Ipswich Town 3 Swansea City 0

March 1, 2026March 1, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It has been four weeks since I last travelled to Portman Road to watch Ipswich Town. Strangely forgetting about the away matches in between, I had started to wonder if the football season hadn’t already ended or somehow been cancelled amid claims from Reform UK Limited that the English Football League had been taken over by followers of Islam.

In keeping with my expectations of the end of February and life in general it’s been a drizzly, grey Saturday morning. But now as I step out for the railway station, leaving my Pompey supporting wife Paulene to watch her team head for defeat on the telly to visiting Hull City, the rain has stopped and I become aware of rooks building nests high up in the trees and buds beginning to flower. As I stand on the station platform a single blue tit chirrups every now and then. The train is on time and whilst it’s not full, the carriage I sit in is full enough to mean I can’t get far enough away from a loud group of men and boys. “We’d better eat this food then” says one of the men who has a particularly penetrating, rasping voice. My nostrils are assaulted by a terrible smell; God only knows what’s in their sandwiches, I don’t want to.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and we talk of Trump’s bombing of Iran, his blockading of Cuba, his Board of “Peace” and how Gianni Infantino will react to one of the host nations of the World Cup finals effectively declaring war on another before the competition has even begun. Hopefully, we can look forward to the USA being thrown out, like Russia; but awarding of another medal is probably more likely. So engrossed are we in our politically charged conversation that we almost forget to look for polar bears as the train passes through Wherstead, and when we do, we don’t see any.

Unusually, upon leaving the railway station we take the less convoluted Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street route to the Arb’, but this is because we are talking to Carole and her husband who are heading for something to eat in the town centre. Arriving at the Arb, we can barely get in the door, so crammed is our favourite hostelry with men queuing at the bar. Eventually however, and after Mick joins us, I obtain two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (one for me, one for Mick) and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary (£14 something with Camra discount) and we repair to the beer garden where there is now a heavy drizzle, although it soon stops. We talk further of Trump, Mick’s perfect hearing, the Housing Act in relation to private renting and tenant’s rights, today’s team, films Mick has recently seen at the cinema, the 1960’s and 1980’s BBC films/plays ‘Wargames’ and ‘Threads’ about nuclear attacks, and how Gary knows someone who always wants people to try some of her food when eating out. Mick returns to the bar to buy more Lager and Suffolk Pride for Gary and me, and a whisky for himself. At about twenty to three we set off for Portman Road, inevitably being the last Town supporters to leave the building.

There are no queues for the turnstiles at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand when I arrive and I stretch out my arms as I approach the bearded, middle-aged man who is going to see if I’m concealing any weapons or scrap metal about my person. “Scarecrow” he says. “Where?” I answer, looking around. It’s only when writing this now, that I realise he probably means I look like a scarecrow with my arms outstretched. I’m cleared for take-off (I was actually playing aeroplanes) and pulling the straw out from the sleeves of my coat I make for the hallowed turnstile 62, the stainless steel urinals, and then my seat in the lower tier of the stand, where naturally ever-present Phil who never misses a game, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and his grandson are already awaiting kick-off. Only ever-present Phil’s son Elwood is missing today, but I am here in time to join in with the announcement of the Town team. “He hasn’t announced the team yet” says Pat from Clacton almost as excitedly as the excitable young stadium announcer, who proceeds to tell us the Town team and I do my best to bawl their surnames as if I was awaiting the coup d’envoi at Stade Bonal in Montbeliard or Stade de la Mosson in Montpellier. After seemingly doubling up in pain as he shouts “Blue Army” into his microphone three times, the excitable young stadium announcer finally entreats us to “Be loud, be proud” as if we’re about to start protesting for gay rights.

Eventually, after a burst of communal singing of ‘Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown’ and another of ‘Hey Jude’ the game begins, and it’s Town who get first go with the ball via the boot of Marcelino Nunez. Town, in signature blue and white are aiming for the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras. Swansea City meanwhile look demure, all in white like an innocent Leeds United or oddly Cambrian Real Madrid, although there doesn’t seem to be a single Welshman or Spaniard among them.

