Ipswich Town 3 Bristol Rovers 0

January 15, 2025January 15, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 6 Sheffield Wednesday 0

March 17, 2024March 23, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Although I began watching football in 1971, it took until September 1984 for me to first see Sheffield Wednesday play Ipswich Town. This was largely because, despite an illustrious past back in the days of Arthur Balfour and then Ramsay McDonald, Sheffield Wednesday were until 1984 bobbing about in the second division and then even visiting the likes of Layer Road, Colchester rather than Portman Road. Indeed, I had first seen Wednesday five years before when they played out a thrilling goalless draw at Layer Road in what was only my third ever visit to the then home of our pauper cousins from over the border in Essex. That first encounter with Ipswich ended in a draw also, but four goals were shared that late summer or early autumn day, I honestly don’t remember which it was. Since then, I have seen Town play Sheffield Wednesday a further twenty-four times and of those games Ipswich have won a paltry six, with Sheffield winning an indecent eleven, including a five-nil embarrassment at Hillsborough in April 1994 and a relegation confirming one-nil defeat in May of 1986. So, with this record in mind I feel I have good reason to bear Sheffield Wednesday a degree of ill-will, and on the morning of our latest encounter I hope for retribution, vengeance and other things Jesus wouldn’t have approved of.

It’s been a beautiful, bright spring morning; I had awoken to sunlight streaming into the bedroom and birds chirruping from the branches of the tree outside my window, in spite of the world of pain beyond. After a hearty breakfast and a morning of garden tidying and playing at being Andy Warhol with photos of Ray Crawford and Ted Phillips, I leave my wife watching people in lycra cycling round Italy, to catch the train to Ipswich. The train arrives on time, but leaves late. I sit opposite an elderly Town fan who I recognise from previous journeys to the match. He tells me how watching football has been “…a way of life” for him, and how he would travel on the train to watch Sudbury Town when he was at Earls Colne Grammar school. He asks me if I remember certain players like he does, they all have names like Len and Reg, Syd and Larry. He’s seen them all he tells me, but the best player he thinks he ever saw was Ipswich’s Billy Baxter. I ask him how old he is; he’s eighty-seven, and every other Saturday his daughter buys him a match ticket and a train ticket and puts him on the train to Ipswich. I hope I’m still doing this when I’m eighty-seven, I think to myself.

Approaching the next stop, I remember I had arranged to meet Gary on the train, but I’ve been so busy talking about football in the 1950’s I have forgotten to text him to tell him which carriage I’m in. Fortuitously, my carriage pulls up against the platform just where a slightly perplexed looking Gary is standing. I leave my seat and walk over to the door as it opens so Gary can see me. Unfortunately, I have lost my seat by the man from the 1950’s, but I’ll look out for him next time. Arriving in Ipswich, Gary and I head for ‘the Arb’ pausing only so that I can buy an ice cream in Portman Road, but as usual I come away with just a programme (£3.50). At the bottom of Lady Lane an odd-looking man on an electric scooter covered in stickers weaves his way past us with a mobile phone pressed up against his ear. Gary and I look at one another and burst out laughing. I tell him I often see strange things in this part of town, but then, Lady Lane was the site of a medieval Catholic shrine.

Once at ‘the Arb’ I buy Gary a pint of Lager 43 and myself a pint of Maldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8 something with Camra discount) before we repair to the beer garden where all the seats at tables are taken and we have to sit on a park bench next to the back gate. We talk of people we worked with in the 1990’s, how Gary’s season ticket is next to someone who is a close relative of a friend of my sister, and discover that Gary has forgotten that we have tickets to see Stewart Lee at Chelmsford Civic Theatre next Friday. Gary buys another pint of Lager 43, and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me and has spotted a free table which we then occupy. Soon we are the only people left in the beer garden and it’s not even twenty to three; belatedly we join the herd.

Having bid Gary farewell within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, it’s not long before I’m queuing at turnstile 62 and then shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat, next but one to the man rom Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood. As usual, my arrival has pretty-much coincided with the appearance of the teams and I joke with the man from Stowmarket that this is because I have in fact just left the dressing room having given the team talk. On the pitch one of today’s mascots is wearing a Town shirt and pink party dress, I hope the kit designers at Umbro are taking notes. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams, and as if in a French football crowd ever-present Phil and I shout out the surnames. As usual, the first few names appear on the scoreboard and Murphy is in time with them, but it doesn’t usually continue like that . The names keep appearing and Murphy keeps on reading and the names keep appearing and Murphy keeps on reading and I’m still waiting for the two to fall out of sync, but we’ve reached the substitutes and they haven’t. Ever-present Phil turns around wide-eyed and incredulous, we can’t believe what we’ve witnessed, Murphy has only gone and done it! He’s read out the team in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard. “Crikey” I think to myself “We must be going to win by seven or eight today”.

The game begins, Sheffield Wednesday getting first go with the ball and pointing it mostly in the general direction of the Co-op on Norwich Road, Castle Hill and Whitton Sports Centre. Sheffield wear a smart but not eye-catching kit of white shirts and black shorts, like Germany or Port Vale. As ever, Town are in their signature blue and white. “Hi-Ho, Sheffield Wednesday” sing the visiting fans to the tune of Jeff Beck’s ‘Hi-Ho Silver Lining’, although Wikipedia tells us that the song was first released by a band called The Attack a few days before Beck’s version in March 1967. Weirdly, the Wednesday fans only sing those four words, as if they couldn’t think up any other lyrics, but liked the tune anyway. The net effect is like a musical version of driving into a cul de sac, but there’s no harm in it and they soon move on to April of 1967 with a fuller rendition of Frankie Valli’s ‘You’re just to good to be true’ . Their efforts deservedly earn Wednesday a corner after just four minutes, which is a full six minutes before Ipswich ‘s first corner and my first chance to bellow “Come On You Blues”, but to no avail . “Not comfortable at the back” says the bloke behind me of Sheffield Wednesday. “Don’t like pressure do they?” adds his sidekick.

