Leeds United

Ipswich Town 1 Middlesbrough 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today, for the first time in six years, Ipswich Town will play Middlesbrough at Portman Road. It’s bright, sunny and warm and the pale blue sky is wreathed in thin, high cloud.  As I walk to the railway station a woman in an open-top car motors past me, the Rolling Stones’ (Can’t get me no) Satisfaction playing on her car radio. Momentarily, I feel like I’m in a film from the swinging Sixties, but happily Julie Christie never had tattoos like the woman driving the car.  I realise I’m not in Billy Liar or Blow Up, I’m in Essex.  The train for Ipswich departs one minute later than advertised.  There were a goodly number of Ipswich Town fans on the station platform when I arrived there and even a couple of Middlesbrough ones, but now In the seat in front of me sits a pouty girl with pre-Raphaelite hair.  When I hear her speak, she’s American, from the east coast I reckon, so more Patti Smith than Lizzie Siddal.  In the seats behind me a father and his young son natter about which stations the trains to Norwich stop at.  As the train descends Wherstead Hill I see a Polar bear; I know Middlesbrough is way up North, but that’s ridiculous.

Ipswich looks good in the sunshine and in the garden of the Station Hotel our visitors from Middlebrough must be wondering what the big yellow, sparkly thing up in the sky is.  The Middlesbrough team pass over the river in a shiny, six-wheeled, grey metal box. In Portman Road I pause to buy a programme (£3.50) and an ice cream, but as ever fail to ask for the ice cream. Today, after last seeing Town play back in February, against West Bromwich Albion, Mick is returning from injury (a foot operation) , but he’s not fully fit and cannot manage the walk from ’the Arb’ so is being dropped off near Portman Road, and our  pre-match toast will take place in the Fanzone.  I arrive some time before Mick, and having stood in an impressively fast moving queue for a pint of massively over-priced Greene King East Coast IPA (£5.95!), I talk to ever-present Phil who never misses a game, who is hanging about in the beer tent.  A huge cheer goes up as Blackburn Rovers score against Leeds United.   Phil and I talk of pre-season, of  matches to go to next weekend, the sale of miniature versions of  the statues of Sir Alf, Sir Bobby and Sir Kevin in the club shop, clubs to visit if staying in Hunstanton (King’s Lynn Town, Heacham and  Swaffham Town), and how, should Ipswich get promoted, the victory parade ought to involve an open-top bus ride to the Port Authority building and then a boat trip down the River Orwell and back to the old Tolly Cobbold Brewery accompanied by a flotilla of small craft, packed to the gunnels with Town fans.  Thanks to Athletic Bilbao for the idea, although of course they sailed down the estuary of Bilbao when they recently won the Copa del Rey, not the estuary of the Orwell.

Mick arrives about 2:15 and we join the still fast-moving queue for more over-priced, pasteurised beer, although the club must be congratulated on how efficiently it is dispensed. Leeds United lose.  Beers in paper cups in hands we sit at a Yogi Bear style picnic table to catch up on the past two months. Time passes and people are leaving to get to their seats even as we sit down, and by and by we are the only people left sat here and it’s not even ten to three yet; we don’t usually leave ‘the Arb’ until gone twenty to three.  A woman steward seems very keen to see us leave, telling us she doesn’t want us to miss kick-off; I hate being made to hurry up over meals and drinks, it wouldn’t happen in France.  We should be allowed to miss kick-off if we want to, particularly with beer at £5.95 a pint.

Having bade Mick farewell, I make for the Sir Alf Ramsey stand via Constantine Road, past the offices of Ipswich Buses, proudly owned like our football ground by the people of Ipswich, and along Russell Road to turnstile 62.  My appearance on the bottom tier of the stand coincides with that of the teams on the pitch and I exchange cheery hellos with Pat from Clacton, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who jokes that my just-completed team talk was clearly very serious this week.  Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here too with his son Elwood, but I knew that I already.  Murphy announces the teams and at least Phil and I bawl out the Town players’ surnames as if this was the Stade Felix Boleart or Le Roazhon Park, before we all join in with a stirring rendition of ’Hey Jude’, which is only just fading away as Ipswich get first go with the ball, sending it towards me and my fellow ultras.  Town are of course in blue and white, whilst the ‘Boro are in their signature kit of all red, although the white bit across their chests, synonymous with the shirts worn by likes of Platt, Cuff, Craggs, Brine, Spraggon, Boam and Foggon in 1974, is sadly reduced to a couple of tram lines either side of the name of a betting company.

Portman Road is noisy. “Blue and White Army” gives way to “We’ve got super Keiran McKenna” and they’re even clapping rhythmically or rattling their jewellery in the West Stand.  Leeds lost, Leicester lost, this is the chance to worry about getting clear at the top of the table instead of just enjoying the game.  Six minutes on, Town win a corner and Conor Chaplin smacks the ball over the cross bar from inside the six-yard box as he darts to the near post.  “Come On Boro, Come On Boro” shout the Teessiders in the Cobbold stand, fearful of conceding an early goal, and possibly of the bright sunshine too.

Three minutes more and Jeremy Sarmiento shoots straight at Seny Dieng the ‘Boro goalkeeper.  Pat from Clacton tells us that a week today she’ll be flying to America, but in the excitement I forget to tell her to give Donald Trump a good kick if she sees him.  Back on the pitch I notice that Middlesbrough’s number twenty-seven is called Engel and I ponder on how, except in an episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, I can’t ever recall a player called Marx, or Engels come to that.  “Alley, alley, alley- O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers, a bit like the schoolchildren in the 1961 film adaptation of Shelagh Delaney’s a Taste of Honey, starring Rita Tushingham and Dora Bryan.

“Oh when the Town go marching in, Oh when the Town go marching in”  is  next in the sequence of football family favourites from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and behind me the bloke sat there decries the apparent unwillingness of Omari Hutchinson to run at the full-back, “He’s got the ability to fuckin’ do’ im”.   Ali Al-Hamadi is barged over when in full flight and from somewhere off behind me and to my left a voice calls out “That’s a foul ref, you’re fuckin’ shit”.  The tension is palpable, but Town are on top and surely, it’s just a matter of time before we start scoring.