Within ten seconds Town have a corner and at least three of us are chanting “Come On You Blues” for all we’re worth but it comes to nought and I’m merely left to contemplate returning ex-Town player Cameron Burgess’s fashionable but terrible new haircut, a sort of ‘pudding basin’ but using a sprint-cyclist’s helmet not a basin. My disappointment is thankfully short-lived however as no more than two minutes later Leif Davis proceeds down the left, his low cross is not even a third -cleared and the ball runs to Anis Mehmeti, who rather beautifully arcs the ball into the top far corner of the Swansea goal. Town lead one-nil. We’ve scored early yet again, and I think I detect a feeling of inner peace.

Eight minutes have now passed and up in the Cobbold Stand those visiting from the lovely, ugly town of Swansea begin to sing of “football in a library” to show solidarity with almost every other set of fans who have ever visited Portman Road. “I was reading this morning on Twitter…” says the bloke beside me about something or other, and I feel an urge to tell him not to read things on what used to be called Twitter if he can help it. On the pitch, Swansea City are having possession of the ball more than Ipswich but don’t seem to be capable of doing anything meaningful with it. “Hot Sausage Company” announce the electronic displays on the Sir Bobby Robson stand. “One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Welsh in the Cobbold Stand to the tune of Village People’s 1979 hit record “Go West”, which is perhaps ironic because you can’t get much further west than Swansea, unless you’re in Haverfordwest of course.

Thirteen minutes have departed and the match is a little dull. I notice that the Swansea goalkeeper has the surname Vigouroux, which is almost the French word for vigorous (vigoureux), but he’s from Chile. Swansea’s number seven meanwhile is called Melker Widell and I amuse myself by hoping that the other players call him Jimmy in spite of his being Swedish and surely not pronouncing Widell to rhyme with riddle. Seven minutes later life takes a turn for the better as Town win a second corner. “Come On You Blues” chant the only five people in the stand who understand that supporters are supposed to encourage their team. Life fails to improve any more.

The visiting Swansea fans then chant “Sit down if you love Norwich” in what perhaps passes as an attempt at humour on the banks of the River Tawe, but more likely they’re delirious after their long journey. Above us grey cloud drifts across a sullen sky. The half is half over and Irishman Ethan Galbraith shoots over the Town cross bar from outside the Town penalty area. A minute later and Pat from Clacton exclaims that both teams are wearing white shorts; she didn’t think that was allowed. I almost tell her that both teams in my Subbuteo Continental Club Edition that I got for Christmas in 1970 had white shorts, but I’m not sure it’s strictly relevant.

Town win their third corner in the twenty-ninth minute. Unbowed by the ennui of the rest of the occupants of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand the same four or five of us chant “Come On You Blues” with abandon and then do it all over again as Town win their fourth corner three minutes later. Our efforts are rewarded by an Ivan Azon header over the cross bar before Pat from Clacton tells us that she’s looking forward to her forthcoming whist playing weekend in Great Yarmouth. “You go there twice a year, don’t you Pat?” I ask her, thinking it doesn’t seem a year ago that she last went to Great Yarmouth”. “Yes” says Pat, “Don’t you remember? Last time I came back with flippin’ Covid” she continues.

Another seven minutes retreat into history and Anis Mehmeti is booked for fouling Ivorian Malick Yalcouye. Two minutes later however Leif Davis is again running down the left. A short pass finds Ivan Azon and he take a touch and very slightly curls the ball inside the far post beyond the vigorous but inadequate dive of the Swansea goalkeeper. Town lead 2-0. “Ole, Ole, Ole,” chant the home crowd channelling what surely amounts to a racial stereotype. “Hot Sausage Company” read the illuminated advert hoardings once again and I see that they cater for ‘events’ and weddings which must be a gift to any best man bent on giving a smutty, innuendo laden speech.

After a minute of time is stolen from all our futures to make up for other people wasting it by not playing continuous football, half-time is called. To fill the gap, I talk to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) about the game and a forthcoming operation on his left eye before Ray appears, back from his cruise in the Caribbean. Ray tells me that his son Michael and grandson Harrison are not here today because they have gone to see Morrisey at Wembley Arena. I should have asked “What difference does it make?” but it wouldn’t really have made much sense, and I didn’t think of it anyway.

