Lager 43

Ipswich Town 1 Fulham 1

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It’s been a grey morning; warm but cloudy and breezy, with two very sharp, short showers.  The apple tree in the garden has provided a good crop this year and I’ve been cooking them ready to put in the freezer and ensure a future that contains crumble and blackberry and apple pie.  I mopped the kitchen floor too after making waffles for breakfast.  We didn’t get any post, but heck, there’s football this afternoon.

The train to Ipswich is on time, but the carriage I sit in is full of people seemingly with no ability to control how loud they talk, or rather shout. Do they all operate pneumatic drills during the week I wonder, or listen to marbles inside tumble driers as a leisure pursuit?  Gary joins me at the first station stop, I have texted him to tell him I am in the second half of the train, in the carriage with the pointy front; I think it’s called streamlining and is all the rage on modern trains. We talk of people we both know and of what Gary has arranged to do to fill his days now he is retired; weeks of badminton, ten-pin bowling, crown green bowls , indoor bowls and quizzing stretch out before him invitingly.  We spot all four polar bears as we glide down the hill towards Ipswich through Wherstead and one is taking a swim.  It’s a highlight of my day so far, has saved me the cost of entry to Jimmy’s farm, about twenty quid, and I’ve had a train ride and conversation with Gary thrown-in.

In Ipswich, the train stops conveniently close to the bridge that takes us across the tracks from Platform 4 to the exit and our walk along Princes Street, Portman Road and up to ‘the Arb’.  In the beer garden of the Station Hotel a chorus of “You’re going down, you’re going down, you’re going down “ rings out noisily. Premier League banter eh?  We buy programmes (£3.50 each) from one of the ice-cream booths that sell programmes on Portman Road.  Today’s front cover is in the style of a childishly drawn cartoon and very good it is too, and reminiscent of the cartoons that used to appear in the ‘A Load of Cobbolds’ fanzine in the 1980’s and 90’s, although not in a ‘My Sweet Lord’, by George Harrison, ‘He’s so fine’ by the Chiffons sort of a way.

‘The Arb’ is predictably busy and Gary gets the first round in, a pint of Lager 43 for him and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£8.58 with Camra discount).  It’s odd how the pub seems even busier than it did last season, even though there will be no more home supporters present than before. Perhaps all the ‘Johnny-come-lately’ fans have been reading up on what to do before a game to enjoy the ‘full Premier League matchday experience’.   We talk of the paralympics, Walton On The Naze, religious observance and the religious persecution of women, Ipswich  Town’s latest signings, how strawberries and blackberries are apparently not berries and other inconsequential matters that I can’t recall, before I buy a second round of Lager 43 and Suffolk Pride. After all the other pre-match drinkers have left for Portman Road, we leave too.

Gary and I part ways near Sir Alf’s statue and I head on down Portman Road, flitting as best as a 64 year old man with a dodgy achilles tendon can through the queues into the Cobbold Stand on my way back to my usual seat in the lower tier of Sir Alf’s stand.  The queues at the turnstiles are long again today, unlike for the Liverpool game where there were barely any queues at all. So slow moving is the queue for the illustrious turnstile 62, that like  an impatient driver approaching roadworks on a motorway I switch lanes and join the queue for turnstile 60, where evidently supporters are more proficient at flashing a bar code in front of a screen.

The teams are on the pitch by the time I take my seat and of course ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood, Pat from Clacton and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) are already present.  Fiona however is not, and instead a man who quickly identifies himself as Ian, tells me that he is not Fiona.  Ian is in fact Fiona’s next-door neighbour.  On the pitch, a tall, slim, young man in a suit announces the teams enthusiastically and does a reasonable job of co-ordinating with the scoreboard so that ever-present Phil and I can bawl out the Town players’ surnames as if we were at the Stade de la Licorne or Stade Felix Bollaert, two of my favourite places in northern France. Beside the tall, slim young man, is a shorter young man in a suit and I think of Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo.  The last strains of The Beatles’ Hey Jude drift away as the game begins and Fulham get first go with the ball, aiming it roughly in the general direction of the telephone exchange and London Road Baptist church.  Town wear their signature blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Fulham are in their signature white shirts and black shorts, but with vivid red go faster stripes on their shorts too, that surprisingly look rather good, I think it’s the contrast with the red and the black.  Feeling a little pretentious, I think of Stendahl.

“Blue and White Army” roar some of the crowd above the general loud hubbub of nearly thirty thousand excited people. “Temporary Boiler Hire” flash the electronic advertisement hoards that sit between the upper and lower tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.  I think to myself that that could come in handy in the winter if the water from the taps in the Alf Ramsey stand toilets is as cold as it usually is.  After only three minutes Leif Davis is lying on the turf clutching his back. “Looks serious “ says the bloke behind me, but happily it’s not, and the crowd are soon merrily singing “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” as if imagining the soundtrack from “A Taste of Honey” starring Rita Tushingham and Dora Bryan, which is what I’m doing.

Five minutes in and Town win the game’s first corner; Jacob Greaves’ far post header is saved  athletically by Fulham goalkeeper Bernd Leno who I do not think is related to American TV presenter Jay Leno, but I don’t honestly know. Leno is wearing a slightly dull looking lime green ensemble, if lime green can be dull.  It takes two minutes for Fulham to level the corner count. “Come On Fulham, Come On Fulham, Come on Fulham” is the entreaty from a large part of the top tier of the Cobbold stand, but happily for Town, the Fulham football tean doesn’t oblige.  Two minutes later and Fulham step ahead in the corner count as Luke Woolfenden clears accidentally towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand from distance.  The Fulham fans chant “Come On Fulham” twice as many times as for the previous corner, but it makes no difference, although it adds to the already febrile match-day ambience.  Seeking reassurance after their team’s corner related failure, the Fulham fans sing “We are Fulham, We Are Fulham” and I think I even hear some reference to their postcode, SW6, which is nice for Royal Mail pensioners like Gary and myself.

After twelve minutes, Fulham have another corner as Woolfenden blocks a low cross from Adama Traore. “Quick aint he?” says the bloke behind me of Traore. “He aint normal.”  The Fulham fans have given up on their chants of “Come On Fulham” for the time being at least and switch to “No noise from the Tractor Boys”, which, as prophetic football chants go, turns out to be one of the worst of all time as within sixty seconds Leif Davis breaks out of defence, runs, squares to Liam Delap who also runs, but at the goal, and then diagonally, before turning slightly to leather a shot past Leno, who can touch the ball but not stop it rocketing  high into the net. Wow. Town lead 1-0. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, The Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers feeling prematurely, but understandably festive.