Twenty minutes have gone forever into history and Vaclav Hladky’s clearance doesn’t go as far as it might, the ball is played out to the right and crossed back in and a Middlesbrough head rises above all others to send the ball into the far side of the goal and Town are trailing one-nil.  We weren’t expecting that, but then again.  So, running away clear at the top of the table isn’t going to be as easy as first hoped, or as it seemed an hour ago as we celebrated Leeds losing at home to Blackburn.  On the touchline, the managers are trying hard to be inscrutable in black and grey shirts and slacks.

The goal is a fillip for Middlesbrough who share more of the game for a while, but then Leif Davis is free down the left and pulls the ball back, Omari Hutchinson shoots but the ball looks down on the cross bar as it sails above it.  Town win a corner as a low cross is blocked by what the linesman says was a shoulder,  but what looked to those around me like a whole outstretched arm.  But from the corner kick a kind of justice is done. At the far post Massimo Luongo appears from the knot of players of both teams to welly the  ball at the cross bar from close range; the ball hits the cross bar for a second time as it bounces back up from the goal line and then finally drops and gives itself up to the goal side of the line, and Town are no longer losing. How can Town not now go on to win?  Although It is possibly the first time I have ever seen one shot hit the cross bar twice.

Town’s second goal is soon on the way as Jeremy Sarmiento is put through to steer his shot beyond Dieng, only for it too hit the post and contrarily deflect away from the goal when bouncing the opposite way would have been a far more popular decision by the inanimate, plastic coated leather sphere. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, they’re by far the greatest team the World has ever seen” we sing, telling the ball in no uncertain terms that its behaviour doesn’t bother us.

The last five minutes of the half arrive and Massimo Luongo places a shot into the arms of Dieng before Conor Chaplin floats a speculative forty-yard attempt wide and the Sir Bobby Robson standers get all festive with a rendition of “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” Then, just to remind us that they’re still here Middlesbrough send  a couple of shots wide and earn a corner before  the half is extended by two minutes and referee Mr Allison turns down another Town penalty appeal as Conor Chaplin falls beneath an enthusiastic challenge.  I thought the Middlesbrough player got the ball, but Ray will soon tell me that he thought the player went through Chaplin to get to it.

With the half-time whistle, I talk to the man from Stowmarket as there is no one sat between us again, despite the match being sold out, and then go to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison. Harrison and I bump fists and Ray and I talk of the National Health Service and that penalty controversy.  At seven minutes past four the football resumes and after just four minutes Massimo Luongo is the first player to see Mr Allison’s yellow card up close after he tugs on the shoulder of some bloke or other who’s playing for Middlesbrough.

The second half is still young as Omari Hutchinson goes on a magnificent run to within what looks like a few metres of the ‘Boro goal, only to win just a corner. Pat form Clacton gets out her “Altogether now” ITFC badge and I question whether it has anything to do with the Beatles’ song of the same name on the Yellow Submarine album.   I don’t think it does.  Back on the pitch, and Middlesbrough even up the bookings as number sixteen hauls down Jeremy Sarmiento, which was a bit of a waste of time because Jeremy is substituted for Nathan Broadhead two minutes later in the usual change, which today only also sees Keiffer Moore replace Ali Al-Hamidi. “Na-na, na-na, na-na, na-na, na, na, now, Keiffer, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Moore” sing the Sir Bobby standers by way of celebration, to the tune of KC and the Sunshine Band’s 1973 hit single ‘Give It Up’.  The final twenty minutes are approaching, and Pat from Clacton is delving into her supply of lucky charms and pulls out a blue Dodo from Mauritius. The efficacy of the lucky Dodo has not yet been established, but today is its big chance to promote the worth of Dodos everywhere, if it isn’t too late.

Murphy the stadium announcer tells us that we are 28,771 today, with 1,324 from Teesside and then thanks us in the usual pre-programmed way “for our continued support”.  Really Murph, it was nothing, you’re welcome.  “Sing your hearts out for the lads” continue the Sir Bobby standers having heard that confirmation of just how many of us there could be singing, and then the ground goes quiet before the noise returns with some Oles. Twenty minutes of normal time remain, and possession of the ball is lost forcing Vaclav Hladky into making a save.  “Blue and White Army! Blue and White Army!”. I can feel the tension coming up at me through the concrete of the stand.

“Attack him!” shouts the bloke behind me, still frustrated that Omari Hutchinson isn’t running at the full-back as much as he’d like.  This feels like a play-off match, which can’t be good.  Fourteen minutes left and Hutchinson shoots over the cross bar again, but also earns a corner again, and then another.  Jack Taylor replaces Massimo Luongo who receives rich applause. Eleven minutes left and Nathan Broadhead shoots wide. Ten minutes left and Luke Woolfenden is caught out near the half-way line resulting eventually in a shot which Hladky saves superbly, diving low to his left to tip the ball away, and then a minute later he makes an even better save, hurling himself to his right to tip a powerful header over the cross bar.

On the cusp of full-time Conor Chaplin is replaced by Lewis Travis and Axel Tuanzebe by Dom Ball. There aren’t many people leaving the stadium like there would have been at one time; if this Town team has achieved one thing already this season it is that it has cured a lot of people of leaving before the end.  Today however, proves not to be one of those days when the winning goal is the punch line, and five minutes of added on time merely ends with Mr Allison’s final whistle a signal for a muted celebration of another point. We can only hope for, not expect satisfaction, although I don’t think the Rolling Stones mentioned that in thier song.

Ipswich Town 1 Fulham 3

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I have been at work all day today, since before eight o’clock; not working at home as I usually am, but in ‘the office’, experiencing first-hand the sounds and smells of my fellow human beings and colleagues.  It’s been a long day, but now at nearly five o’clock I can release myself from the yoke of gainful employment and look forward to knocking off early tomorrow afternoon because I have clocked up an unseemly amount of flexi-time.  But I strive to live more in the moment, and before tomorrow afternoon’s idleness comes the hopeful pleasure of League Cup football at Portman Road, as second division Ipswich Town confront first division Fulham.