The football resumes at three minutes past four with ‘Jimmy’ Widell kicking off for Swansea, who continue to have lots of possession of the ball, but rarely do they threaten the Town goal with it. After ten minutes Swansea make two substitutions, bringing on Franco and Ronald, who sound like a comedy double act evoking memories of the fascist Spanish dictator, the former governor of California and president of the USA, and Ronald McDonald. The bloke next to me wonders about what substitutions Town will make and I tell him that we’ll find out in two and a half minutes time because invariably Keiran McKenna makes his substitutions after sixty minutes. Like the trains (reputedly) in Mussolini’s Italy, McKenna is on time and Jack Taylor and Jack Clarke replace Nunez and Neil and the excitable young stadium announcer barks out the oncoming players names in a manner which I would like to hear used in a doctor’s or dentist’s waiting room.

The second half is a relaxed affair. More substitutions follow for both teams but Town seem happy to allow Swansea to have the ball as much as they want as long as they don’t do anything with it except pass it about. Cheekily perhaps, Swansea momentarily forget the agreement and Christian Walton has to make a diving save on one occasion, but such is Town’s dominance, even without the ball, that the possible appearance of the masturbating monkey good luck charm from Pat from Clacton’s handbag never even gets a mention. Barely twenty minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our incredible support ( he must mean the five of us who shouted “Come On You Blues” at corners)and tells us that overall we number 27,594.

Just four minutes later, victory is confirmed in the easily calculated currency of goals as Anis Mehmeti robs some slack Swansea-ite of the ball, runs to the by-line and delivers a low cross which George Hirst meets at the near post and diverts at an oblique angle inside the far post. It’s a fine, stylish finish from Hurst which belies the appearance of his haircut, which is not really any better than that of Cameron Burgess. Town lead three-nil and in celebration, “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” is the chant from the oddly festive Sir Bobby Robson standers sung to the tune of ‘Mary’s Boy Child’, a 1956 Christmas hit for Harry Belafonte.

A final Town substitution is made and four minutes of added-on time are added-on during which time the Sir Bobby Robson standers drearily sing “When the Town go marching in” and Anis Mehmeti is announced as ‘man of the match’ in the opinion of some sponsor or other and indeed he has played well. With the final whistle, Pat and Fiona are swiftly away to get to their bus and train but I linger to applaud the teams and kill a bit of time because my train isn’t for another twenty-five minutes. It’s been a comfortable win for Town, one of calm, studied authority decorated with moments of decisive skill. Swansea for their part have played nicely, but ultimately went gently into the good night, not that Dylan Thomas cares because he plays for Walsall.

Ipswich Town 2 Derby County 2

August 31, 2025August 31, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a week in which summer, previously baked by the hot sun, has started to crumble away, buffeted by cool breezes, drenched by heavy showers and obscured by clouds. As an Ipswich Town season ticket holder however, I am used to disappointment, and more than just believing it is, I know this is the natural order of things. This morning, after a breakfast of sausage, egg, mushrooms and toast I put a coat of white gloss paint on the inside of my upstairs toilet door. The paint was old and past its best, another coat or two will be needed and probably from a new tin.

Outside, the sun shone this morning, and it still does. A wild array of billowing white clouds decorate the blue sky as I walk to my local railway station to catch the train to Ipswich, which is delayed by two minutes. Three blokes sat up straight on scooters, scoot past noisily. At the station, a grey-haired man wears a T-shirt proclaiming, “Punk’s not Dead – The Exploited”, of course even in 1981 when that album was released, that wasn’t true, Punk inevitably committed suicide or took an overdose long before that.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and we discuss his injured achilles tendon, which means that on arrival in Ipswich we will not be walking to ‘the Arb’ but will drink in the Fanzone. There are of course also still polar bears in Wherstead, although I only spot one today, which like a lot of other things is a little disappointing. Gary asks if I will be buying an “ice cream” today and I think I probably will not because it feels like a football programme that costs four quid has lost sight of what a football programme is meant to be; not that football programmes can really see of course.

It feels like a long arduous walk down Princes Street and Portman Road and into Sir Alf Ramsey Way alongside a gently limping Gary, and our lack of speed worsens the confused pangs of longing I feel as I pass numerous programme sellers. Eventually, we make it to the Fanzone with its loud music, ice cream van, beer tent and huge tv screen, which today is telling us how lucky we are we aren’t from ‘Up North’ by showing Middlesbrough versus Sheffield United. Many people seem strangely mesmerised by it, however.