Fourteen minutes pass. “Football in a library, do-do-do”. So far, so ordinary, then Wes Burns crosses the ball from the right. The ball is played to Omari Hutchinson, he turns and in a perfect impersonation of Conor Chaplin accurately places a not unnecessarily hard shot inside a post and into the net. Town lead one-nil. “Aye Aye Ippy Ippy Town, Singing Aye Aye Ippy Ippy Town” I sing, hoping to encourage a new craze of referring to Ipswich as “Ippy” because it sounds appropriately hip and happening.

Eighteen minutes gone and Town win another corner and I bawl again, and then a minute later, mysteriously six people in black anoraks arrive and sit down just over the gangway from us. “Men in black” says the bloke behind me. “Is there a funeral?” I ask Fiona. Nobody knows, but with the half, half over Axel Tuanzebe earns another Town corner. “Come On You Blues” chant our tiny band of Ultras. But it’s soon Vaclav Hladky who is being applauded as he has to make a diving save and Sheffield have a corner of their own before Town win another and as Sheffield threaten to breakaway, Omari Hutchinson is booked by the uncharacteristically tall referee Mr Leigh Doughty for nothing more than a playful shove.

There are ten minutes until half-time and disaster strikes as despite having won yet another corner for Town, Wes Burns is down on the pitch clutching his leg and has to go off; the only good thing being that he only had a short walk to the players’ tunnel, although I don’t suppose players generally think to themselves “I don’t mind getting injured as long as I don’t have to walk far back to the players’ tunnel”.

When the corner is eventually taken, Keiffer Moore heads the ball against the cross bar, it drops down, isn’t cleared and Cameron Burgess wellies it into the net from inside the six-yard box. Town lead 2-0 and Cameron’s goal possesses the blunt, messy ugliness that has us reminiscing about the days of Mick McCarthy. Kayden Jackson replaces Wes Burns and Portman Road is very nearly reverberating to the sound of chants of “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army”. For pretty much the first time in the game the Sheffield fans have fallen silent. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, The finest football team the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand digging into their stash of Irish folk songs.

Another Town corner comes and goes before Wednesday’s number thirty-six, Ian Poveda runs worryingly at the Town defence. “Don’t stand off ‘im Wolfie” calls the bloke behind me not expecting his advice to be taken. “As soon as he lets him get in the box he’s fucked” says his sidekick. But happily disaster is averted, nothing unfortunate happens to Wolfie and with three minutes of injury time announced Kayden Jackson sprints down the right, crosses low towards the goal and Nathan Broadhead subtly clips the ball into the goal from close range to give Town a 3-0 lead. It’s the best goal so far and makes half-time a time to kick back, relax and hope for another three goals in the second half, which is what I tell Dave the steward and Ray.

No sooner have I eaten a Nature Valley Oats and Honey Crunchy bar than the second half is upon us and Sheffield have substituted their star player, Barry Bannan, which is a shame because players called Barry are a rarity. Omari Hutchinson quickly shoots over the cross-bar before there is a minute’s applause for another recently deceased Town fan, someone myself, Fiona, Pat from Clacton and ever-present Phil all remember from our days twenty-odd years ago of travelling to away matches with the Clacton branch of the supporters’ club. By beautiful coincidence and synchronisation worthy of stadium announcer Murphy, on the stroke of the minute ending, Town score a fourth goal, Omari ‘Mbappe’ Hutchinson despatching a decisive shot after an equally decisive run and pass from Nathan Broadhead. The goal provokes a dash for the exits from an indecently large number of Sheffield Wednesday supporters who have either just remembered they have urgent appointments elsewhere or who feel unable to support their team when the going gets this tough.

Happily, I have never seen Town surrender a four goal lead and so I am now confident of victory. Massimo Luongo is as confident as me it seems and shoot from almost the half way line to earn yet another corner. “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League We Go! “ Sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand triumphantly and a substituted Sheffield Wednesday player walks grimly, head down, along the touchline to the tunnel, in a long black hooded coat, looking a bit like he’s lost his scythe.

The pre-match blue skies have now gone to be replaced by a glorious grey expanse , like one massive dull cloud that surrounds the stadium making it feel like a shining, green, floodlit island within a becalmed sea of gloom. I can’t imagine how the Sheffield supporters are feeling. Keiffer Moore shoots over and Town win another corner as the first hour of the game recedes into recent history and Pat tells us that she’s off to Great Yarmouth next week to play whist. All of a sudden, Sheffield unexpectedly break away and Ike Ugbo is bearing down on goal, but as he shoots Cameron Burgess whisks the ball away for a corner “He came from nowhere” says the bloke beside me, exaggerating very little.

“ We love you Wednesday, we do” sing the Wednesdayites admirably, before reprising “You’re just too good to be true” and then going on the offensive with the oddly familiar chant of “ Your support is fucking shit”, which despite occasional outbursts of passion is a mostly a fair point, well made. If Ipswich has a distinct ‘fan culture’ it is one of stoic reticence. “Four-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Wednesdayites providing the evidence to back up their earlier assertions.

But oddly, the game has gone a bit flat. “Come On Town” calls the bloke behind me echoing my inner dialogue and right on cue Kieran Mckenna, like someone brandishing a carton of Shake n’Vac, makes the substitutions needed to put the freshness back. Jeremy Sarmiento and Ali Al-Hamadi replace Nathan Broadhead and Keiffer Moore, and Murphy tells us that collectively we are 29,325 with 1,945 from Sheffield. “Thank you for your continued support” he adds, like a man fully capable of reading out the team names as they appear on the scoreboard.

Sixteen minutes of the future still to look forward to and Al-Hamadi runs and shoots, but embarrassingly wide. To make Ali feel better about himself, Kayden Jackson then fluffs a volley with equal aplomb. “Football in a library, do-do-do” chant the Wednesdayites again, reliving one of their early triumphs of the first half before revisiting the well-worn path of our support being faecal and the familiar and satisfying rhyming couplet of “No noise from the Tractor Boys”. The Wednesday fans are sounding increasingly angry at the Town fans for being so quiet, as if it is almost an affront to them, which it probably is. I can imagine them sitting in the Cobbold Stand saying “These Ipswich fans, 4-0 up, they don’t know they’re born. Back in my day we’d be thirty-four nil down at half time, with ten players sent off, and we’d have all had our heads cut off by over zealous stewards and we’d still be singing.”