 It was almost exactly fifty years ago to the day that I first saw Ipswich Town play Fulham, and uncannily, or more probably just by mere coincidence, it was also in a League Cup tie, albeit a replay.  Like today, Ipswich were riding the crest of a wave, enjoying a season in which we would go onto beat Southampton 7-0 and win both legs of the Texaco Cup final against Norwich City, and in which we had already despatched Real Madrid and Lazio from the UEFA Cup and the then mighty Leeds United from the League Cup. Town were the only domestic club to beat Leeds United in the 1973-74 season before late February when Stoke City inflicted upon them their first League defeat of the season, and how everyone cheered, because everyone hated Leeds United back then; even Leeds United hated Leeds United back then.  Fulham would be the first second division team I ever saw. Town won 2-1 that night, but as I recall, and as the scoreline hints, it wasn’t an easy win.  My father was in the Royal Navy back then and was able to get his hands on the complimentary tickets to the director’s box that the club provided for the captain of HMS Ganges at Shotley.   We had those seats in the directors’ box for that match and as Town struggled to get the better of Fulham, I remember drawing disapproving glances from people who must have been Fulham officials as I shouted out “Come on Town, you can beat this lot, they’re only second division”. Tonight, fifty years on, the tables are turned.

It’s not much past six o’clock when I enter ‘the Arb’ and order a pint of Wolf Brewery Howler (£3.70 with Camra discount).  After a delay to look at a menu, I also order chips with chicken and chilli (£8) before retiring to the beer garden in which there only four other people, two young blokes, and a large woman who swigs beer from a bottle; she is with a smaller man who has a glass of fruit juice; they are  a drinks-based version of Jack Spratt and his wife.  Later, the man and woman will leave to be replaced by two couples and another man on his own.  Not unexpectedly for the first night of November, it’s not warm, and it’s breezy too.  I drink my beer and eat my food and try to read the programme (£3) that I had bought earlier in the club shop. But the light is dim, and I find it hard to read the small typeface.  I cannot find any mention of the match of fifty years ago in the programme, only the less specific reminiscences of  Simon Milton, who before becoming famed in the writings of Dave Allard of the Ipswich Evening Star as “the former paintsprayer and van driver from Thetford”, lived with his parents in Fulham.  I buy another beer, this time a pint of Nethergate Compete Howler (£3.87 with the Camra discount).  The two blokes beside me talk about television programmes they have seen.  One of them has seen a programme about prison inmates and says “One of them was a serial kidnapper and torturer, so he kidnapped people and tortured them.”  They ramble on to discuss cold hands and wearing hats and thermals, and a television character who had a “New York twinge” to his accent.

With no Mick with me tonight, because he has to attend his daughter-in-law’s birthday celebration, I sup up my beer and leave for Portman Road a bit earlier than usual.  Portman Road is busy and my path along it is regularly blocked at ninety degrees by queues for the Cobbold Stand. The mass of people at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stands is so dense that I don’t even attempt to negotiate it and instead walk around the old Churchman’s building and approach from Russell Road, which is much easier, although I still have to queue for a few minutes to get to my beloved turnstile 62.  I feel a sense of achievement as I successfully pass through the turnstile using the QR code on the e-mail on my mobile phone, and to think, I failed my Physics ‘O’ level. Tonight, by way of a change, but mainly because the flat rate ticket price of £20 is an opportunity to sit somewhere ‘better’ than the cheap seats where I usually sit, I have purchased a seat in the upper tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  Thinking of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand as Sir Alf’s face, if my usual seat is somewhere on his chin or at the corner of his mouth, tonight I am up on his left cheek, at the corner of his eye, where in the days before Kieran McKenna the seats were probably always damp with Sir Alf’s tears.

I am in good time to see the teams parade onto the pitch tonight and hear stadium announcer Murphy attempt to enthuse the crowd with mention more than once of “being under the floodlights tonight”. Murphy proceeds to make a complete hash of reading out the teams, hurrying through the names like they’re a shopping list, failing to synchronise with the big screen as the faces of the players appear on it and failing to pause at all between first and second names so that the crowd can bawl out the surnames as if we were French. I do the best that I can to shout out those surnames, to the amusement of the two young men next to me, but Dom Ball is a step too far and in the mouth of Murphy sounds like Doughball.   Murphy then reads out Elkan Baggott’s name and number twice; if he read a bit more slowly, perhaps he wouldn’t make so many mistakes.  “Murphy, you’re bloody useless” I call out and the blokes beside me laugh again.

The game begins and Fulham get first go with the ball, kicking it to their best of their ability in the direction of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, Handford Road and Akenham and Barham far beyond.  Ipswich are wearing their traditional blue shirts and socks and white shorts and it’s pleasing to see that Fulham are also wearing their signature kit of white shirts and black shorts, just like they did back in 1973, although this year they have black sleeves also.  “Super Fulham, Super Fulham FC” sing the visiting supporters up in the Cobbold stand.  The opening action on the pitch is muddled and uncertain. It’s as if the teams know not everyone has taken their seats yet, so they’re waiting a bit until we’re all in before beginning in earnest. The seats behind me and in front of me are empty.  In the dullness of the early minutes, I notice how the bottom tier of the Cobbold Stand is painted matt black, like the interior of a 1980’s theme pub.  The Ipswich supporters in the other end of the Cobbold Stand and the Sir Bobby Robson stand are singing, but sound like they’re in the next room.  “Go on!” says the bloke next to me suddenly as a Town player gets the ball, and several in the crowd clap in time to the Sir Bobby Robson stand supporters singing “Addy, addy, addy-O”.  The row in front of me is being  filled with small children and their parents along with three teenage girls with very long straight hair, lots of make-up and hands grasping polystyrene containers full of chips.

Nine minutes have gone and as Fulham push forward Ipswich suddenly seem to have no left-back. Fulham exploit the oversight and the fulsomely named Bobby Decordova-Reid provides the wide pass that allows Harold Wilson time to take off his Gannex raincoat and light his pipe before taking the ball around Christian Walton and rolling it into an unguarded goal net. Fulham lead one-nil, which wasn’t expected. “Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be, We’re going to Wemb-er-ley” sing the Fulham fans joyously, and the two blokes next to me laugh.