In the beer tent queues of uneven length line up for young women to dispense plastic cups of dull yellow liquid. Gary says he’s on a diet, so should not really have a drink but he’s going to anyway. We look up at the list of beers, the names of which mean nothing to me. Why doesn’t it just say Lager and Bitter? Gary has something that sounds Spanish and out of sheer cruelty I get him to ask the young woman server if they’ve got a bitter. She looks worriedly at a list and says there’s a lager and then describes something else as an IPA, although she also mentions fruit. Foolishly, half remembering IPAs as amber coloured beers I opt for the IPA and receive a cloudy looking tub of yellow liquid that tastes only of grapefruit; that was the fruit, I guess. The ‘beers’ cost a staggering £6.50 each and miraculously I suddenly realise that in December 1976 the programme for the Ipswich v Liverpool match, which coincidentally advertised the Sex Pistols ‘Anarchy in the UK’ tour, cost 15 pence, whilst at that time a pint of beer cost about 23 pence. So, in a world where the retail price index is based solely on beer and football programmes, in nearly forty-nine years the price of programmes relative to the price of beer has actually fallen a little. Nevertheless, given the choice, and I have been, I will give up football programmes before I give up beer.

At about a quarter to three a man in a day-glo coat effectively tells us to leave and go to our seats. He seems a little curt, even rude, but I let it pass considering that a lot of people have strange jobs nowadays, and Gary and I soon bid our farewells. The blue skies punctuated with white cloud have given way to grey cloud and there is a queue to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, but it moves as if well lubricated and I am soon passing through the hallowed turnstile 62, named in honour of Sir Alf Ramsey’s team’s achievements back in 1962. I arrive at my seat moments before Fiona arrives at hers and not long after Pat from Clacton reached hers. The man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are already here too and I’m in good time to join in, in the manner of a Frenchman at the Stade Marie Marvinght or Stade Marcel Picot when the excitable young stadium announcer, who today has seemingly mislaid his jacket but wears a shiny brown waistcoat, reads out the team.

“Be loud, be proud” announces the excitable young stadium announcer as a final gesture, before the strains of The Beatles “Hey Jude” begin. With Jude’s na-na-nas fading away arm in arm with August, the game begins and it’s Derby who get first go with the ball, booting it where possible in the direction of the old telephone exchange, Coes and the Halal butcher on Norwich Road. Derby sport a modern, plastic looking version of their traditional kit of white shorts and black shorts, which sadly fails to conjure spectral visions of Kevin Hector, Archie Gemmill or Colin Todd. Town are similarly in a modern incarnation of blue and white that doesn’t really suggest David Johnson, Jimmy Robertson or Trevor Whymark were once here either.

A man arrives and sits in the seat in front of me but then continuously turns around, his arm hanging over the back of his seat, to talk to the bloke beside me. I try to watch the game. The bloke in front stays mostly turned round to talk to my neighbour. The space in front of me has always been small and now it’s smaller, the seat is pressing against my knee, I’m trying to watch the match, I’m feeling a bit annoyed, a bit grumpy, that pint of IPA in the Fanzone was truly horrible, the bloke in front of me is still turning round. “Look, why don’t you just sit here, and I’ll sit there, this is getting on my nerves” I say, standing up and gesturing the bloke in front to climb over his seat whilst I do the same in the opposite direction. The manoeuvre seems to cause a bit of consternation around me and I think the bloke now behind me is explaining what’s happened to the blokes behind him. “I’m sure we can all read about it later” says ever-present Phil who never misses a game.

“We are Derby” sing the Derby fans. “Create more space with a mezzanine floor” reads the illuminated advertisement between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand. “We hate Nottingham Forest” continue the Derby fans and it feels like the world is falling in on me. On the pitch, Derby seem very enthusiastic, running and jumping and barging about like they’ve all over-dosed on pre-match Sunny Delight. It’s not pretty to watch but it’s stopping Ipswich from playing much football. “Windows that Wow. Doors that delight” announces the Sir Bobby Robson stand as a Derby player takes a throw. The Derby goalkeeper is wearing a dayglo orange kit that looks like it might also be worn by staff of the Derbyshire County Council highways department.