The goal lifts Town, who set about levelling the corner count and Liam Delap heads wide when there wasn’t anything or anyone really preventing him from scoring. Town are dominating. “For a team that’s still gelling, we don’t pay bad” says the bloke behind me, and he’s right.  Like someone recently injected with morphine, I sit back and just enjoy the sensation of watching some excellent football.  “Get your head up” shouts a berk from somewhere a few rows back as Sam Morsy wrestles to retain possession.  As if anyone in the crowd could possibly teach these players anything.

Then Fulham equalise, the game has just under an hour left of normal time.  Fulham weathered Town’s onslaught then steadied themselves with a bout of prolonged possession, which was on the verge of becoming boring before a pass out wide, a run to the goal line, a low cross, and a shot swept in by Traore running into an open space.  It’s how good football works I believe.  “Who are ya?” chant the Fulhamites inquisitively, perhaps worried that we are Fulham too, but luckily for them we’re not.   Fulham are now on top and Rodrigo Muniz heads at the Town goal, but straight at Aro Muric.  “We are Fulham, We Are Fulham” chant the Fulham fans again, clearly weirdly obsessed with people’s identities, and possibly postcodes.

Sam Morsy’s standard booking happens in the thirty-seventh minute as he clatters Muniz, but a fine passing Town move follows, which earns another corner, although Kalvin Phillips wastes it by hitting it hopelessly beyond the goal.  The young announcer announces two minutes of added time very excitedly and in a manner that personally I would only think was appropriate if announcing free beer.  At half-time the score is 1-1 and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is very content with what he considers to have been an even first half.  I concur, but add that Fulham have probably had more possession, although they’ve not done much with it.

During the break, I speak with Ray and his grandson Harrison and Ray tells me that they have tickets to see Oasis at Wembley.  I am pleased for them, especially Harrison, who then further pleases me by asking about Robyn Hitchcock’s book ‘1967: How I got there and why I never left’ and the accompanying album (1967: Vacations in the past) which is released in the UK on 13th September. I tell Harrison I shall be seeing Robyn play in Hackney, the weekend after next.

The football resumes at three minutes past four and I’m soon noticing the raspberry blancmange like colouring of Aro Muric’s shirt and shorts, and how from a distance the ball looks a bit like a very un-ripe wild strawberry.  Back in the game itself, Sasa Lukic kicks Liam Delap’s feet away from under him and is booked by referee Mr Lewis Smith, whose first name makes me think of Lewis Carroll and Alice Through the Looking Glass.  “The Hot Sausage Company” appears in bright lights across the electronic advertising boards and Liam Delap shoots over the Fulham cross bar. Ipswich win a corner. Antonee Robinson, the spelling of whose first name would only be improved if it was Antonknee is booked by Mr Smith for shoving over Omari Hutchinson and then Town win yet another corner.  An hour of the match is lost to history and recorded highlights, and the Sir Bobby Robson standers come over all festive again and sing about endlessly fighting Norwich.  “Quick, Easy, Affordable Balustrades” announce the bright lights of the electronic advertisement boards and I try to think of the occasions when I have needed a cheap balustrade in a hurry before deciding that Adama Traore looks a bit like he could be a handy weightlifter when not playing football for Fulham.

The second half belongs to Ipswich and the game is mostly taking place up the other end.  When Fulham do win a corner, it dissolves into a series of wild grabs and shoves and I’m surprised Mr Smith doesn’t tell the players that if they can’t play nicely there won’t be any more corners. The game hurtles into its last twenty minutes and the first substitutions are made, Jens Cajuste replacing Kalvin Phillips for Town.  “I liked him the other night” says the bloke behind me, possibly revealing details of his private life, but more probably that he saw the midweek League Cup game against AFC Wimbledon.  Not to be outdone, Fulham make a substitution too and then today’s attendance is announced as 29,517 with 2,952 of that number being of a Fulham persuasion.  Fulham win a corner, Traore is shown Mr Lewis’s yellow card for tugging at Leif Davis. I’m surprised the hulk look-alike didnt tear Davis’s shirt clean off.

The final ten minutes witness mass substitutions for both teams including a first sight of another new signing for Town, Jack Clarke, but disappointingly nothing more leaps out at me from the electronic advertising boards. Pat from Clacton is feeling nervous and we’re not even winning, but there seems to be a commonly held belief that a point today will be good enough; Fulham are a decent side.  The allotted ninety minutes have expired and the young man in the suit announces that there will five more. “Five added minutes” he concludes portentously, and the crowd responds with a final roar of encouragement, perhaps inspiring Town to win a corner and Omari Hutchinson to turn and shoot and have his shot saved by Leno.

The final whistle draws a torrent of appreciation from the stands as Pat from Clacton and Ian make a swift exit, but with no train home for half an hour, I hang around to watch the ensuing love-in and reflect on what has been a really good match.  I thought last season’s matches were fast and intense, probably because I had become used to what went on in the loveable old third division, but this football, now, has stepped up to a far higher level again.  Happily, it looks like this evolving Town team are capable of playing here.  I don’t like the Premier League, I strongly disapprove of it and its greed, but I have to admit the football we’ve seen at Portman Road in these first two games has been brilliant. But what can you do? Let’s hope we find out soon, and do it.

Ipswich Town  0 Liverpool 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The start of a new football season feels a bit like flying to Australia; you depart Heathrow in the spring and in the space of less than twenty four hours, you’re in Sydney, Melbourne or Perth and it’s autumn.  Where did the summer go? Did it ever come?

 To add to my feeling of disorientation today, Town are playing Liverpool, who I don’t think I’ve ever heard of.  I am of course familiar with The Beatles, Ken Dodd, Jimmy Tarbuck, Derek Hatton, Cilla Black, Sandra and Beryl the Liver Birds, Roger McGough, Adrian Henri and Brian Patten, the Mersey Sound, The Scaffold, the Pier Head, Paddy’s Wigwam, Hope Street, Lime Street station, Penny Lane, racing from Aintree, the Albert Dock, St George’s Hall, the Queensway tunnel, the Three Graces, Brookside, the ferry ‘cross the Mersey, the ‘Boys from the black stuff’, Littlewoods Pools, Letter to Brezhnev, dodgy blokes in shell suits with ‘taches and perms, the Anglican Cathedral, Alexei Sayle, the Echo and Scouse, but who knew there was a football team too?  If they’ve got one, they certainly haven’t been frequenting the sort of exotic places we’ve been visiting in recent years.