“Here for the Fulham, You’re only here for the Fulham” sing the Fulham fans partly gloating and partly realising that they can’t see many empty seats, but more probably ironically acknowledging that no one other than a Fulham supporter would normally go anywhere to see Fulham.  Twelve minutes have gone forever, and referee Mr Lewis Smith awards the first free-kick of the game, to Fulham.  I notice that the name on the shirt of the Fulham number three is Bassey, and I wonder if he’s known as Shirley.  Ipswich now lose their right-back somewhere and in the aftermath Janoi Donacien deflects a Fulham shot onto the Town cross-bar.

Ipswich haven’t done much so far by way of creating goals of their own, but Kayden Jackson has a shot deflected past the post for a corner after Fulham generously give the ball away. “Come On You Blues” I chant four times making the blokes beside me laugh, but no one else up here makes a sound.  Janoi Donacien heads over the crossbar.  “We’re on our way” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand alluding to hoped-for promotion, which seems an odd thing to sing at a League Cup tie. These millennials eh?   From where I am sitting, I can see the top of the roof of the West Stand and forty years of accumulated lichens and grime; the stand looks quite old-fashioned and industrial from here, I rather like it.    

Back on the pitch, and Town’s passing isn’t always reaching its intended recipients, there is a degree to which these players don’t look as though they have played very much together before tonight.  “What’s going on here boys?” calls a bloke behind me, whilst another just says “Fucking shit”.  The Fulham fans meanwhile enjoy themselves with a snippet of opera to which they sing the words “Is this a library?”  and indeed, the Ipswich crowd is doing what it does best, keeping quiet in adversity.  Sone Aluko  draws some appreciation however, with a fine cross-field pass to Kayden Jackson and Mr Lewis then gives a  free-kick to Fulham, the bloke behind me exclaims “ That’s bloody bollocks that is”.  

  As the game enters its middle third, Mr Lewis suddenly remembers his yellow cards and books Marcus Harness, Fulham’s Sasa Lukic and Town’s Jack Taylor, although none of them had done anything particularly heinous.  If it was an attempt by Mr Lewis to get the crowd to sing about him it worked, and he is treated to numerous renditions of “Who’s the wanker in the black?”   which many a Welsh chapel or colliery choir would surely be proud of.   The young blokes beside me laugh, twice.

Half-time draws ever closer and both sets of fans have gone quiet, it’s that kind of a game.  Four minutes until half-time and the Fulham fans blink first and blurt out a song of encouragement, albeit just “Come on Fulham, Come of Fulham” which sounds more forlorn and desperate than it does inspiring, as if the words “Oh for God’s sake” have somehow been edited out. Just a minute before the first half is due to expire, and following a corner, Christian Walton has to make a save from a shot by Shirley Bassey.  Three minutes of added on time are announced by Murphy, although I doubt he’s got it right, and Town have the ball for a brief period. “Now we go, now we break” says a bloke behind me, but he’s wrong, and we don’t.  Half-time comes as a relief when it arrives and so I go downstairs to drain off some surplus ‘Howler’ and ‘Complete Howler’.

Having returned to my seat, there’s not much to enjoy about half-time. Murphy interviews some local boxer and makes an arse of himself by speaking like a boxing bout compere, but when that’s over I enjoy the fountain-like pitch sprinklers and the odd names of what I assume are children attending their first matches tonight; I hope Jonah doesn’t live up to his name and wonder about the origins of Beau and Guinea.  If I have a dull moment before the Swansea City game I think I might write to the club claiming I shall be attending my first match and that my name is Kermit or Beaker. I always liked the Muppets.

At nine minutes to nine, according to my mobile phone, the football resumes. Five minutes in and Fulham lead two-nil as a well angled cross from the Fulham right is tucked into the Ipswich goal from about seven metres out by a Brazilian called Rodrigo Muniz. If there is anything wrong with the Ipswich Town squad at the moment it is that we don’t have enough foreign players. As World Cups repeatedly show, teams of players who aren’t from Britain are invariably better than ones who are from Britain.  Impressively the Fulham starting eleven fields just a Welshman and a Scot as the only representatives of the British Isles.  “Who are ya, Who are ya?” chant the Fulham fans inquisitively, as if to say “you can’t be anyone special because you’re losing to us”, which is a fair point.

Whilst Town came back from two-nil down to beat First Division Wolverhampton Wanderers in the previous round of the League Cup, what has happened so far tonight does not suggest such a comeback will happen again this evening and indeed Fulham continue to pass the ball amongst themselves most of the time and Ipswich don’t.  Much of the remainder of the game belongs to the Fulham supporters whose chanting is as close to witty as football chants ever get.  “We love you Fulham” whilst not witty sounds heartfelt, but the singing of the Internationale with words altered to speak of shoving “your blue flag up your arse” is amusing both because it is directed at Britain’s greatest poseur football club Chelsea, and because it resurrects memories of Fulham’s most famous fictional fan, Citizen ‘Wolfie’ Smith.

“One of ya!” bawls a bloke behind me as Kayden Jackson and Sone Aluko both go for the ball at once and both miss it, and then the increasingly creative Fulham fans begin to sing about their former, but now deceased owner Mohamed Al-Fayed, although I guess they could be singing about his son Dodi.  I have no idea what they’re singing, but I imagine it’s fun. With time running down, Town bring on Elkan Baggott, a young man who apparently has nearly as many Instagram followers as the club itself.  With their team comfortably two goals up the Fulham supporters surpass themselves with the surreal chant of “Shit Leyton Orient, you’re just a shit Leyton Orient” to the Latin strains of Guatanamera. The young blokes beside me laugh, and so do I at what I think might be the first genuinely funny football chant I have ever heard.

There are twenty-one minutes of normal time remaining as George Hirst and Omari Hutchinson step forward onto the pitch charged with the task of pulling back two goals, and Freddie Ladapo and Janoi Donacien sink back into what look like knock-off sports car seats where the dugouts used to be.  “Blue and White Army” chant the home crowd, digging deep for some optimism and Murphy announces tonight’s attendance “here at Portman Road”, just in case we wondered where we were, as 28,221 including 1,685 Fulham followers. 