But now the final ten minutes are here, the time when in popular fan culture Ipswich are lucky because they score goals and win the game. Today of course we’re all ready 4-0 up so it’s just for old times sake that Omari Hutchinson runs, Jeremy Sarmento shoots and Ali Al-Hamadi taps in the rebound after the Wednesday goal keeper only parries Sarmiento’s shot. It’s 5-0 to Ipswich and more Wednesday fans remember urgent appointments. “We want six” I chant. “Stand up if you’re five-nil up” chant lots of Town fans and we have to stand up or else we can’t see anything. Why can’t we just do something like “Go Weeee” if we’re five-nil up, why is it always the standing up?

Six minutes left and we haven’t scored enough goals in the final ten minutes yet, so the remainder of the midfield is replaced. “You’re fucking shit, you’re fucking shit, you’re fucking shit” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand uncharitably to the visitors, but no doubt finally confident that with less than five minutes to go Town shouldn’t lose now, before optimistically asking “ Can we play you every week?”. The final minute arrives and we still need another goal to fully avenge that 5-0 defeat in 1994. Omari Hutchinson runs, he shoots or may be crosses the ball and Al-Hamadi taps in again, and Town will win six nil for the third time in twelve months. “We want seven” I chant greedily, but three minutes of added on time evaporates and I have to make do with six.

With the final whistle, Pat and Fiona are quickly away into the early evening. I linger to applaud the team and Kieran McKenna and reflect on a day of perfect timings. I shall be cracking open the Cremant tonight.

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol City 2

March 7, 2024July 9, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

One of my favourite books in my embarrassingly large library of books about football is the Observer’s Book of Association Football, a handy pocket-sized publication which is invaluable whenever I want to pretend it is still the early 1970’s. The page on Bristol City begins with the sentence “Nothing they have achieved since can compare with Bristol City’s performances before the First World War”. Unfortunately, for the club from what before 1^st April 1974 was the biggest city in Gloucestershire, despite the Observer’s book of Association Football now being over fifty years old this sentence still holds true, and Bristol City have an even emptier trophy cabinet than Norwich City. Tonight, Ipswich Town play Bristol City at Portman Road, and after five consecutive victories for the Town I have been increasingly looking forward to the match, safe in the knowledge that all Bristol City’s best players must by now be at least one hundred and thirty years old. Oddly enough, had he not died in 1971, possibly at about the time when I was first enjoying the Observer’s book of Association Football, today would have been the eve of my grandfather’s one-hundred and thirty-fourth birthday, although as far as I am aware he was only ever associated with Shotley Swifts.

A week-night football match as ever makes the working day a little more bearable, and despite today otherwise being depressingly dreary and wet, my lunchtime was unexpectedly and inexplicably brightened by the discovery of the Bristol City team bus in the miserable, puddle-bound temporary car park on West End Road. I do like a team bus. I escape work at a bit after half past four and head for the club shop to buy a programme (£3.50), noticing on my way a posse of what look like nightclub bouncers at the back of the Sir Bobby Robson stand who wear coats bearing the name Achilles Security. It’s an odd choice of name for a security firm I think to myself, and one which doesn’t inspire confidence, suggesting as it does that despite being mostly strong, ultimately they also have a fatal weakness.

Worrying about how much Ipswich’s purveyors of security services know about classical mythology I leave beautiful down-town Ipswich in order to spend a bit more than an hour drinking breakfast tea and discussing current affairs with Mick, who is sadly unable to get to the match tonight because he is convalescing after an operation on his right foot, although not on his heel. Mick hopes to be fit enough to re-enter the fray of spectating from the West Stand in early April. From the cheery parlour of Mick’s Edwardian, suburban home I proceed to ‘the Arb’ to practice the all-important pre-match ritual of drinking, albeit on my own, sad and friendless as I now am. Shockingly, there is no Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride on the beer menu tonight, so it is a pint of Lacon’s Fireside (£3.96 with Camra discount) that I clutch in my cold right hand as I head for the beer garden, where I sit alone and read my programme whilst waiting for a dish of “Very French” thick-cut chips (£8.00), which come doused with bacon, brie and onion marmalade as if I and they were in Le Chambon-Feugerolles or Fontevrault-l’Abbaye. Having eaten my chips and sunk the Fireside, I again make for the bar for a pint of Moongazer Harewood porter (£3.96 with Camra discount). Returning to the beer garden I discover that the table where I had been sitting has been taken over by two women and three men who engage in witty conversation about nothing in particular and what they’ve watched on the telly. None of them seem to have watched S4C’s Sgorio, so I lose interest and return to my programme and the haven of my private thoughts.

I leave for Portman Road at about twenty to eight , politely returning my glass to the bar as I depart. It’s a cool and damp evening and at the bottom of Lady Lane a young woman stands on a tree stump like an animated statue, gazing out across the adjacent car park looking for someone who she is speaking to on her mobile phone. Hoping this is a new art installation, I break my stride for a second, but then walk on, realising I am more drawn by the lights of Portman Road than the promise of the Avant-garde. Portman Road is busy with queues for the turnstiles. Two policemen gaze down at their mobile phones, probably watching the girl on the tree stump on tik-tok when they should be watching for football hooligans and people needing to know the time. I join the queue at turnstile 62; next to me in the queue for turnstile 61 is a man I know called Kevin, who asks “Why turnstile 62?”, and then tells me he uses turnstile 61 because it was the year in which he was born.

The queue at turnstile 62 moves quickly, although not as quickly as that at turnstile 61, but before I know it I’ve drained my bladder , waved to a woman I know but whose name I can’t remember and am hearing Pat from Clacton say “Here he is” as I shuffle to my seat next to Fiona, next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game. With the game on Sky TV tonight we are treated to erupting flames and momentarily warmed faces as the teams and their acolytes stream onto the pitch. I half expect to detect the smell of singed hair and melted polyester but fortunately never do. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the teams and as ever almost gets half way through the team before he gets out of sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard. I shout the surnames out as they appear on the screen nevertheless, pretending to be French. If there was a lycee or Conservatoire for stadium announcers Murphy would be in the remedial class.