Nineteen minutes have gone the way of the previous twenty-nine and a half days of August and the Derby fans chant “Football in a library, do-do-do”, illustrating how human evolution seems to be standing still. A break by Kasey McAteer, and a cross leads to Leif Davis having Town’s first decent shot on goal but it bounces conveniently into the arms of the man from the highways department, and Town begin to get to grips with Derby’s WWF inspired style of play. Twenty-seven minutes are up and Town earn a corner. “Come on you Blues” chant a handful of us lamely. Five minutes later a Conor Chaplin shot earns another corner. More half-hearted chants but they’re all Town need and as the ball sails over the flailing fist of the bloke from the Council, Jacob Greaves applies a stooping header, the humblest of all headers, to put Town one-nil up.

With Town ahead, it’s only a matter of two minutes before the first Derby player is booked for dissent as the Sunny Delight hangover begins to kick-in. “Come on Town, this is good” shouts the bloke behind me and Town win another corner from which Dara O’Shea hits a post with a header before the referee laughably books McAteer, seemingly for over-optimistically jumping alongside the man from the Council who is eight centimetres taller than him. Two minutes of additional time follow, in which Town win a fourth corner but nothing more.

Half-time is a time to talk to Ray, reflect on his forthcoming birthday which features a zero at the end and discuss why Kasey McAteer was booked. Even as a former county highways department employee Ray does not know. On my way back to my seat Pat from Clacton tells me not to swap my seat with the same bloke again because he’s been getting on her nerves too.

The game re-starts, and I eat a Slovakian Horalky wafer bar to help my body forget the memory of what I consumed in the Fanzone. I’m not sure if my lack of concentration whilst eating is partly to blame, but there is also a sudden lack of concentration in the Town defence and some bloke in a white shirt has to be chased into the penalty area by Leif Davis, who is then adjudged to have handled the ball as he dives in to block a shot and Derby are awarded a penalty, which one of them scores. Despite the equalising goal, which the balance of play suggests they should be slightly embarrassed about, Derby’s players are haranguing the referee seemingly wanting Davis sent off for the handball. Quite why these players are not booked or even sent off for unsporting behaviour is a mystery, especially when George Hirst is then booked for alleged diving and weirdly we’re all wishing we still had VAR.

With the scores once again level, Derby clearly intend not to go behind again and have evidently decided the best way to do this is to ensure as little football as possible takes place in the remaining thirty-five minutes. At times the game now resembles a match involving the Keystones Cops and American Civil War soldiers as players comically fall about and then lay on the pitch like extras from the scene in Gone With the Wind after the battle of Atlanta. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” chant the home support imaginatively. “We forgot you were here” reply the Derby fans also failing to roll back the frontiers of witty ripostes before doing it again by once more chanting “Football in a library, do-do-do”.

Time moves on and the inevitable rash of substitutions are made with twenty-two minutes left of normal time. Two minutes later another lack of concentration in the Town defence sees both O’Shea and Greaves miss the ball to allow some brutish part-time actor from Derby to score and give his team the lead. Town win a corner, another substitution is made and we are told by the excitable young stadium announcer that we number 29,155 and 1,144 of us are supporting the bunch that are currently winning and have a road mender for a goalkeeper.

With time not unexpectedly continuing to ebb away into the abyss, Town struggle against Derby’s “tactic” of not wanting any one to play football and the bloke behind me announces that “Nobody seems to want it”, although Chuba Akpom’s shot that goes narrowly over the bar doesn’t really back him up. Certainly, it seems many supporters don’t want to witness the final whistle, and the stands would only empty out more quickly if Nigel Farage had made a guest appearance. Help eventually comes from an unexpected source as it is announced that there will be a minimum of thirteen minutes additional time, and I think I detect a sudden dash to the toilets amongst anxious Derby fans. As the additional time, unfortunately, proves no better than the wasted time it replaces, it seems like maybe my prevailing emotion on a Saturday evening will once again be disappointment.