“We can still do this” people are surely thinking to themselves drawing on the spirit of Escape to Victory, but then Fulham break down the right and Tom Cairney scores from about 12 metres out shooting at and through Christian Walton.  A legion of faithless, soulless, part-time Town supporters get up and leave, the clatter of their tipping up seats sounding like sarcastic applause to the imaginative ear.   The game is lost it seems, but hope springs eternal, and consolation and a large two-fingers to the receding backs of all those who have just left the stadium comes just two minutes later as Town win a free-kick and Elkan Baggott stoops to head the ball into the Fulham goal and Town once again trail by only two goals, not three.  The last ten minutes of the match runs down with barely renewed hope, but the home chants suggest we don’t care anyway because “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League We Go”, and apparently that’s more important than getting to the next round of the sort of trophy Norwich City were once capable of winning.  We only came out tonight for a laugh, or the blokes next to me did, and they leave early too.

The last minutes of the game are some of Town’s best, but Fulham don’t look likely to give up the ghost just yet and Hallowe’en was last night anyway.  A stonking eight minutes of time added on give us incurable romantics another dollop of hope, but whilst Omari Hutchinson, Dominic Ball and Kayden Jackson all manage shots on goal, none of them realises the prize and Town’s League Cup run is over yet again.

Ultimately, it has been a disappointing evening.  It’s not been a great match; it was okay, but Fulham were too good for Town’s second- best team, who never really did much, but we knew it had to end at some time or other.  At least we can’t lose at home to Birmingham City in the next round like we did in 1973.

Ipswich Town 3 Plymouth Argyle 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FC Nantes 2 Olimpiakos 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The Stade de la Beaujoire in Nantes is a stadium I have long wanted to visit because on the telly it looks a bit different to your run of the mill English footie ground and certainly a cut above the diet of Portman and Layer Roads I grew up on, as lovely as Portman Road still is and the much-lamented Layer Road was.   Having missed out on tickets to see FC Nantes at home to Paris St Germain due to cost and lack of decisiveness, the opportunity to see the Breton club at home in the Europa League to Olimpiakos just five days later was not to be passed up.  To add further to the mix, historically FC Nantes is one of France’s most successful football clubs, with eight league titles and four Coupes de France to their name.  But until Nantes won the Coupe de France this year (1-0 versus Nice) they hadn’t won either of the major French trophies since 2001, which co-incidentally was the last time I was in Brittany.  Nantes’ return to European football and mine to Brittany seems serendipitous therefore.

Tickets for concerts and large sports events across France can usually be bought at the larger supermarkets but having had no luck at a branch of Super U on Monday, that evening my wife Paulene went on-line and acquired a couple of the last few tickets available from the club website.  Feeling flush after a recent cash windfall we also booked a hotel for the night, although we are actually staying at a campsite about an hour and a half’s drive north of Nantes.  Not surprisingly, being on holiday we don’t have a printer with us, but the hotel has kindly printed our tickets off for us.  Our hotel is just a ten or fifteen-minute walk from the Stade de la Beaujoire across a small municipal park.  The stadium and hotel are also conveniently situated at the end of Ligne 1 of the city’s tram network and the twenty-minute trip into town is a bargain at one euro seventy.

It’s been a warm but cloudy day with an ever-present threat of heavy showers, but thankfully we’ve avoided those and as had happened a week ago at Rennes, I had been in the club shop adding to my collection of petits fanions (pennants) and fridge magnets when the heavens had opened.  Now, at a bit after seven-thirty we queue to be patted down before entering the stadium.  I can’t help feeling that the security guy checking me out has decided I don’t look much of a threat and having tapped me about the arms a bit he looks bored and lets me through; it’s either that or my excited smile made him think I might enjoy a more thorough search a bit too much.  Either way, he wishes me ‘bon match’ and Paulene and I head for Access 02 of the Tribune Presidentielle, but not before we have met Riri the Nantes club mascot.  Nantes play in all yellow and are known as the Canaries, so as an Ipswich Town supporter it requires mental strength to be photographed with their mascot, but overcome with the spirit of liberte, egalite and fraternite I throw myself into the occasion and feel all the better for it.  But I am protected by my yellow 1970’s Town away shirt.

Like most of the bigger stadiums in France, Stade Beaujoire is a genuine piece of architecture, not just a feat of engineering, a box or a collection of individual stands clad in sheet metal.  Set into a gentle slope, its undulating roof arching above the two-tiered lateral stands and the two single tier ends, Beaujoire is an elegant essay in concrete and steel which seems bigger inside than out.  Our seats are at the side of the pitch but behind the goal line, nevertheless the view is excellent, aided by the stadium’s bowl-shaped floor plan.

People get to big matches early in France and make use of the many stalls providing food and drink that surround the stadium.  Equally, the stadium is full before the nine o’clock Coupe d’envoi (kick-off) and with good reason because the prelude to the match includes a stirring anthem, which supporters sing whilst twirling their scarves a la Leeds United fans of the 1970’s; I had wondered, given that it is a warm September evening, why the club shop was doing such a roaring trade in scarves.  Most impressive however, and possibly the most impressive thing I have ever seen at a football match is the raising of a huge tifo at the Tribune Loire end of the ground depicting Anne the fifteenth century Duchess of Britanny (a local heroine for resisting Brittany’s annexation by France) wearing a Nantes scarf and flanked by a pair of jousting knights. Beneath the tifo in Gothic script and in Latin it reads “It is better to die than to be disgraced”, which seems to be going a bit far, even for a Europa League fixture.

Less than an hour before kick-off the death of Queen Elizabeth II had been announced and most of the ground observes a minutes’ silence, although at the Tribune Loire end of the stadium there was never any likelihood of this happening given the levels of excitement, as witnessed by the ceaseless noise, flag waving and glow of flares.  I am sure many would say “Bloody French ‘ooligans”, but I don’t.