At last the game begins, Town having first go with the ball and mostly directing it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow fanatical ultras in our cheap, mass produced blue and white knitwear. Town are of course in blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Bristol City are also wearing their traditional signature kit of red shirts and white shorts, although their shirts are adorned with white stripes, which are too thick to be pinstripes and too thin to be real stripes. With their goalkeeper in all black with multi-coloured day-glo squiggles, there is vague 1990’s vibe to their couture.

The game seems slow to start and I miss nothing when Fiona hands me a birthday card to sign for Adam in the row in front, who turned eighteen earlier in the week. “Many Happy Returns to Portman Road” I write, confusingly. Town win an early free-kick, but it is poor and easily forgotten. Nine minutes elapse and Bristol look like they have the games first corner, provoking a single chant of “Come On You Reds” from the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand , but it’s not a corner and they’ve wasted their breath on a mere throw- in. But Portman Road is cacophonous as Blue Action in the Cobbold Stand and two sections of the Sir bobby Robson Stand all seem to be singing different songs. But all the same, it sounds better than the usual “When the Town go Marching In” dirge.

Seventeen minutes have gone forever, and all Town have done so far is have a hopeless free-kick, which I haven’t forgotten after all. From the stands, the songs sound sort of slurred as if everyone’s been in the pub all afternoon, perhaps they have. Five minutes later, Towns first shot on goal sees Sam Morsy put Keiffer Moore through, but the ball dribbles weakly to the goalkeeper. “Carrow Road is falling down” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, which in terms of wit and cutting humour is on a par with “Jingle Bells, Delia smells, The canary laid an egg”, which I actually prefer.

It’s the twenty-eighth minute and Bristol City win a corner, hastily pursued by another, and the Bristolians chant “Come On You Reds” just once, as if it’s rationed. “We’ve got super Keiran Mckenna, He knows exactly what we need” sing both ends of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, but not at the same time so it sounds like they’re singing rounds, which in fact would be really good if they could pull it off. Drizzle is falling, appearing through the beams of the floodlights like a fine cascade over the roof of the stand. Occasionally I feel a drop on my face and hands. “You’re quiet tonight” says Pat from Clacton, and she’s right. “There’s not much to make a noise about” I tell her to my shame, believing that that’s exactly when crowds should make most noise. On cue, Town win a corner and I’m able to bellow “Come On You Blues” repeatedly from the time Leif Davis begins to walk to the corner flag until his kick falls disappointingly short of the near post and is easily cleared.

There are eight minutes left of the first half. “What a save!” exclaims the bloke beside me, and a second later so does Adam in the row in front of me, meanwhile Vaclav Hladky has just caught a diving header. Just four minutes until half-time now and there is a prostrate Bristol player thumping his hand on the lush Portman Road turf, using what has become international sign language for “Pay me some attention, I’m hurt, but I’m only putting it on really”. I tell Fiona how last night I saw a David Attenborough programme about animals and sound, and how Kangaroo Rats will thump their feet on the ground to ward off snakes. Fiona hopes there aren’t any snakes on the Portman Road pitch.

The game resumes and from the far end of the ground comes an Oasis song which I can’t recall the title of, and then a chorus of “Lala, lala, lala, lalalala, la, Keiffer Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Moore” to the tune of “Baby give it up”, a song in which in the original lyrics the singer seems to be pestering a pretty girl for sex. It was a UK number one for KC and the Sunshine Band in 1983. Just when it seems the half will end, Murphy announces that there will be at least another four minutes, close to the end of which Bristol win another corner after Town carelessly give the ball away and once more there is a solitary chant of “Come on your Reds” from up in the Cobbold Stand .

The break in play is a relief, after one of the less enjoyable halves of the last two seasons. Ray and I analyse the reasons for this and decide upon Bristol’s constant harassment of Town players and a weak referee, who doesn’t know a foul when he sees one. We’re not unduly bothered though as Ipswich pretty much always seem to win in the end, whatever happens. As we chat, two boxers ponce about on the pitch and one of them reveals that he is wearing a Norwich City shirt, which is what can happen if you get punched in the head a lot. Quite a few people are hurling vitriolic abuse at the poor man, seemingly having missed the point that they’re part a pantomime for grown-ups.

Despite having welcomed half-time, I’m now pleased to have the football back, although things don’t improve much, with repetitive chants of “Red Army, Red Army” from the Stalinist Bristolians and I decide that Mr Webb is spoiling the game by allowing their teams gulag-style rough house tactics. Then, with nine minutes of the half gone things get even worse and Bristol score, as their number eleven Anis Menmeti is allowed to run at the goal until he’s close enough to easily shoot past an indecently exposed Vaclav Hladky. Worse almost follows five minutes later as Bristol’s Sam Bell strikes the Town cross bar and some other bloke in a red shirt misses an easy looking header as he follows up. Town’s response is quick and decisive with the biggest mass substitution ever seen at Portman Road as Jack Taylor, Wes Burns, Ali Al-Hamadi and Jeremy Sarmiento usurp Massimo Luongo, Omari Hutchinson, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Keiffer Moore and Marcus Harness. Bristol make a substitution too but nobody notices before Leif Davis shoots and Ali Al-Hamidi flicks the ball over the goal, line possibly with a deft touch, or possibly because he simply couldn’t get out of the way quickly enough. Town are level.

Bristol resort to even more blatant fouling as Wes Burns is steamrollered, although Mr Webb refuses to reach for his yellow card and I am reminded of the previous two season’s games against Cheltenham Town, who like Bristol City are from Gloucestershire, wear red and white and are also known as the Robins; Bristol City it seems are just a slightly upmarket version. “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand summoning the combined powers of Harry Belafonte and Boney M, which earns Town a corner before Murphy announces tonights’ attendance of 28,001 including a fairly meagre 410 Bristolians.

Things have taken a turn for the better with the the arrival of Wes Burns and Ali Al Hamadi, who are running at the Bristol defence. But just as I start thinking all is right with the world again Anis Menmeti hits the Town cross bar and only moments after Harry Clarke replaces Axel Tuanzebe, Leif Davis misjudges a punt forward allowing it to bounce up for Eric Sykes to stretch and hook over to Russ Conway who appears from the subs bench to loop a header into the top corner of the Town goal. Only thirteen minutes of normal time to go and we’re losing again.