It was only when staring into the distance and idly reminiscing about when Ipswich used to nearly be the champions every year, a long time ago when we was ‘fab’, that I remembered that it was a team called Liverpool that mostly were the champions every year.  Then I remembered Mich D’Avray heading home a cross from Kevin O’Callaghan as Sammy Lee sat on his bum on the wet turf and watched, and eventually, much later, Adam Tanner and Marcus Stewart scoring winning goals at Anfield.  Yes, I remember Liverpool now.

I meet Gary on the train to Ipswich, and he tells me that only one of the current ninety-two football league teams is in a parliamentary constituency that has a Tory member of parliament; he asks me which one I think it is.  I think for a moment and say “Cheltenham”.  But I’m wrong, it’s Bromley. So much for Siouxsie Sioux and the ‘Bromley contingent’, although I guess that’s what they were escaping from, even if some of them did like to wear swastikas. We carry on talking as if life is a pub quiz and Gary seems impressed that I know that when George Best played for Dunstable Town, Barry Fry was the Dunstable manager.  Suddenly, following a tangible moment of recollection that is visible on Gary’s face, he pays me for his ticket to see Stewart Lee at the Chelmsford Civic Theatre next February (£31 including booking fee) and we complain to each other about the scandal of booking fees.  I never paid a booking fee to see Rick Wakeman at the Ipswich Gaumont in 1975, or for my FA Cup final ticket in 1978, or to see Buzzcocks at the Brighton Top Rank Club in 1979, when I recall being handed tickets by a person from behind a glass screen and not having to print anything myself using printer ink, paper and electricity paid for by me.  If they’re going to riot, this is what people should be rioting about, not a few unfortunates being made to waste away their days in a Best Western.

Disappointingly, we do not see the polar bears of Wherstead today as the train descends into Ipswich, but at least the bloke mowing the grass in their enclosure lives to mow another day, and arriving in Ipswich we head for the Arboretum, travelling via the ice cream kiosks that sell match programmes. We buy a programme each (£3.50) and are both impressed by the design of the front cover, which has taken a step away from the usual boring fare, although it’s a shame about the same old drivel inside, and the price.  Portman Road is busy; very busy considering that there are another two hours to pass into forgettable history before the game begins.   Middle- aged blokes with estuarine accents hawk blue and red scarves that are half Ipswich and half Liverpool, no one seems to be buying.   At the Arb’ there is no queue at the bar, and I quickly order a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£8.35 including Camra discount). In the beer garden all the tables are occupied, so we sit on a park bench and have barely discussed anything before Mick arrives, before leaving again to acquire his own pint of some beer or other, probably Suffolk Pride, before returning to discuss ‘half and half’ scarves, which Mick says are like being bi-sexual. It’s much worse than that I tell him, and we all laugh, much more than we probably should, and for a variety of unspoken reasons. 

Mick asks what time we should leave for Portman Road, anticipating that the turnstiles will be busy.  I tell him that its likely all our fellow drinkers will leave here long before we do because they will be wanting to experience the Premier League circus, and we should be able to rock up just before kick-off and walk straight in as if we were playing Preston North End.  My prophecy will come to pass, but we nevertheless agree to depart shortly after midday, and after Mick buys a round of three more pints, which he sensibly carries from the bar on a tin tray, that is what we do, although not before discussing why Mick may not go to Nice next weekend after all, today’s team selection, how to spell Szmodics and how I don’t feel as excited as everyone else seems to be; it’s just another new football season, another game.

Portman Road is still busy, mostly with queues for ice creams that turn out to be programmes. At turnstile 62 at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, there are no queues, but a man who looks older than me seems to be struggling to get his season ticket to work, so rather than create a queue with just me in it I use turnstile 61 and am soon hugging Pat from Clacton who then photographs me in an embrace with ever-present Phil who never misses a game.  Ever-present Phil’s son Elwood, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket are all here too of course and soon the teams are on the pitch and flames are leaping into the air which are much bigger than any flames that we’ve ever seen before at Portman Road, because these are Premier League flames.

The teams are announced by an enthusiastic bloke in a grey suit who looks about half the age of Murphy, the now pensioned-off, one season wonder of an announcer who took nearly all of last season to learn how to read out the names of the team.  Unfortunately, Portman Road is so noisy today and the PA system so unintelligible that I can’t hear a word this fresh young fellow says and am reduced to having to try and lip read as he tells us the Town line-up, but I think I do a reasonable job of bellowing like a French football supporter the surnames of the players as he says them.  Except for the obvious and necessary concrete bits, the stands are mostly a sea of blue shirts.

‘The Knee’ is taken, which we haven’t seen for a while, and the game begins with Liverpool having first go with the ball and wearing all red, pretty much like they did back in 1974 when I first saw them at Portman Road and Bill Shankly spoke to me, telling me in his gravelly Ayrshire accent “Aye, you’ve a good team”.  As ever, Town are in blue and white and when they get the ball, they send it in my direction and that of ever-present Phil, Elwood, Fiona, Pat and the man from Stowmarket. My early impressions are that there are new illuminated advertisements between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, one of which advertises Universal Customs Clearance, whatever that is. I like to think it is something to do smuggling because this fits in with my pre-conceptions about the dodgy owners and sponsors of Premier League clubs. I also notice that the Liverpool number four has the name Virgil on his shirt and so I think of both the Aeneid and Thunderbirds.  Sadly for Town, from his stature, Virgil looks more likely to be a classical hero rather than a jiggly puppet that appears like all Thunderbirds puppets to be suffering from Parkinson’s Disease.   Omari Hutchinson has an early shot on goal for Town but Liverpool are awarded the game’s first free-kick. After six minutes Luke Woolfenden greedily claims the first booking of the Premier League season for some shirt grabbing and torso grasping of Jota who had run around Woolfenden as if he was a large bollard with a blond wig.

The game is even, with Liverpool having more possession but Ipswich looking no less likely to score, albeit on the break.  Thirteen noisy minutes have disappeared for ever, only to be repeated on satellite tv and Match of the Day, and Omari Hutchinson is booked for a supposed foul, for which any decent player would be embarrassed to be awarded a free-kick.  We need to keep an eye on the referee Mr Tim Robinson, he may prove to be a bit of a berk.  The game continues in much the same manner to a back-drop of general noise, but no discernible organised chanting, as if the Premier League just makes everyone talk very loudly, which I think in some ways it probably does. Town win a free kick and Jacob Greaves heads the ball straight at the Liverpool goalkeeper; would Terry Butcher or Kevin Beattie have scored?  We’ll never know, so it doesn’t really matter.