As the match begins it is Nantes who get first go with ball, aiming it at the goal through the drifting smoke at the Tribune Loire end of the stadium. Nantes are in all yellow whilst Olimpiakos wear red and white striped shirts with red shorts and socks. “Lo-lo, lo-lo-lo, lo-lo, Allez les Jaunes” (Come On  Yellows) sings the crowd and then the Tribune Loire calls out “Allez Nantaises” and the Tribune Erdes at the far end of the ground echoes the shout.  Nantes have started at a fast pace and with the first promising looking attack it seems that everyone in the ground but for the couple of hundred Olimpiakos fans, is up on their feet and bawling encouragement.  Everywhere is just noise, it is absolutely thrilling. “Allez, Allez, Allez” rings out to the tune of The Beatles’ Yellow Submarine.

On the field, Nantes are in truth struggling to get through the Greek defence.  In midfield Pedro Chirivalla is busy, but most attacks go through Ludovic Blas and Evann Guessand on the right, although the tactic of getting crosses into the lone forward Mustapha Mohamed isn’t coming close to creating a goal, only corners. Blas is set up twice, only to blast the ball hopelessly high and wide. Whilst the football isn’t always the best, the spectacle however is; but a little over half-way through the first half even the Tribune Loire has started to quieten down just a little. In front of us, a lone drummer with a massive bass drum tries to raise the crowd in the Tribune Erde and Tribune Presidentielle once more; he is wearing a Nantes kit over the top of what looks like silk pyjama bottoms; his face is smeared with green face paint and on his head he is wearing a lurid, long green wig.   Between rhythmic drum beats he claps his hands and sings “Allez Nantes”.  A middle-aged man to our right answers the call with a mad passion which belies his age, but mostly people just clap along almost out of politeness. 

The flame of really noisy support is rekindled however, just before the half-hour Nantes win a free-kick on the right. “Lo-lo, lo-lo-lo, lo-lo, Allez les Jaunes” is the theme once more and although the free-kick comes to nought the momentum is retained and four minutes later Blas’s through ball confounds the Greek defence and Mustapha Mohamed runs on to place the ball coolly and firmly into the far corner of the goal beyond the Olimpiakos goalkeeper Tomas Vaclik.  The roar from the crowd is immense and Nantes lead 1-0.

Only a second Nantes goal can feed the desire of the home crowd, but it is Olimpiakos who now get to have their first shot on goal as a neat passing move ends with an overlap on the right and a shot that goes both high and wide of the Nantes goal from only about 10 metres out.  The be-wigged drummer makes a second tour of the area at the front of the stand, but the first half soon ends, unusually with no additional time being played.

Over half-time Paulene and I stay in our seats whilst many in the crowd drift out to the buvettes for food and drink. We reflect on the first half and agree that this is possibly the most fantastic atmosphere we have ever experienced at a football match and that on tonight’s showing the Nantes supporters are probably even more passionate than those of Marseille or St Etienne.

The game resumes at a minute past ten as the moon rises above the Tribune Oceane opposite. “Na-Na-Na, Na-Na-Nantaises” sings the crowd to the tune of The Beatles’ Hey Jude. Olimpiakos appear either to have been given a stiff talking to at half-time or they have simply decided to attack rather than just defend. Five minutes in and the Greeks win their first corner of the match.  The ball arcs across to the far post and Nantes ‘keeper Alban Lafont moves to punch the ball away but completely misses it, instead the ball strikes defender Samuel Moutassamy and drops feebly and apologetically into the goal net.  It is such a poor goal no one seems to believe it, not even the Olimpiakos players who can barely bring themselves to celebrate, making do with a few mutual pats on the back. Over in the corner of the stadium between the Erdre and Oceane Tribunes the travelling supporters are doing more than enough cheering and dancing for everyone.

The Olimpiakos goal gives them a lift and the balance of play evens out in the second half, but Olimpiakos are also much more combative and to prove the point Panagiotis Retsos is the first player to be booked, for a foul on Nantes’ Ignatius Ganago.  From the resultant free-kick on the right, Ludovic Blas is set up for a third time, but he boots his shot hopelessly high and wide again.  With a third of the match gone Nantes win a corner from which Andrei Girotto flashes a header just wide of the goal. Minutes later Olimpiakos win a corner, but Alban Lafont succeeds this time in punching the ball away.

With twenty minutes left, Nantes make a couple of substitutions and quickly win a corner after a cross from Moses Simon, who has replaced Ganago, is met with a header from the other substitute Moussa Sissoko which Vaclik tips over the cross bar. “Nantes Allez, Nantes Allez, Nantes Allez” sing the crowd to the Triumphal March form Verdi’s Aida as they hold their scarves aloft all around the ground, a spectacle sadly no longer seen in England.  The sense of the crowd willing the team to score is palpable, but Nantes are not significantly threatening the Olimpiakos goal.  When Nicolas Pallois strides forward in the eightieth minute to launch a shot from at least 30 metres, which travels a respectably small distance over the bar, it is as if he had simply got fed up with his team-mates’ patient passing and had decided to take matters into his own hands.

A minute after Pallois’ effort, Nantes at last break speedily down their right and the ball is crossed low before being laid back to the incoming Guessand who strikes a spectacular rising shot into the roof of the goal net.  It looks the perfect goal, the sort worthy of winning any match. The Nantes players celebrate wildly as does the whole stadium, with the exception of one tiny quadrant in the corner where the Greek fans sit.  The scoreboard registers the second Nantes goal, and the players walk back to kick-off again, but the Olimpiakos players are whinging to the referee who has a hand to his ear. We wait.  The referee then draws a square in the air and points to patch of grass level with the Olimpiakos penalty box and the scoreboard confirms that VAR says the goal is annulled for an earlier hors-jeu (offside).

The feeling of disappointment subsides surprisingly quickly and soon we are distracted by some pushing and shoving on the touchline. The ball has gone out of play and runs to the Olimpiakos coach who seems to hold it out for Nicolas Pallois to take, but then turns away; Pallois gives him a little shove for his trouble and then anyone nearby joins in with the melee and those further away catch a tram to come and join in.  The referee possibly cautions Pallois and the Olimpiakos coach, but it’s hard to say for sure.  Sadly, it’s the last real action of the half and all hope is to be squashed into four minutes of time added on or the more poetic sounding time additionelle. 