But then, as once more and then once more again Town sling the ball into the Derby penalty area, the referee awards a penalty. I couldn’t see why from the far end of the ground, but in the absence of VAR I trust the referee who obviously knows what he’s doing, on this occasion. Jack Clarke steps up to take the penalty as the blokes behind me agree that they would have Ashley Young take it and the bloke next to me holds his head in his hands and seems to weep as he says “Not, Jack Clarke, please not Jack Clarke.” But happily, yes, Jack Clarke, as he takes one of the best penalties by an Ipswich player that I think I’ve ever seen, striking the ball hard and into a corner and with a bit of a curl on it too for good measure. There’s still time to win I say to myself, but it turns out there isn’t.

Inevitably, with sixteen minutes of additional time having been played, on hearing the final whistle people don’t hang about. I too turn and head for the exit and my train home to reflect on what despite the last minute goal, still feels like a disappointing afternoon; that beer in the Fanzone was disgusting.

Ipswich Town 0 Arsenal 4

April 22, 2025April 22, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Easter Sunday is the most significant date in the Christian calendar, one of only two days in England when even the big, mainly Mammon-worshipping supermarkets don’t open. As well as not going shopping for groceries on Easter Sunday, until today I don’t think I’ve ever been to a football match on Easter Sunday either, but today, because Ipswich Town are for now still in the evil Premier League, it is their turn to play Arsenal at Portman Road. My memories of previous Easter fixtures against Arsenal are not happy ones, with Easter Saturday 1981 looming large as one on which hopes of becoming champions of England were mortally wounded courtesy of a 2-0 defeat. Those hopes failed to be resurrected on the Easter Monday when we lost at Carrow Road, pretty much like today’s hopes of avoiding relegation, although I am told there is life after death in the second division.

The sun is shining this morning, but a cold north-easterly wind chills my un-gloved hands as I step out for the local railway station. It’s an eventful walk enlivened as it is by the sight of a horse’s bum through the open back of a horsebox trailer, the Colchester United team bus, a bumble bee crawling on the pavement where I’ve seen a bumble bee on the pavement before, a squashed ladybird with yellow innards, a dead squirrel, and a tall man sitting on the bonnet of a small car smoking a cigarette. By way of a conclusion to this odd combination of sightings, today’s train is going to be a bus that celebrates the fourth letter of the alphabet, a double-decker belonging to Don’s of Dunmow. But at least I get to sit upstairs at the front, from where I spot a banner imploring me to say ‘No’ to 180km of ‘giant pylons’. The banner sets me thinking about the stark beauty of electricity pylons in the rural landscape; I’m not sure about ‘giant’ ones mind, but imagine they’re better than tiny ones, which could be a trip hazard.

The bus journey is mercifully short, and I’m soon sat on a train next to Gary looking out for polar bears. I spot a couple as we pass through Wherstead, and when I tell Gary he asks if they were waving to the train. I tell him they were, and that it was a scene reminiscent of a polar bear-based version of the Railway Children, but without Jenny Agutter. In Ipswich, our carriage lands perfectly adjacent to the bridge over the tracks that has fewest steps, and with the benefit of the energy saved we are soon in Portman Road buying programmes (£3.50 each) and looking at what the design of the programme front cover should look like. Today’s design is a mash of the Town and Arsenal club crests and for some reason reminds me a little of the programme for the 1951 Festival of Britain ,I think it’s the colours. Cursing the grandees of Umbro for the actual programme cover picture (Conor Chaplin’s modelling for Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’), we ascend to the Arb, where for £8.94 including Camra discount I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary. Drinks in hand we find Mick in the beer garden and join him to talk of film, religion, sexual politics, double funerals, beer, wedding anniversaries, incels and birthdays before Gary buys a repeat round of drinks, including a Jameson whisky for Mick. Eventually Mick says “Its twenty to three, we’d better leave” so we do.