The first half is half over and referee Tim Robinson, whose name is a little too much like ‘Tommy Robinson’ for comfort, confirms that he is a complete berk as he books another Town player, this time Wes Burns, for a supposed foul that most under-fourteen players would not have noticed.  Much booing ensues and I join in, swept up in the maelstrom of silliness that is the Premier League, and we haven’t even had the VAR out yet.

Less than a third of the half is left and after a Liverpool corner Omari Hutchinson breaks away, beats two Liverpool players and then shoots, but not well enough to avoid the goalkeeper’s elongated but comfortable looking dive.   “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” chant the Town fans at a Liverpool player whose truss has come apart, or may be at the Liverpool fans who are quietish and so far don’t compare for enthusiasm to those of clubs in the second division that are only ‘fashionable’ in their home towns.

Eight minutes until half-time and Christian Walton makes a fine diving save from a Luke Woolfenden diversion, but by way of balance Axel Tuanzebe heads the ball onto the roof of the Liverpool net before Town win a corner, and in the last action of the half the Liverpool have their first recognisable shot on goal, courtesy of the lengthily named Trent Alexander Arnold, whose  names seem to have either been arranged back to front or mostly taken from a map of Nottingham.  After a minute of added on time spent finding the ball after TAA’s shot, Robinson blows his whistle and we all get the opportunity to boo him again as he and his minders wander off for a cup of tea and to do whatever referees and their assistant’s do at half-time.

The consensus amongst those around me is that it was a satisfactory half in which Town did pretty well and arguably had the better chances to score, although it could be a worry therefore that they didn’t.   For half time entertainment Ray’s son Michael and a much larger man wearing possibly an XXXL Town shirt take part in a little quiz, the first few questions of which are stupidly easy and appear on the large screen between the Cobbold Stand and the Sir Alf stand. Later questions unfortunately, do not have multiple choice answers and are therefore read out over the incomprehensible PA system, so we have no idea what is going on.

At twenty-seven minutes to two the second half begins, and Liverpool have substituted their number 78 for a more sensible number 5, who is Ibrahima Konate and also plays for France, so is therefore likely to be pretty good.  But, eight minutes into the half and it is Town who are appealing for a penalty as Leif Davis is barged over. There is a  brief VAR check, during which I find myself praying to someone or something, perhaps divine providence, but conveniently for Liverpool and the status quo, the linesman has his flag raised for offside.  The bloke behind me jokes that with all the recent works to the stadium the electrics for the VAR haven’t been finished yet,  so the protocol is just to wait for five minutes and then say “No”.

As if being denied penalties isn’t bad enough, Wes Burns seems to be hurt and has to be substituted for Ben Johnson.  Three minutes later Christian Walton has to make a fine save and then gets lucky as the ball is crossed back in and an unmarked Jota heads wide of an open goal from close range.  Just a minute further on however, Jota scores as the ball is pulled back from the by-line and the Town defence is ripped apart.   The Liverpool fans in the Cobbold stand can suddenly be heard, and above the general hubbub comes a jubilant roar.  “Someone’s just found a quid I reckon” says the bloke behind me.

Town substitutions follow in the 64th minute with Conor Chaplin and Massimo Luongo being replaced by Marcus Harness and Jack Taylor.  Just a minute later Liverpool lead 2-0 as Salah tucks the ball neatly over Christian Walton from an angle.  Liverpool seem to have simply changed up a gear and Town have been overrun.  Omari Hutchinson manages a volley from quite close in that might have headed goalwards, but doesn’t, and the bloke beside me says “A goal would be nice, wouldn’t it?” The bloke behind me says “Yes”.   Marcus Harness has a shot, but it goes high over the bar.

More substitutions follow, Ali Al-Hamadi and Sammy Szmodics replacing Liam Delap and Axel Tuanzebe but Liverpool are still the better team.  I ask Pat from Clacton what she’s having for her tea tonight. A baked potato with barbecued chicken slices is the answer.  Fiona and I are both having left over curry from Thursday night, both our curries were home-made, not takeaways.  The attendance is announced as 30,014. It’s the first time there have been over 30,000 people at Portman Road since 20th April 1981 when we played Arsenal; we lost that afternoon 2-0 too, and I remember standing with my father in the North Stand, it was the only place where we could get in.  It was a result that severely and unexpectedly dented our hopes of winning the league and I can still recall vividly how royally peed off I was, I think I still am.

It is now clear that Town are going to lose today, and Liverpool come close to scoring several more times as Christian Walton plays an absolute blinder in the Town goal, a state of affairs confirmed by the Sir Bobby Robson stand’s embittered chanting of “Two-nil and you still don’t sing” followed by a reprise of “Your support, Your support, Your support is fucking shit”.  A monstrous eight minutes of added on time is announced to give us hope of a miracle, and last season Town would probably have won, but today it’s Liverpool who nearly score again, twice, with Christian Walton making a brilliant ‘double save’ although ‘man of the match’ is awarded to Jacob Greaves.   Scant consolation for the result arrives in the form of a late booking for Liverpool’s number 18 Cody Gakpo, which is greeted with ironic cheers and sarcastic ripples of applause from the home crowd.  The bloke behind me wonders if Mr Robinson had lost his yellow card somewhere and only just found it.

The final whistle draws appreciative applause from all around the ground and it has been a decent couple of hours of football, although after Liverpool scored Town were no longer in it to win it, only to keep the score down, which they did.  “You’re gonna get relegated aren’t ya? ” Says a Scouser to me as I walk back to the station.  “Not today” I tell him. “We’ll be alright”.  The football season has started so it may be approaching autumn, but it’s not winter yet, and I’m still hoping for an Indian summer.

Ipswich Town 1 Maidstone United 2

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As working weeks go it’s been a good one, I had Friday off and only worked until a smidgeon after half past two on Thursday, and all week long I’ve been looking forward to Saturday and the FA Cup fourth round, a ‘straightforward’ home tie versus non-league Maidstone United.  On Thursday night I dreamt of Kieran Mckenna. As is often the case with dreams, I don’t really remember much about it,  but I know I  was left with the sort of sensation of calm and well-being you might expect if you’d just had a chance encounter with Jesus or Mohammed, or George Harrison. I had never dreamt about a Town manager before, and the only ‘celebrities’ I can ever recall  entering my dreams previously are Sid James and former Liverpool City Council leader Derek Hatton.