With ten minutes of normal time left however, and following a foul on Al-Hamadi, which must have been a really bad one because Mr Webb books the perpetrator, Leif Davis crosses the free-kick to the near post and Conor Chaplin heads a second equaliser. The roar from the crowd is the sort to lift roofs and worry any passing Tyrannosaurus. Pat from Clacton begins to look forward again to her pre-bedtime snack of Marks & Spencer cheesey Combos and then Town have a penalty as Wes Burns is fouled by someone called Pring. After much debate, standing about on the penalty spot, and a booking for the Bristol goalkeeper, Ali Al-Hamadi steps up to take a very poor penalty, which the miscreant goalkeeper undeservedly saves. There’s no time to be disappointed or down-hearted however, and, because we are watching Ipswich Town, it isn’t really a surprise when three minutes later the ball goes forward, is nodded on and Leif Davis runs onto it, dodges a burly Bristolian and shoots past the Bristol goalkeeper; there’s another Bristolian on the goal line to get the final touch, although he needn’t have bothered, it was going in anyway. At last, what we had all expected, Ipswich are winning and I’ve not known celebrations like it at Portman Road since the play-off semi-final against Bolton Wanderers twenty-four years ago.

Added on time sees Town win two more corners, narrowly lose a game of bagatelle in the Bristol penalty area, have Jack Taylor hit a post with a shot, and have shots from Sarmiento, Chaplin, Burns and Al-Hamadi all blocked or saved as Town pack a game’s worth of attacking intent into just eight minutes.

The final whistle brings relief and glory and a realisation that this has been one of the most extraordinary games I’ve ever seen. Bristol City might have run Town close for eighty-four minutes tonight, but happily there’s still no reason for anyone to re-write their page in the Observers book of Association Football just yet.

Ipswich Town 4 Rotherham United 3

February 22, 2024February 23, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

In the interests of helping to save the planet by reducing the number of journeys I make, all be they mostly by electric train or electric car, I have once again synchronised my one day a week in the office with a mid-week football fixture at Portman Road, this time against bottom of the league Rotherham United. Eight hours of toil and sweat and sometimes blood and tears is more than enough for anyone I reckon, and so at about ten past four I down tools, pack up my bag and head off into town to enjoy dusk and the gradual, gentle illumination of Ipswich’s ancient streets. It feels almost like it did back when I was still at school, and I’d have a free lesson at the end of the day so I’d nip off and with time to kill before catching the bus home I’d may be trawl the likes of Parrot Records, or Discus on St Helen’s Street or the Record Shop opposite the Old Cattle Market bus station. By way of a hollow tribute to my past I visit the HMV store and see if they have anything by Greek prog rockers Aphrodite’s Child, they haven’t. But as Laurence told us in Abigail’s Party, “We don’t want to listen to that fat Greek caterwauling all night.”

Often recently, when I have walked through Ipswich of an evening it has felt a little down at heel, but not this evening, perhaps the soft lights and the shadows are hiding things, but there are people about, teenagers queue outside the Corn Exchange for an evening of Drum & Bass and the soul of the town is shining through with the streetlights and glowing shop signs. The recently restored pargetting of Sparrowe’s (aka The Ancient House) looks magnificent as does Cornhill, but I live in hope of one day meeting someone else who appreciates the 1950’s splendour of the old Co-op lighting department, the colourful, blocky repetition of the frontage of what once was Woolworth’s, and the little glimpse of 1960’s Brutalism left behind by the Carr Street precinct; when I was eight or nine these buildings were new and exciting, and I think they still are.

Time moves on and as six o’clock draws near I head for ‘the Arb’. An empty tin can rattles down Black Horse Lane, blown by the breeze. A woman and I catch each other’s eye and smile as crossing the road in opposite directions we both look the same way at the same time to check we’re not about to be run over. In the Arb I have to wait for my pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra discount) as the barrel has to be changed, and I use the time selecting from the menu a tea time bowl of ‘Very French’ chunky chips (£8), which come with bacon, brie and onion marmalade. Eventually, pint in hand, I repair to the beer garden to wait for my chips and delve into the match day programme (£3.50) which I purchased earlier in the club shop, before strolling around town. Keiffer Moore adorns the front cover, caught in a pose with a ball on his head, which resembles the AFC Bournemouth club badge. Inside, there is an interview with Keiffer, which at five pages in length and with small print seems like a start has been made on his biography.

My ‘Very French’ chunky chips arrive soon and are very tasty indeed, even if I am struck by the thought that if Mick or my wife were here with me, I would feel guilty at how much fat I am consuming, and if I wasn’t feeling guilty my wife would surely do her best to ensure I did. I pass my time between eating and taking sips of beer by involuntarily hearing the conversation of the three retired men sat two tables away. The conversation, if it isn’t just a monologue, is dominated by one man who talks about a gay friend whom he describes more than once as a ‘Champagne Socialist’, it’s a silly, annoying phrase with its odd implication that if you’re a Socialist you are not allowed to enjoy Champagne. Typically, people who use the phrase fail to understand that the whole point of Socialism is Champagne for all. When I finish my pint of Suffolk Pride I resist the temptation to share a bottle of Champagne with the blokes on the next table and raise a toast to Socialism, and instead buy another pint of beer, like the prole that I am. With no Mick or Gary to engage in conversation this evening, I leave unusually early for Portman Road.

After negotiating a delightfully queue-less turnstile 62, I find myself amongst Fiona, Pat from Clacton, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the teams are even walking onto the pitch behind the diminutive referee, Mr Keith Stroud, who I am shocked to see hold the match ball up to the sky before kissing it. Stroud has apparently refereed “Premier League” (First Division) games and I can only think that he learned or dreamt up such poncey, pseudo-religious behaviour there. If that’s what the First Division is like nowadays, I think I’d rather stay in the second. To add to the confusion, the man from Stowmarket isn’t wearing his woolly hat tonight, I tell him I think the World must have started spinning in the other direction. Very soon, Murphy the stadium announcer is reading out the team names seemingly oblivious of them appearing on the scoreboard. I’ve had it with Murphy, and tonight I ignore him completely and bellow the player’s surnames only as they appear on the screen. “That will teach the ugly little twerp” I think to myself in a voice like that of Harold Steptoe, although a French accent would have been more appropriate. “You’re on form tonight” says Fiona, apparently impressed by my bellowing.