Either our ambling has got faster or The Arb and Portman Road have drawn closer together, but I’ve been checked for firearms, relieved myself and am shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the teams are even on the pitch. This means I get the opportunity to bellow the Town player’s surnames in the manner of a Gallic ultra as the over enthusiastic young stadium announcer reads them out, although sadly like a latter day Murphy he is not wholly in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard today. The announcer ends his announcement by doubling over in the style of the deranged Basil Fawlty and bawling “Blue Armeeee! ” into his microphone three times before turning to hug his silent sidekick, Boo Boo, who I can only think is on hand to finish the announcement if he were to suddenly explode or have a seizure.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball this afternoon, sending it for a short while, until Arsenal steal it, towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow over-fifties ultras. Town are in blue and white, whilst Arsenal are in their customary red with white sleeves and shorts, resembling, to those familiar with the ‘lower divisions’, an uncharacteristically ‘up themselves’ version of Fleetwood Town . “We ain’t getting nuthin against this lot” remarks the bloke behind me optimistically, before the first minute has elapsed. “Fuckin’ unbelievable play” he says. “Just the way they play” he continues , explaining himself to the bloke next to him.

For all their ability, it takes Fleetwood nearly five minutes to win a corner. “Oh, When the Town, go marching in, Oh when the Town go marching in, I’m gonna be in that number, when the Town go marching in” drone the Sir Bobby Robson standers mournfully and the mood only lifts when the words “Home of the XL vent shipping container “ chase themselves across the illuminated billboard between the tiers of the Sir Bobby stand. Then, suddenly, Julio Enciso incisively runs at the Fleetwood defence, singling himself out as the Ipswich player with attacking intent, but sadly his flash of inspiration, is just that, a flash.

It’s the fourteenth minute, it’s still goalless and then it’s not as a run down the Town left and a low centre becomes a goal and the illuminated billboard reads “External Wall Insulation”. Fleetwood lead 1-0. “Come to see the Arsenal you’ve only come to see the Arsenal” sing the jubilant Fleetwood fans and then “We’ll never play you again, we’ll never play you again” confirming perhaps that they are some of the more pessimistic supporters with regard to their hopes for the future of the planet.

The once blue sky above Portman Road has become cloudy. A corner is headed over the Town crossbar, but otherwise the game consists of Fleetwood just passing the ball about endlessly. I begin to wish to myself that somebody would just do something. Fourteen minutes after the first goal comes a second. Again, a run down the left, a low cross, which is more of a pass, a flick which is a pass, and a player is free to pass the ball into the Town net. Fleetwood lead 2-0.

Four minutes later and Leif Davis’s studs come into contact with the back of Bukayo Saka’s ankle. Saka leaps into the air like a startled cat and Davis is sent off for endangering life, which VAR confirms. Later this evening in France, in an almost identical incident a St Etienne player (Lucas Stassin) will be sent off for a similar foul against the less feline Corentin Tolisso of OL, but this will then be rescinded and changed to a yellow card when the referee looks at the VAR screen. Tolisso will be carried off on a stretcher and Lucas Stassin will go on to score the winning goal. Sadly, Ipswich is not St Etienne.

In the aftermath of Davis’s dismissal, Cameron Burgess replaces Jack Clarke and Saka proceeds to miss two decent chances for a goal to loud jeers and boos from Town supporters before I notice that the floodlights are now on and it’s not even a quarter to three yet. I surmise that the lights are on because conspicuous consumption is one of the rules in the Premier League. Five minutes of added on time are added on thanks to the delay when Saka received treatment from the club vet. It allows time for a moment of joy for Town fans and the opportunity to cheer ironically when George Hirst is awarded a free-kick for being fouled. Ironic cheering is one of the skills supporters of ‘little’ teams promoted to the Premier League quickly develop .

Half-time is a brief island of pleasure in a sea of pain and is made all the more pleasurable by my consumption of a catchily named Na Okraglo chocolate and wafer bar, which I picked up in the World Food aisle at Sainsbury’s, and which is made in Poland and is just one of the many benefits of immigration into Britain in recent years.

But the football resumes all too soon at seven minutes past three and Town are quickly defending another corner. The highlight of the match for Town arrives in the fifty seventh minute as Sam Morsy shrugs off a couple of opponents, strides forward and places a ball over the top of our opponents’ defence, for George Hirst to run onto and then cut inside a defender to curve a shot just beyond the far post. Apart from Enciso’s early enthusiasm, it’s probably been the only thing worth seeing from Town all afternoon and I can’t help wondering if the opposition are that good, or if we’ve just given up.