One of two flies in the ointment today however is that the match begins at half past twelve because it is being televised by the BBC and then transmitted on by BEIN Sports, ESPN, SPOTV ON and Supersport MaXimo 1 amongst others; not that I begrudge those Town fans in Eritrea, Guadeloupe, South Korea and Weymouth the sight of our wonderful team in search of FA Cup glory.  But at least there’s no hanging around waiting to set off the match as there’s not much time to do anything more than fall out of bed, have a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, prime the breadmaking machine and fill up the garden bird feeders before I’m smoothly and quietly driving away in my planet saving Citroen eC4 to collect Gary.  There don’t tend to be many flies about in Northern Europe in January but the second one in the ointment today is that there are no trains to Ipswich from the direction of Colchester, only replacement buses and whilst it is possible to travel on these free of charge because no one ever checks your ticket on a rail replacement bus, that would be as dishonest as charging for a rail fare and then providing a bus ride, and then where would we all be?

We park up and stroll across Gippeswyk Park under what approximates to clear, azure skies in Suffolk in winter.  The roads were busy, but the streets are not and in Constantine Road there is still the odd parked car.  We pass by the entrance to the fanzone and I ask Gary if he’d like me to take his photo with Bluey, Ipswich Town’s Suffolk Punch mascot.  He wouldn’t, but was going to ask me the same thing, and I am tempted because it would make a fine addition to my collection, which sees either me or my wife Paulene in the company of Ri-Ri the Nantes canary, Bouba the Monaco elephant and Merlux the Lorient hake, amongst others.  Instead, Gary buys me a programme (£3.00) by way of payment in lieu, for my electricity and chauffeur fees.  Turning away from the programme booth, Gary attempts to hand the programme to the man in the queue behind him, thinking it is me,  but quickly regains his bearings and we amble on towards the ‘the Arb’, after I have tucked the programme away in my coat pocket.

Bursting in the through the door with a raging thirst after our walk, we find ‘The Arb’ is surprisingly quiet, and we also find Mick sat at a table in the middle of the room before he lithely slips off his stool and heads to the bar to buy me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and Gary a pint of Lager 43. Beers in hands we head out into the cool of the beer garden where there are no other drinkers until a couple arrive about fifteen minutes later and sit a polite distance away.  I think Mick would have preferred to stay indoors, but I’m having none of it, sitting outside for pre-match  beers feels to me like the most natural thing in the world.  We talk of the operation Mick is to have on his foot, of police identity parades, the locations of the Mauldon’s and Nethergate breweries, the Golden Hind pub quiz team, today’s team selection, the work ethic and how lazy and unpleasant some people are, and the 1978 FA Cup final. Gary kindly buys me another pint of Mauldons’ Suffolk Pride, a Jamieson’s whisky for Mick and another pint of Lager 43 for himself.  I hand Gary and Mick their tickets which I have printed off because I thought it would be easier than the three of us having to pass my mobile phone between us and open each ticket up from the e-mail confirming their purchase.

It’s gone ten past twelve when we leave for Portman Road, but it’s a slightly disappointing walk to the ground because there isn’t the usual gathering excitement of an increasing and purposeful crowd like it must have been marching to the barricades of the Paris commune. There are however queues at the turnstiles in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, although as usual the further we walk, the smaller the queues become, as if most people, like myopic lemmings  just join the first queue they come to. Mick, Gary and I also voted ‘Remain’.

A visit to the toilet facilities to drain off excess Suffolk Pride is required before we take our seats, and from my position in front of the urinal I hear Murphy the stadium announcer reading out the teams and no doubt failing hopelessly to synchronise with the players’ names appearing on the electronic scoreboards.  It’s a pity to miss out on trying to behave like a French football fan by bawling out the players’ surnames, but Murphy would doubtless have ruined it with his lack of co-ordination, so it’s probably best for my mental health and future comfort that I am down here in the toilet.

Up in the stand, our seats are fairly central and at the front of the middle tier of what to people of our generation is still the Pioneer stand; they are in row B, but there is no row A, so our view is only obstructed by passing late comers, people with weak bladders and the interminably hungry who flit back and forth before us annoyingly on their way to and from the facilities under the stand.  With all the hand shaking malarkey out of the way the game begins; Ipswich getting first go with the ball and sending it in the direction of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. Ipswich are in their standard blue shirts and white shorts whilst Maidstone sport yellow shirts and black shorts, although apparently their shirts are actually ‘amber’, but they don’t have fossilised insects encased within them, Maidstone’s oldest player Gavin Hoyte being only 33 years old.

“We’re the something Army” ( I can’t make out the third word) sing the Maidstone supporters, who occupy the whole of the top tier of the Cobbold stand and cheer every throw-in that their team win and every tiny perceived mistake by an Ipswich player. They’re clearly not expecting any bigger victories than these and are getting their kicks where they can. Eventually, the home support in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand chips in with some random “Ole’s”. Portman Road is noisy this afternoon but it’s mostly Kentish noise.

Ipswich are dominating possession and with no more than two minutes played a Nathan Broadhead shot is blocked. It’s the fifth minute and Jeremy Sarmiento shoots on goal and hits a post. “ Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the North Stand raising the spectre of Boney M of Christmas past. A minute later Omari Hutchison runs in on goal from the right; he shoots and the ball is deflected onto a goal post before George Edmundson sends the rebound wide. It’s an exciting start to the match and in a parallel universe somewhere, perhaps one where Boris Johnson was never Prime Minister and beer is still 25p a pint,  Town are probably  a couple of goals up already.

“Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” sing the fans of the plucky underdogs, revealing that they are just as unpleasant and lacking in imagination and vocabulary as supporters of the ‘big’ clubs, even if what they sing has the ring of truth.  “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” they continue generously, taunting the pensioners who populate the Sir Bobby Robson stand but who tell people they sit in Churchman’s. Fifteen minutes have passed and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow before looking around me to check for signs of life amongst my fellow silent Town fans.  Sam Morsy shoots, the Maidstone goal keeper saves, Town have another corner and the process repeats.

Town continue to dominate completely, and Maidstone aren’t getting a kick as their coach driver apologises to manager George Elokobi for not having been able to manoeuvre his vehicle down the players tunnel.    The Maidstone fans repeat their kind offer to sing a song for us and then chant what sounds to me like “We’re the black pepper army”.  Omari Hutchison shoots and wins another corner before George Edmundson heads past a post.”

In the Cobbold Stand, the Kentish equivalents of Lennon and McCartney, and Rogers and Hammerstein have been thinking furiously, but can only come up with “Doo, Doo, Doo, Football in a library”. Mick asks me what they’re singing and having told him I add that I have e-mailed the club to suggest they paper the walls of the inside of the away  end with that wall paper that looks like the spines of books; I don’t know if they have  taken any notice because all they said in their reply is that they would pass it on to the relevant department – the wallpapering department presumably, who knew?