Additional time begins, two minutes in and Blas and Oleg Reabciuk are both booked after the former fouls the latter and the latter gets upset.   A minute remains of added time; Nantes again attack down the right, Ludovic Blas crosses the ball and the sizeable figure of Evann Guessand  hurls himself at the ball. Spectacularly, Guessand scores with what is arguably the best type of goal, a diving header.  The rest is near mayhem, with Stade de La Beaujoire erupting into scenes of unbridled joy and pride in the team and being Nantoises.  All around me people are just deliriously happy, whilst some have a look on their faces of vindication, as if to say it’s taken nearly twenty years, but Nantes are back like they knew they would be.

With the final whistle no one wants to leave. I don’t think I have ever been to a game where so few people, if any, have left before the end. The Nantes players gather in front of the Tribune Loire to salute and commune with the Ultras groups who have ceaselessly chanted, sung, shouted and waved their banners and flags throughout the match.  Riri the canary mascot runs across the pitch arms outstretched as if trying to take off and joins in with the players’ celebrations.  We, along with everyone else, wait for the players to break away from their love-in with the ultras and do a lap of honour to the rest of the stadium. As the players head back towards the tunnel we leave, joining the flood tide of happy, smiling people.  This has been a truly fantastic night.

Ipswich Town 1 Oldham Athletic 1

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One of the many wonderful things about supporting a football team that is in the third division is that the FA Cup begins at the beginning of November.  None of this inexorable waiting about for Advent, Christmas and then New Year to come and go. No siree, the joy of knockout football comes early to the meek who do more than just inherit the Earth, they get to chase the glory that is knockout competition football.  Of course, we have already missed out on six rounds of extra-preliminary, preliminary, and qualifying rounds, but we can’t have everything and being meek we wouldn’t want it.

Today, the transparent plastic tub that serves as the 21st century’s replacement for the Football Association’s velvet bag has paired Ipswich Town with fourth division Oldham Athletic.  This is a pairing to rival some of the worst failures ever, like a race between a Ford Edsel and a Sinclair C5, or a competition between the Enron bank and ITV digital.   Ipswich Town and Oldham Athletic, I have been told, are the least successful clubs in English professional football in the past twenty years, being the only two who have either not been promoted or not made it to any sort of match at the new Wembley Stadium.  The good thing is that this has saved us supporters a considerable amount of money on grossly over-priced tickets, match day programmes and catering, for which we should be grateful.

It’s a blustery, cloudy day and fallen leaves scuttle along the footpath as I make my way through Gippeswyk Park; the autumnal scene reminds me of some of the opening sequences of the film The Exorcist. Portman Road is very quiet, stewards in huge fluorescent orange coats, and sniffer dogs easily out number supporters outside the away fans’ entrance.  The display on the windows at the back of the Cobbold Stand tell of former FA Cup glories and the day in March 1975 when a record crowd of 38,010 filled Portman Road to see the sixth-round tie versus Leeds United. I look at my watch, it’s a quarter to two; I had already been inside the ground nearly twenty minutes by now on that day forty-six and a half years ago. I buy a programme for a knockdown price (£2.00), and  confirm to myself that I prefer this 32 page programme to the usual 68 page one, even though it costs more per page; I live in hope of an eight or twelve page edition for less than a pound.

At the Arboretum pub (currently known as the Arbour House), I choose a pint of Nethergate Augustinian Amber Ale (£3.80).  The bar is unusually full, so my pint and I decant to the safety of the beer garden, which is reassuringly more like a backyard with tables and chairs. I text Mick to tell him “Je suis dans le jardin”.  It’s not long before he joins me with a pint of beer and a cup of dry roasted peanuts.  We talk of Ipswich Town, of property development and pension funds, catching the TGV to Marseille, the buildings of Le Corbusier, the colour theory of Wassily Kandinsky and the Bauhaus, and electric cars.  A little after twenty-five to three we leave for Portman Road, bidding the barmaid goodbye as Mick places our empty glasses and the cup that no longer contains peanuts on the bar.

Our tickets today (£10 for me, £5 for Mick plus £1.50 each unavoidable donation to some parasitic organisation called Seatgeek) are for Block Y of what is now known as the Magnus Group Stand, but used to be the plain old West Stand, named simply after the compass point rather than a commercial concern called West that had paid for the privilege.  Flight upon flight of stairs take us to the dimly lit upper tier of the stand where we edge past a line of sour-faced males of indeterminate age, but over fifty, to our seats.  My guess is there won’t be much banging of drums, lighting of flares or even vocal encouragement from these people, who look more like Jesuit priests than football supporters.

Although Remembrance Sunday isn’t until next week, and there will be a minute’s silence before the game versus Oxford United next Saturday, bizarrely we have another pre-match minute’s silence today.  Stadium announcer Stephen Foster tells us it is because we are in the ‘Remembrance period’ but it feels like football just likes minutes silences.  As ever the silence is strangely followed by applause, and then the game begins.  For the first forty-five minutes Town will be mostly trying to send the ball in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand (previously known as Churchman’s end) where in the lower tier I can make out ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton.  Later, Mick will ask me if “the lady from Essex” still comes to the games, and I will point her out to him, locating her using gangways and rows of seats like co-ordinates in a game of Battleships.   Mick spots her and Pat from Clacton is sunk. Oldham Athletic are wearing a fetching ensemble of orange shirts and black shorts with orange socks; it’s a kit that stirs memories of Town’s fifth round tie away at Bristol Rovers in the snow of February 1978; or it would if, as is the modern fashion, Oldham’s shirts didn’t look like they’d had something spilled down the front of them.