The game begins, Town getting first go with the ball and generally sending it in the direction of the goal in front of me and the other aging Ultras. Town, as ever, are in blue and white whilst Rotherham United, from a town in what was once known as the People’s Republic of South Yorkshire, are sartorially doing a passable impression of Arsenal or Stade de Reims, the club from the city which is considered the gateway to the historic Champagne region of France. Socialism and Champagne together at last.

When asked at work today what I thought the score would be tonight, I predicted three or four -nil to Town, perhaps more. After 83 seconds Town are losing as an awkward looking number 9 called Tom Eaves easily bustles Luke Woolfenden aside and taps the ball past Vaclav Hladky. Fiona and I look at one another as if to say “what happened there?” and agree that we weren’t really ready . But we don’t worry too much about it and soon Keiffer Moore is heading high over the Rotherham cross-bar and then just a bit past a post. “We often don’t seem to start well” says Fiona. “But we are the best in the division for gaining points from losing positions” I tell her, sounding like a boring pundit or football obsessive, “We have to be”.

It only takes a little more than seven minutes for Mr Stroud to show us, or more precisely Rotherham’s Hakeem Odoffin, his yellow card, but it’s Odoffin’s own fault for fouling Jeremy Sarmiento. Two minutes later and Town equalise as Sam Morsy runs into a bit of space, turns and crosses the ball back in front of the goal so that an unmarked Wes Burns can stoop to conquer and head the ball into the net. People thank the deity of their choice, I choose Wes Burns. Moments later Wes is at it again, but shoots past the far post, although undeterred the Sir Bobby Robson standers are celebrating Christmas all over again with a rendition of “Hark now hear the Ipswich Sing, the Norwich ran away”, and then they sing it again. A minute later, Keiffer Moore is unwrapping his present from Wes Burns in the form of a side-footed shot from a low cross after Wes has scampered down the wing to chase a Harry Clarke through ball. It’s a beautiful goal and I can feel myself smiling uncontrollably; this is what I had expected this evening and it’s nice for those expectations to be fulfilled.

It can only be a matter of time, and not much of it before we score again and then again. But after seven minutes we’re still waiting and Keiffer Moore is rubbing his knee and receiving treatment and it feels like we’ve lost our way a little. To compound matters Rotherham won’t stop winning corners, although they don’t do much with them, but I’m not getting to bawl ”Come On You Blues” at all. “We don’t need corners” says Fiona, perhaps trying to reassure me.

Town flounder for another nine minutes and then all of a sudden click into gear again as Wes Burns bears down on goal and has his shot saved, Leif Davis has his follow-up shot saved and then Mr Burns gets to the ball ahead of two Rotherham defenders and the goalkeeper to roll it into the goal and put Town 3-1 up. “Excellent” I say in the style of Wes’s evil cartoon namesake. This is more like what I had predicted, and surely Town will now go on to win handsomely.

Town sadly never get the chance to gain momentum from the goal as moments after the game re-starts Rotherham’s Femi Seriki dives headlong into the advert hoardings and after a long delay has to be driven away on the back of the club golf buggy/ambulance, which we have now had the pleasure of seeing two matches running. Seriki is replaced by Ollie Rathbone and I start to think of Sherlock Holmes. The remaining minutes of normal time in the first half have just two highlights, one is Wes Burns narrowly avoiding a hat-tick by heading just as narrowly past a post, and the second is the Rotherham goalkeeper sending a poorly directed clearance even more narrowly above Conor Chaplin’s head; a taller player would probably need to leave the field on the club golf buggy. Rotherham then win yet another corner before Murphy excitedly announces that there will be a minimum of ten minutes of added on time, which allows Rotherham to win more corners, but not much more.

With the half time whistle the man from Stowmarket stands up and admits to wishing he had padded trousers as he’s finding his plastic seat a little unforgiving. We discuss cushions and speculate that a patent on padded trousers could be the passport to wealth and a life of leisure. I then migrate to the front of the stand for my half-time chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison which covers Aphrodite’s Child and what an odd first half it has been.

When the football resumes I’m still expecting more Ipswich goals, but it’s Rotherham who are harrying and pressing Town into making mistakes. “Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and ‘Blue Action’ repetitively and then “Addy, Addy, Addy-O, ITFCeeee, We’re the Blue Armeee” and after fifty-seven minutes Town win their first corner of the game. “Are you happy now?” asks Fiona, and in a way I am, but I don’t chant “Come On You Blues” because , as I explain to Fiona, I don’t suppose the players will hear me up at the far end of the ground. I don’t think it’s my fault when the corner kick sails far beyond the goal and harmlessly away. Despite this failure, Boney M’s Christmas number one from 1978 gets a reprise in the Sir Bobby Robson stand.

Town are not playing well and Rotherham are not looking capable of scoring, but then they do. Vaclav Hladky boldly leaves his goal line for a cross which he doesn’t manage to catch and in the ensuing mess the only player to have so far been booked rolls the ball into the unguarded goal; and they say crime doesn’t pay. This wasn’t what anyone expected and suddenly we’ve been transported from a dull game in which we felt comfortably ahead to one in which we seem to be hanging on for a point. This is a poor game, it’s almost reminiscent of how we played in the dark days at the end of Mick McCarthy’s reign of terror, but we have been spoilt for two years.

For a moment or two Town are stung into action as they win a corner and Wes Burns is fouled by the French sounding Peltier, who is booked by Mr Stroud after loud baying from the home crowd. From the corner the Rotherham goalkeeper falls to the ground clutching the ball and some people think it’s crossed the line, there is a roar which isn’t so much half-stifled as three-quarters stifled as Stroud waves play on.