Jeremy Sarmiento shoots over the cross bar prompting rare chants of “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” from the home support and as the game reaches the point where only two thirds of it remains unknown the Maidstone number ten collapses to the ground, receives treatment and everyone else has an impromptu drinks party by the touchline.  The two-thirds milestone is also the prompt for the Maidstone fans to sing “Championship you’re ‘aving a laugh”, a disarmingly honest admission that if a team hasn’t scored against them after thirty minutes they can’t be much good.  It’s at times like this when one most regrets the overblown, puffed-up  marketing ruse of using the term ‘Championship’ as opposed to plain old ‘Second Division’ .  Singing “Second Division you’re ‘aving a laugh”,  doesn’t quite sound so damning.

On the touch line, Kieran Mckenna signals obscurely with his hands as if communicating to the players that the odds on a draw are shortening if they want to place a bet now.  Being as close as I’ve ever been to Keiran Mckenna feels a little odd having dreamt about him the other night; it’s a bit like when you’re a teenager and the shock of finding yourself sat on the bus next to a girl you really fancy.  Jeremy Sarmiento has another shot and Town win yet another corner; minutes pass and another corner follows a deflected Jack Taylor shot. From the corner Maidstone break, it’s the first time it’s happened, it’s almost the first time Maidstone have been close to having possession in the Ipswich half as the man with his team’s most exotic sounding first name and prosaic surname, Lamar Reynolds bears down on goal and then clips the ball over Christian Walton and into the Town goal net. The Maidstone supporters are understandably very excited, but not it seems as much as the collection of people in the peculiar car seats allocated to Maidstone which pass for a substitute’s bench nowadays.  They race onto the pitch to form a human mound with the team and most impressively substitute Chi Ezennolim gets booked by referee, the completely hairless Mr Anthony Taylor, even though he will not end up getting to play any other part in the game.  Somewhat bizarrely, Maidstone lead one-nil, but Ipswich will surely soon equalise and then win comfortably.

Two minutes of added on time are announced by Murphy as the Maidstone fans channel the clean-living optimism of Doris Day and sing  “ Que sera, sera, Whatever will be, will be, We ’re going to Wem-berley, Que Sera, Sera.”  With the half-time whistle it’s time to discharge more excess Suffolk Pride and as Mick queues for a vegan pie I return to our seats to enjoy the names on the list of one-hundred people, mostly children I imagine, who are attending Portman Road for the  first time today.  Perhaps I shouldn’t, but  I can’t help laughing at the names Ember, Maverick and Rogue, and pine for the days of Moon Unit and Dweezil;  it’s probably my age.

At twenty-six minutes to two, the match re-starts and Mick returns, pie-less, I guess they ran out of vegans.  As the Maidstone fans resume their chants of “Black pepper army”  Gary explains that they are actually singing “Black and Gold Army”, which makes me think I should perhaps get a hearing aid like his. Ten minutes of Ipswich domination pass and then Jeremy Sarmento cuts in from the left, shoots, and scores. I leap up and wave my arms about like a man with only a sketchy understanding of semaphore and receive a text message from a friend in Weymouth that reads “That’s more like it”. Town have equalised and will surely soon score a second, third and probably a fourth goal as the Earth returns to its normal orbit around the sun and the clocks stop going backwards.

A mass substitution follows shortly after the goal as Sone Aluko, Dominic Ball and Cameron Humphreys bow out in favour of the superior Conor Chaplin, Harry Clarke and Leif Davis.  “You’re not singing any more” gloat those Town fans who know the tune of Cwm Rhondda and can be bothered to sing at all. Not to be outdone,  Maidstone make substitutions of their own, but only two of them, and then chalk up another yellow card in the form of the ageing Gavin Hoyte.

As chants of “Championship, you’re ‘aving a laugh” resurface, Town fans retaliate with “Sunday League you’re ‘aving a laugh” and the wit and ready repartee of the football crowd reaches its peak for the afternoon.  Town still dominate of course, but just as it seems travellers might be able set up camp in the Town penalty area, or sheep might safely graze, Maidstone break away for the second time in the match and lightning strikes again as Sam Corne, who sounds like a character from rustic folklore, smacks the ball into the Ipswich goal net with aplomb, and Maidstone are leading for an improbable second time.  “Who are ya?” ask the Maidstone fans, temporarily losing their memories in the excitement of it all and capable of only following this up by stating the obvious with “ You’re not singing anymore”.

There are still twenty minutes left so there is no need for Ipswich fans to worry, but just as insurance Town replace Omari Hutchison with Wes Burns, and Jeremy Sarmiento with Gerard Buabo although a little alarmingly Wes Burns has had his hair cut.  Nevertheless, Town pretty much instantly win a corner as the afternoon’s attendance is announced as 27,763  of whom a stonking 4,472 are from Maidstone,  despite Maidstone’s largest home attendance this season being only 4.024. Not to be outdone, Maidstone again try to show that they can make double substitutions too and introduce Perri Iandolo for Sam Bone and for Lamar Reynolds a man who sounds like a block of Council-owned flats, Riley Court.

Town continue to keep possession of the ball except when Maidstone boot it away. George Edmundson appears to be fouled in the penalty area but is booked for just pretending by the overly suspicious and imaginative Mr Taylor.   Conor Chaplin has a shot saved and corner follows corner follows corner.  Harry Clarke has a shot saved, a Conor Chaplin header is saved, a Wes Burns header is saved and before we know it, time is being extended by eight minutes. In the netherworld of compensatory time a Jack Taylor shot is blocked, corner follows corner again and Nathan Broadhead shoots wide; a Jack Taylor header is saved, a Nathan Broad header is saved and then that’s it. Ipswich haven’t won at all and we’re out of the FA Cup despite a ‘straightforward’ comfortable home tie to a non-league team. 

I’m a little shocked, I thought I’d seen it all in fifty years of coming to Portman Road but there’s no denying I hadn’t seen this before and in truth I  didn’t really want to. I hope I dont see it again. As we leave the ground Gary says he expects we’ll wake up in a minute and it will all have been a bad dream.  I’m still waiting.

