendance is announced by Murphy as 28,929 with 634 from Swansea, although to be fair to the Welsh it is a very long way from Ipswich; four-hundred and forty-three kilometres in fact. “Thank you once more for your incredible support” says Murphy, stretching the definition of incredible.

The final ten minutes of normal time see Marcus Harness booked by Mr Singh; the bloke behind me asks “ Is he dead?” of the player Harness fouled. Town win a corner and Mr Singh walks patiently over to the dug outs to raise his yellow card towards someone on the Swansea bench. Freddie Ladapo replaces George Hirst. Swansea win a rare corner and we are told that there will be a minimum of nine minutes of additional time, which in percentage terms when added to the four in the first half is greater than the Camra discount on beer at ’the Arb’.

I am thinking that added on time is just something to be endured, until the right-hand side of the Town defence gets a puncture and Jamahl Lowe rather embarrassingly skips past Luke Woolfenden and around the excellent Vaclav Hladky to make the score three-two from very close range. Pat from Clacton is suddenly nervous, and Hladky makes a late challenge for the title of Man of the Match, even though it has already been awarded to Jack Taylor. But Town survive and victory is ours yet again, and it’s been yet another rollicking match; Kieran Mckenna and his team continuing to make up for fifteen years of mediocrity and worse, in fifteen months.

It’s gone five o’clock as Pat from Clacton and Fiona hurry away to buses and trains, but I stay for a short while to applaud, although the game has finished so late that I can’t linger long either, as my train leaves at nineteen minutes past. When I eventually head into the cold, damp evening I wonder if this afternoon’s match will live in my memory like my trip to Swansea of forty years ago, I hope so.