Another ten minutes pass with little to excite, before both teams vainly reach for inspiration in the form of matching double substitutions. For Town Omari Hutchison and Massimo Luongo usurp Conor Chaplin and Lewis Travis. As if that isn’t exciting enough, Murphy announces the attendance as 28,026 with 145 of those from the former People’s Republic. Applause follows, much of it directed at the 145 intrepid northerners. Another two minutes pass and another interruption sees Harry Clarke replaced by Axel Tuanzebe due to injury. Nothing improves and after a run down the Town left and a low cross, Peter Kioso strikes a Town goal post with a shot and the crowd groans with disapproval. Ali Al-Hamadi replaces Keiffer Moore before Rotherham make another double substitution and finally Kayden Jackson is the new Wes Burns. There will be a minimum of eight minutes of time added on says Murphy importantly and Town are hanging on. Pat from Clacton is glad she hasn’t got a baked potato waiting for her when she gets home, she’ll have a pre bedtime snack of Marks & Spencer Cheesey Combos instead. Back on the pitch it’s as if Keiran McKenna has said he wants Town to give the ball away every time they win it so we can practice defending a narrow lead.

Fortunately of course, Rotherham aren’t much good, they’re bottom of the league after all, and they’ve only scored twenty-six goals before tonight. But they have got Keith Stroud, a man who kisses footballs and raises his eyes to the heavens as he does so, and four minutes into time, added on, and enjoying life without Big Brother VAR watching him, he grants them a penalty . Cafu scores with a ‘Panenka’ (incidentally the name of a bar in Sheffield), which is why goalkeepers should never try and guess which way a penalty kick will be struck.

A draw snatched from the jaws of victory seems a certainty, except that this is Ipswich where it’s no longer over until it’s over and so it shouldn’t be a surprise when in a final flourish Omari Hutchinson reclaims the win just a minute later with a fierce shot between the goalkeeper and his near post. Portman Road explodes. With everything put back together again Mr Stroud keeps on playing for another couple of minutes over the original eight, which is enough time to book Axel Tuanzebe, but Rotherham are finally beaten.

I had thought I had seen it all in fifty plus years of coming to Portman Road, but then I already thought I’d seen it all in 1979. Tonight’s game was rubbish after what we’ve seen this season, but Town have scored four goals, all pretty good ones, and what a finale; so why does it also even feel a bit like we’ve lost? Did someone slip something in my ‘Very French’ chunky chips or in my Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride? I can only try not to get here so early in future.

Ipswich Town 0 Coventry City 1

March 9, 2020August 1, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Last night I went to a ‘gig’ in a very small music venue in Chelmsford called the Hot Box. My friend Pete, who has never really got over being eighteen, invited me to see a ‘Psyche Rock’ band from Glasgow called Helicon, he thought I’d like them because some of their songs feature a sitar and I’m a sucker for a sitar, so he thought right. It was when sitting in the bar chatting and listening to the trains rumble overhead (Hot Box is inside two railway viaduct arches) that we couldn’t help but notice all the reproductions of classic album covers of the late 1970’s and early 1980’s that plaster the walls, and Pete spotted that for the Only Ones’ eponymous album released in 1978, my favourite year. Today I have realised how the lyrics to the Only Ones’ Another Girl, Another Planet describe my relationship with Ipswich Town “You get under my skin, I don’t find it irritating”.

Today the sky is blue with a hint of wispy cloud. I stepped out of my back door a bit earlier and it felt flippin’ freezing; so, it is cloaked in a thick woolly jumper, overcoat and muffler that I set off for the railway station having flagrantly ignored the threat of COVID-19 and kissed my wife goodbye. The train arrives on time and the twelve minute walk has left me hot and a bit sweaty; life is not always what you expect. Naturally, the sun is shining in Ipswich and behind the Station Hotel in its beer garden the scarves and shirts of Coventry City fans mimic the colour of the sky; surreally the Eton Boating Song drifts up over the pub car park and the murky waters of the River Orwell, I half expect to see Boris Johnson and his cronies burning £50 notes in front of the rough sleepers who doss down at the front of the railway station.

In Portman Road the six-wheel, slate grey Coventry City team bus arrives at the same time as me, but the bus reverses into Portman Road, turns round and is re-directed to the Constantine Road entrance. Unlike the coach driver I know exactly where I’m going and walk on through, past a man who appears to have a metal bollard stuck up his anus, and the usual pre-match panorama of people munching low-grade meat product between slabs of low grade bread product. The flags on the Cobbold Stand fly strongly in the breeze and I walk on towards St Matthews Street and St Jude’s Tavern where Mick is already a good way through a pint of Iceni Brewery Partridge Walk (£2.50). I buy a pint of the same and once sat down we discuss the end of my phased return to work after illness, our weight , today’s team selection and, after Mick reveals how he can’t stand people going on and on about their dogs, dogs. Neither of us owns a dog but I used to have two Lurchers called Alfie and Larry, until they were put down. I drink another pint of Partridge Walk whilst Mick sinks a Jamieson’s whisky and with fifteen minutes or so until kick-off we depart with the licensee wishing us luck as we don our coats.

Turnstile 5 is my portal into another world today and as usual I smile and thank the operator for letting me through. With bladders drained and hands washed Mick and I take our seats, stepping over them from the row behind so as not to inconvenience Pat from Clacton who is already ensconced at the end of the row. Of course ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here too, along with his young son Elwood and there’s a welcome return of the old dears (Doug and Sheila) who used to sit behind me but now sit in front of me; the only absentee is once again the man with the Brylcreemed hair; that’s two games on the trot he’s not been here, I fear we may have ‘lost’ him and Pat from Clacton says as much. I won’t miss him, I found his thick hair furrowed with Brylcreem somewhat distracting.

The two teams soon emerge from the shiny, blue, plastic tunnel and Crazee the mascot waves his flag like Liberty leading the people in Eugene Delacroix’s painting. “L’étendard sanglant est levé” I sing to myself, in my head, whilst wishing this game was in Ligue 1 and not League One. The sky is no longer blue, but grey and cloudy. The game begins and Ipswich are wearing their customary lovely royal blue shirts and socks with white shorts whilst our guests Coventry are in a somewhat avant garde ensemble of white shirts with a black and white chequered band across the chest, black shorts and white socks; they look as though they are either the 2-Tone Records works’ team or the Metropolitan Police, but it’s quite smart in a un-football-kit-like sort of way. The 2-Tone connection is in fact used to market the kit and in my mind I take things a step further imagining the players on the team bus all in dark suits, pencil ties and pork-pie hats before stepping off the bus in a line like Madness or skanking to The Selecta. If Ipswich Town was to go for a dress style based on that of a famous, local, popular music artist the players would have to have haircuts like a 1980’s Nik Kershaw, and indeed Frank Yallop did.