Ipswich Town 2 Sunderland 1

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

I don’t know much about Slumberland mattresses and it’s surprisingly difficult to find much out about them on the interweb, there isn’t even anything about them on the fount of all knowledge that is Wikipedia.  What I do know however, is that Slumberland sounds a lot like Sunderland,  the town (probably now a city) at the mouth of the River Wear whose football team won the FA Cup in 1937 and 1973, lost a Milk Cup final to Norwich City in 1985 and are forever sleeping giants, having seemingly worn themselves out by winning what people now call the Premier League, six times between 1892 and 1936.  Today, Ipswich Town play slumbering Sunderland in the Second Division and I will be at Portman Road to witness this fixture for the 19th time since 1976.

When I woke up this morning and drew back the curtains on another day, my wife suggested I close them again because outside was grey and miserable. I didn’t however, but instead put my mind to how I was going to fill the additional two and a half hours before kick-off this evening, the match having been chosen for broadcast by loathsome Sky TV with a ridiculous kick-off time of 5.30pm.  If the modern football-watching equivalent of the proletariat could be bothered to draw up a Charter for the running of football, it would surely demand that all games only kick-off at 3pm on Saturdays or between 7.30 and 8pm on weekdays. Come the revolution.

I spend a morning replacing an outside light, failing to find a bulb that fits an indoor light and filling-in a hole in my garden that looks like it was dug by a rat.  Fortunately, I am pretty sure a combination of some peppermint oil and the local cats has now sent the rat packing, or to an early grave.  After a lunch of baked Coley and chips and an espresso coffee I set off for the match.  Engineering works on the railway mean that trains have been replaced by buses today, and refusing to pay a train fare to travel by bus (why are they allowed to charge the same?) I take the wheel of my planet-saving Citroen e-C4 and agree to give Gary a lift too, in order to keep his petrol-burning, carbon monoxide emitting Suzuki Swift off the road.  Our journey is a smooth one, punctuated on arrival in the outskirts of Ipswich by a stop to lend two season tickets to Aimee, an attractive mother of two whose daughter is in a girl’s football team, which has won its way through to a national competition.  The promise is that the team will get to wave to the crowd from the pitch at half-time, but Aimee now tells me that because the game is on Sky TV this may not happen, which seems like a good reason to smash-up your satellite dish, or perhaps your neighbours’, and post it back to Rupert Murdoch with no postage.

Having parked up the trusty, clean-air loving Citroen, Gary and I wander across Gippeswyk Park towards Portman Road and ‘the Arb’ beyond, pausing only for Gary to kindly buy me a programme by way of ‘payment in kind’ for his lift.  Uniquely, the front cover of the programme looks like an advert for hair shampoo featuring Nathan Broadhead. At ‘the Arb’ I order a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself, whilst a loud man sat at a table with other drinkers complains at length that Gary has not closed the door, although oddly, at no time does he say “Please would you close the door”. Gary has a hearing aid,  doesn’t hear the man and didn’t realise the door hadn’t shut.

In the beer garden, we join Mick who is already half-way through a pint of Suffolk Pride. We talk of the African Cup of Nations, how Gary knows someone whose nephew plays for Tanzania (and Wealdstone), and how it is a busy time of year for undertakers. Mick gives me a belated Christmas present, an Ipswich Town hat bearing the logo of TXU Energy, the club sponsors during the glorious relegation season of 2001-2002.  It’s not even two o’clock and many drinkers are already leaving for Portman Road. We collectively scoff at such behaviour and Gary boldly buys another round of drinks, the same as before, but Mick has a Jameson’s whisky. We discuss how my pint of Suffolk Pride is a bit of a short measure, but like people not prepared to stand up to the way televised football invariably inconveniences the people who actually go to football matches, we decide to let it pass this time.

At around 5:15 we leave for Portman Road, we are the last football supporters to leave the pub and can’t stop being surprised at how the throng of people treading the well worn path is much reduced today.  Perhaps supporters have had enough having spent all afternoon in the pub, or maybe they are in the thrall of Sky TV and the leaping flames that will greet the players as they parade onto the pitch. We part ways near the statue of Sir Alf; at the back of his stand there are no queues and as I enter the meaning-laden turnstile 62 I ask the steward “Have you been waiting for me?”, I’m not sure why.

Up in the stand, Pat from Clacton, Fiona and ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood are all here, but the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is missing; I’m surprised (again).  I have missed the leaping flames that now seem to be de rigeur before televised games, but I’m in time for Murphy the stadium announcer’s reading out of the teams.  Wondrously, his performance is much better today and he gets through the first seven or eight names pretty much in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard, but he can’t help gabbling Conor Chaplin far too quickly and all is suddenly lost and my bawling of players names as if I’m French becomes a hopeless, pointless struggle like trying to look cool in a Norwich City shirt.

Before kick-off there is a minutes applause for all the Ipswich Town supporters and a former player who have died in the last year, because apparently this fixture is the club’s dedicated ‘Memorial Match Day’ for the season.  It’s an odd idea and I don’t like it very much; it strikes me as mawkish. Sadly, people die but life, and that includes football, is for the living. Also, if people didn’t die we would need much bigger football stadiums, but I suppose they could always watch on Sky TV.

At last, after a decent burst of The Beatles’ ‘Hey Jude’,  the game begins, and Sunderland get first go with the ball, aiming it more or less in the direction of the hospice on Anglesea Road.  Pleasingly, Sunderland are sporting their handsome signature kit of red and white striped shirts with black shorts, and look like Exeter City, which I‘m hoping is a portent for another six-nil home victory; we haven’t had one for a while now.  Town are also in their natural habitat of blue shirts and white shorts.  Portman Road is full of noise today and I suspect an afternoon in the pub is something to do with it.  “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” sing the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  Sunderland win the games’ first free-kick to groans from the home crowd and their number 21, Alex Pritchard, who is allegedly 3cm taller than Conor Chaplin, but doesn’t look it, has the first shot on goal; it goes over the cross-bar.  I’m finding it difficult to read the black squad numbers of the Sunderland players against the red and white stripes of their shirts.  Harry Clarke loses the ball by the corner flag and some Sunderland player or other advances towards the goal unopposed. “Firkin ‘ell” I mutter to myself under my breath so that Pat from Clacton won’t hear, but fortunately the ball is soon cleared. 

Only seven minutes have passed and the Sunderland fans sing “Doo Doo Doo, football in a library”.  A low Wes Burns cross skids across the face of the  goal but Kayden Jackson cannot quite get to it to apply the merest ⁹⁸touch needed to direct it into the goal.  Eleven minutes have gone and the Sunderland fans sing “Doo doo doo, Football in a library” and then “Shall we sing, shall we sing , shall we sing a song for you”.  Nobody responds, but I am tempted to ask if they know ‘I had too much to dream last night’ by the Electric Prunes, but I’m not sure that vocally they could re-create the reverb on the electric guitars which is an essential part of the record.   The seat on my left is vacant and so is the one next to that.