Town start the game well with Oldham’s interestingly named Dylan Fage conceding a corner within the first minute before the oddly named Macauley Bonne heads a cross directly at goalkeeper Jayson Leutwiler.  Within eight minutes Town lead as the oddly named Macauley Bonne’s cross sees Wes Burns do an impression of the shopkeeper in Mr Benn as suddenly, as if by magic he appears to score from very close range.  This is just the start we need; we will now surely go on to win by three or four goals to nil because Oldham Athletic are third from bottom of the fourth division and Town won 4-1 at Wycombe Wanderers on Tuesday, what more convincing evidence predicting our inevitable victory could there be?  Indeed, Town continue to look the better team as the oddly named Macauley Bonne and Wes Burns both have shots blocked, but then the shots become fewer to be replaced by scores of passes back and forwards across the pitch.

Bersant Celina tries a little flick pass with the outside of his right foot, which doesn’t succeed. “You’ve got to earn the right to do that sort of thing” announces the joyless sounding man beside me to the World, presumably unaware that he is talking rubbish; you just need to get it right.  Oldham break forward and are a pass away from a shot on goal on a couple of occasions. “We’re leaving the door open” continues the joyless man, seemingly happy to be miserable.

Despite the 1-0 lead, the Portman Road crowd, which will later be announced as consisting of 437 Oldham supporters within a paltry total of 8,845, is quiet.  Where are the other 29,165 who were here in 1975?  A good number are probably no longer alive, I guess.  “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit”  chant the Oldham supporters in the Cobbold stand with predictable coarseness.  I feel like telling them that’s because some of us are dead.  Despite high hopes the FA Cup seems to have lost a little of its sparkle and it’s only twenty -five past three.  I realise that over the Cobbold Stand and across the roof tops beyond I can see the top of the Buttermarket shopping centre.  It’s the twenty seventh minute and Oldham’s number nine, the optimistic sounding Hallam Hope heads the ball just wide of the Town goal. 

Seven more unremarkable minutes pass and the sometimes not very controlled Sam Morsy is booked by referee Mr Hair, who it is to be hoped will one day referee in the Bundesliga.  Stupidly, having dropped to the ground under a challenge, Morsy grabs hold of the ball as if to award himself a free-kick.  Rightfully, Herr Hair books him for hand ball and the pointlessness of the incident mirrors the drifting aimlessness of the Town performance and its quiet backdrop; this isn’t what Cup football is meant to be like. 

After a couple of further failed goal attempts from Oldham, with four minutes left until half-time they score. Latics’ number ten, Davis Keillor-Dunn, who sounds like he could have been friends with Lytton Strachey and Virginia Woolf, sends a fine shot into the corner of the Town goal from about 20 metres after Toto Nsiala initially fails to deal with a ball that had been booted forward.  “How shit must you be we’re drawing 1-1” sing the Oldham supporters to the tune of Sloop John B, coincidentally showing the majestic timelessness of the Beach Boys’ 1966 album, Pet Sounds.

With half-time fast approaching Kane Vincent-Young tugs an Oldham shirt to concede a free-kick. “Stupid boy” says a man who sounds even more joyless than the man next to me but nothing like Captain Mainwaring in Dad’s Army.  I suggest to Mick that players should have their hands bound with tape to prevent them from pulling each other’s shirts; ever reasonable and practical Mick suggests they simply wear mittens.  Following a corner to Oldham, the half ends and with the exception of one man, the occupants of Row J rise and then descend the stairs to use the toilets and the catering,  or to just stand about.

As Mick and I wait for the queue to the toilet to shorten we talk of exorcism, the disappointment of the first half, the architectural splendour of the Corporation tram shed and power station in Constantine Road, and how my wife Paulene has a degree in theology.  I decide I can wait until after the game for a pee and whilst Mick joins the queue and disappears into the toilet, I am impressed by the long hair of a man standing a few metres away from me,  but die a little inside when I read in the programme that when he grows up one of today’s mascots wants to be a policeman.  More happily, the other two mascots want to be a footballer and a superhero.

Back in our seats the second half begins with the unusual replacement of both Ipswich full-backs as Janoi Donacien and Steve Penney replace Kane Vincent-Young and Cameron Burgess.  It’s a change that brings almost immediate results as a mittenless Janoi Donacien tugs an orange shirt and Herr Hair awards a penalty to Oldham.  The otherwise impressive Dylan Bahamboula steps up for Oldham to see his penalty kick saved by Christian Walton and a sudden roar fills Portman Road which belies the small number of people present.  For a few minutes the home crowd is energised and it physically feels as if we care as much we think do.  Wes Burns dashes down the wing, urged on by the crowd, but the sudden excitement is evidently too much and he propels his cross way beyond the far post and away for a goal kick.   “How much more waking up do we need?” asks the joyless soul next to me.

To an extent Town’s performance in the second half is better than that of the first.  The full-backs now on the pitch are an improvement on those they replaced and Oldham produce fewer decent chances to score.   When Connor Chaplin replaces the ineffective Kyle Edwards the link between Morsy and the front players is strengthened and another dimension is added to our attacking play, but somehow it’s still not enough.  As I tell Mick, all our players look like they got home at four o’clock this morning.

As Town’s failure to score grows roots and blossoms, the Oldham supporters gain in confidence. “Come on Oldham, Come on Oldham” they chant, giving a clue to the home fans as to what they might be doing, but we don’t twig.  The upshot with ten minutes to go is a reprise of that old favourite “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” and who can argue, it’s no longer 1975.  Despite Oldham encouraging Town with a misplaced pass out of defence, we are unable to capitalise and the Oldham supporters are the only ones singing as they ask “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” Predictably no one dares break our vow of silence to answer their question.

As the game enters its final minutes Sone Aluko replaces our best player, Wes Burns, and Rekeem Harper replaces Lee Evans.  Encouragingly Oldham replace their best player, Dylan Bahamboula with Harry Vaughan, but nothing works and five minutes of added on time only raises hopes, but does not fulfil them.

The final whistle is blown by Herr Hair and the crowd get up from their seats showing the same level of emotion that they might if they were all on a bus and it had just reached their stop, turning away from the pitch and averting their gaze like you would if trying to avoid eye contact with a drunk.  It has been a very disappointing afternoon of FA Cup football,  and has failed on every level to live up to what the competition is supposed to be about. 

On the bright side, at least we are still in the draw for the Second Round and until we lose, the promise of glory still remains.  It’s not every year we do as well as this.