Five minutes pass and Town’s Jon Nolan falls theatrically in the penalty area, it’s a blatant dive and I express my disgust with outspread arms and disbelieving expression whilst those around me bay for a penalty. Town looked okay for a short while, but Coventry are now dominating possession and seem like they have a plan. Up in the Cobbold Stand the Coventry supporters sing Tom Hark (originally a Ska song by Elias and his Zig-Zag Ji-flutes, but not on 2-Tone) and something about ‘going up’, which my ears won’t let me decipher. The away following today is impressive, even if their annunciation is poor; we will later learn that there are 1,740 of them and in forty-nine years of coming to Portman Road I have never seen so many Coventry City supporters, but then this is the first time in forty-nine years that a Coventry team has come to Portman Road that is at the top of or even anywhere near the top of a league. These people have been very patient, their team having previously only ever been models of mediocrity, although most Town fans would kill for a bit of mediocrity right now.

As seagulls soar overhead and perch on the cross girder of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand roof, Coventry win the game’s first corner, but the ball is sent directly behind the goal line. The match looks like being one of attrition, but then Coventry score; the uninspiringly named Matt Godden turning very cleverly and shooting inside the far post. No one saw that coming, least of all Luke Chambers and his chums in the Ipswich back-four. Fifteen minutes have passed. “Super, Super Matt” sing the Coventry fans as if advertising a local launderette, but then clarifying the matter by adding “Super Matty Godden”, all to the tune of Skip to My Lou.

The Sir Bobby Robson stand, who had been in reasonable voice fall quiet and the pall of gloom that had seemingly been blown out to sea after the defeat to Fleetwood on Tuesday returns. “Fucking dog shit this” opines the roughly spoken gentleman behind me. “Fuckin’ sums it all up” he continues, as a Town player is out-jumped for the ball, “How was he beaten in the air? He’s not even trying to win the fuckin’ ball”. Pat from Clacton rolls her eyes at the coarseness of the language whilst owning up to me that she sometimes says “shit”.

On 28 minutes a ball drops over the top of the Coventry defence and Town’s Jon Nolan is on to it with just Coventry’s Slovakian goalkeeper Marko Marosi between him and glory. Nolan opts for abuse as he tamely heads the ball into the goalkeeper’s hands. “We’re gonna win the League” sing the Coventry supporters, sounding a little unsure of the words, having never sung them before this season. Half an hour has passed and the wonderfully named referee, Trevor Kettle, whistles for a foul on Town’s Teddy Bishop and then gives his yellow card its first airing of the afternoon, brandishing it in the direction of the perpetrator Liam Walsh. Town win their first corner five minutes later and Luke Woolfenden’s shot is sent wide of the goal. It’s nearly half-time and seizing their opportunity to deliver ironic humour as Town supporters head for the toilets, the Coventry fans sing “Is this a library?” Time enough remains for Nolan to be through on goal again and send his shot over the cross bar and a few rows behind me some unusually posh sounding people talk to one another very loudly ,as posh people often do, about something completely unrelated to football.

Half -time brings boos for Trevor ‘The Whistle’ Kettle as he leaves the pitch with his two side-kicks in their unpleasant yellowy-green tops and the air is one of despondency. Mick asks if I thought we should have had a penalty near the beginning when Nolan went down; I tell him I can’t remember the incident. “Well, you were very animated at the time” says Mick, and then I remember and have to explain that actually I was annoyed that Nolan had dived. I speak with Ray who bemoans the absence of decent full-backs at the club and the fact that once again the goal Town conceded came down the left hand side of the pitch.

At 16:04 the second half begins, but the blokes behind don’t return for a good few minutes; they don’t miss much and we don’t miss them. As time passes inexorably it becomes apparent that the second half is better than the first from a Town supporting perspective, we have more of the ball anyway, which makes it feel like we’re doing okay. Godden misses a good opportunity to confirm the win for Coventry, but otherwise his team doesn’t look that much better than ours, just a bit more confident due to a fortunate habit of winning rather than an unfortunate one of losing. Pat from Clacton tells me that she’s going to Yarmouth next weekend for a week of playing whist, but she’ll be back on the Friday, the day before the Portsmouth game. She won £28 last year.

An hour of football has passed and as he turns towards goal Town’s Freddie Sears is hacked down by Coventry’s Kyle Macfadzean who is consequently booked by Mr Kettle, who I imagine must have asked “Would you spell that please” as he reached for his pencil and his notebook. With the help of her compact Sony camera and its zoom lens Pat confirms that Ed Sheeran is here again today and she snaps him. I tell her that I saw on Twitter that Rick Wakeman is here too, and she gets a really good picture of him in the directors’ box, in which he’s looking right down the camera. Watch out for the Patarazzi. Pat’s sister Jill wins the guess the crowd competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus. “Oh please let them score” entreats Pat as another cross is sent into the Coventry penalty area, but the team is in need of some luck and Pat gets out the masturbating monkey charm who introduced himself at the Fleetwood game; she rubs his head but nothing happens. I learn that the monkey actually came from Cambodia, not Vietnam as I said before.

Neither Mick nor Pat from Clacton, nor I notice how many minutes of added time there are, so engrossed are we in the match and so strongly are we willing Town to score, but at 16:53 Mr Kettle whistles for the last time and it’s all over bar the booing, of which, thankfully, there isn’t as much as there was on Tuesday. Pat from Clacton and ever-present Phil and who never misses a game and Elwood make a sharp exit for their respective coach and car but Mick and I stay to applaud the team. They haven’t all played well, but we don’t doubt that they tried to, who doesn’t want to do their best except nihilists and even they probably want to be good at being nihilists. If we don’t applaud them that can only make them feel worse; we’re Supporters, it’s what we do. Something tells me the masturbating monkey would say it’s just fate.