Darkness encloses the ground like a shroud.  Pat from Clacton asks the bloke behind her not to swear. “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” sing the Sunderland fans,  perhaps because it doesn’t  contain enough swear words.  “Football in a library, doo- doo-doo” continue the Sunderlandites, clearly now attempting a world record for the number of times they can diss another club’s support in the first half of a televised match.  It’s the nineteenth minute and a succession of short passes finally play Kayden Jackson into a position where he rolls the ball past a post.  The Sunderland number five Dan Ballard falls extravagantly under a challenge from Kayden Jackson.  Ballard is an outside toilet of a man, Jackson a waif by comparison. Referee Mr Allison awards a free-kick to Sunderland. “Weed” I bawl at Ballard, “Pathetic man”. He scuffs the ball into touch, no doubt unsettled by my calling him out.   Five minutes later and Harry Clarke is the first player to see Mr Allsion’s yellow card; the match is pretty good,  but home fans agree that the refereeing isn’t.  A minute passes and Vaclav Hladky makes a fine save at the expense of a corner to Sunderland and then they score as a large gap appears to one side of the goal and Jack Clark has too much to aim at to miss.  “Clarke, Clarke will tear you apart again” Sing the Sunderland fans to the dreary, similarly titled 1980 tune by the ironically named Joy Division.

The Sunderland supporters are very loud indeed, perhaps because shipyards of old were noisy places, although I don’t suppose the Datsun car factory and call centres compare.  Harry Clarke gets forward and a low hard cross earns a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow to a background of abject silence from all around me.  The corner comes to nought.  A third of the match has gone forever. “Football in a library, doo-doo-doo” sing the Sunderland fans now completely at ease with the complicated lyrics. Two minutes later and more Town passing involving Conor Chaplin peaks with a through ball for Kayden Jackson, which he sweeps past the Sunderland goalkeeper into the corner of the goal net and the score is one -all.  “I didn’t even expect that” says the bloke behind me as if at other times he always knows what is about to happen. “When the Blues go marching in” sings the Sir Bobby Robson stand at a funereal pace, perhaps because it’s the Memorial Match Day.

There are five minutes until half-time and more passes culminate in a Kayden Jackson shot wide of the goal.  “Football in  a library, doo-doo-doo” sing the Sunderland fans showing signs of addiction before the ball bounces about alarmingly in the Town penalty area and Murphy announces two minutes of additional time, which pass without incident. Half-time is spent at the front of the stand with Ray his grandson Harrison and son Michael. We agree it’s been a good half, but we appear to lack the confidence of previous games and Kayden Jackson would have done better in the days of two up front and needs Trevor Whymark to play off.

The football resumes at twenty-three minutes to seven and within a minute a Leif Davis shot forces a not very elegant save from the Sunderland keeper.   Sunderland win a free-kick from which they thoughtfully shoot directly over the bar and then Town work the ball from one end to the other with a succession of short passes. “Champagne football” says the bloke behind me, although really it’s Suffolk football.  George Edmundson puts his hand on the shoulder of Sunderland’s number seventeen who collapses in a heap and Mr Allison brandishes his yellow card, before celebrating the passing of an hour by doing the same at Wes Burns.  “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here” chant the Sunderland fans, but I’ve forgotten why.

“Handball” calls the home crowd as one at the north end of the ground, making that glorious unified sound of appeal, but of course Mr Allison’s ears are closed to it.   On sixty-five minutes Sunderland make a substitution with Adil Aouchiche replacing Abdoullah Ba, I recall seeing Aouchiche playing in French Ligue 1 for both St Etienne, where I thought he was quite good, and Lorient and can’t imagine why a player would leave such lovely places for Sunderland.  Within a minute Sunderland force a defensive howler as Town’s neat passing at the back goes awry and Aouchiche is presented with an open goal which thankfully he screws wide of the goal with a shot off the outside edge of his right foot. He follows this up by being nutmegged by George Edmundson .

It’s time for Town to make mass substitutions and Wes Burns, Kayden Jackson and new loan signing Lewis Travis whose name makes me think of Malcolm McDowell in ‘If’, depart to be replaced by Omari Hutchison, Dominic Ball and on-loan Jeremy Sarmiento from Ecuador via Brighton and Hove.  Town have started to dominate the game now and we even win a free-kick to ironic cheers from the crowd. “You go to a football match, you gotta expect to hear foul language.  It’s fucking ignorant, that’s what it is” blurts the bloke behind me philosophically.

There are less than twenty minutes to play; Town win a corner.  It’s too late to get ‘monkey’ out says Pat from Clacton referring to her lucky masturbating monkey charm from Cambodia.  “When does he he usually appear” I ask her. “Sixty-nine minutes” she tells me. “He’s obsessed” I tell her.  A low cross and a shot for Town follows as pressure builds on Sunderland.  Another corner follows for Town and a free- kick.  Leif Davis crosses the ball, Conor Chaplin finds space, runs towards more and heads the ball firmly into the Sunderland goal and Town lead two-one before an exultant home crowd.  After not scoring against QPR and Stoke some had doubts, but not anymore. “Ralph Woodhouse contact the nearest steward” announces Murphy over the PA system.  “Conor Chaplin Baby, Conor Chaplin O-o-oh” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of the Christmas number one record from 1981.  “About fucking time” says the bloke behind me.

Not long to go now. Murphy announces the crowd as 29,291 with 1,965 away supporters. “Thank you for your continued support” says Murphy, perhaps worried that we might all stop coming to games at a moment’s notice.  If I do, it’ll be his fault. “One Bobby Robson, there’s only one Bobby Robson” sing some home supporters confusingly, seemingly unaware Bobby died in 2009.  Town are still dominating and appear to almost score again, but instead it looks like Luke Woolfenden misses an open goal.  “We want a striker” chant the Sunderland fans, when from where I’m sitting a couple defenders and a midfielder wouldn’t go amiss either, although handily they already have a referee.

At last additional time turns up and after five minutes of it the game ends and Town win.  It’s been an excellent match with the added joy of coming back from a goal down and returning to second place in the league table having been temporarily usurped before kick-off.  With no trains running, a road closure on my usual route out of town and having to drop Gary off, it will be nine o’clock before I get home. I shall sleep well tonight with or without a Slumberland mattress.

Ipswich Town 2 Coventry City 1

/ 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.