Fleetwood make some substitutions, but it doesn’t seem to alter their ability to dominate the game and as I begin to wonder what Pat from Clacton might be having for her tea and whether it will be any different to usual because it’s Easter Sunday, I hear her say “potato”. “Mashed?” I ask, half believing I heard her say that too, but no, she said “Jacket”. I then have a brief conversation with Fiona about hot cross buns. She had hers on Friday as you should, but I admit to having been eating them for weeks now.

We’re heading towards the last twenty minutes and corner follows corner follows corner, and from the last one Town concede a third goal, as some bloke in a red shirt turns, shimmies and just kicks the ball into the goal in a ridiculously simple manner, as if suddenly bored with all this passing the ball around the goal, so he thought he’d just score instead. “We’ll never play you again” chant the Arsenal fans once more, gloomily foreseeing Armageddon within all our lifetimes and then the excitable young stadium announcer gives us that the news that there are 29,549 of us here this afternoon, but 2,955 of us are just passing through. Unsportingly, but failing to realise most of us no longer care, the Arsenal fans now taunt us with chants about ‘going down’. But who won the FA Cup in 1978 eh? Winning the Cup is permanent, as is losing in the final, but relegation isn’t.

Nothing continues to happen except the ball going backwards and forwards across the pitch as if we’re playing a team of hypnotists. I’m struck by what a miserable looking lot the Fleetwood players are. Eighty-seven minutes are pretty much up and a shot hits a Town goalpost when no one is looking, and then a minute later a different shot strikes Cameron Burgess’s bum and swerves off the perfectly angled buttock into the goal; perhaps that’s why they call them the Arsenal; Town lose, four-nil. As if to rub it in, there are four minutes of added on time too.

With the final whistle, those that haven’t already left, mostly leave quickly. With just thirteen minutes until my train departs I swiftly clear off too, feeling suddenly alive as if awoken from the afternoon nap equivalent of a nightmare in which I’ve been mesmerised by life-sapping close passing and bad singing. I’m just glad it’s over, just Brentford and West Ham United to go now.

Ipswich Town 1 Tottenham Hotspur 4

February 23, 2025March 20, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I think it was Christmas 1970 when I was given a Continental Club edition of Subbuteo, which included a team in red and white and one in blue and white. The team in blue and white was of course Ipswich Town and before Christmas 1971 I had acquired a set of cut-out adhesive numbers to stick on their backs so that I could tell which one was Colin Viljoen, which one was Jimmy Roberston and which one was Rod Belfitt. But Subbuteo produced other teams too, and Viljoen, Robertson, Belfitt et al didn’t want to play Manchester United every week and so, because I liked Martin Peters, their plain white and navy-blue kit and all the letter T’s in their name, I acquired a Tottenham Hotspur.

I liked Tottenham Hotspur for a couple of years after that, until one Saturday in October 1973, when Ipswich played them at Portman Road in a rugged goalless draw; Ipswich should have won and Tottenham were the dirtiest team I’d ever seen. After that, I no longer liked Tottenham and soon painted two navy blue vertical stripes on their shirts, and they became Portsmouth.

Today, fifty-two years on and Ipswich are once again playing Tottenham, and a rugged goalless draw will once again suit Tottenham more than Ipswich, but the likelihood of that happening is slim. After losing track of time and having to hurry to the station I find the train to be quite busy, I have to ask a blond woman to budge up so I can sit down. Gary joins me on the train at the next station stop and he tells me of how he has had food poisoning after eating fried chicken from his local chippy. We spot one polar bear as the train descends into Ipswich, and an American man who is with the blond woman and who has come from Los Angeles to see the game asks me “Is that real?” I am tempted to say that they are just people dressed up in bear-suits but take pity on someone from a country in which truth and reality are at risk from being signed away by executive order at any moment.

Sensibly, the ticket barriers are open at Ipswich railway station and a human tide soon washes up Princes Street towards Portman Road where Gary and I both pause to buy a programme (£3.50) and comment on how boring the front cover is thanks to kit manufacturer Umbro and their corporate philistinism, which has kept the work of local designers confined to the inside of the back page and reminds us to tell the Portman Road ruling elite that “you can stick Umbro up your bum bro.”

We arrive at the Arb before Mick, and I buy myself a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and Gary a pint of Lager 43 (£8 something with Camra discount). We sit in the beer garden with the many other match-bound drinkers discussing film, politics, death, religion and eventually Donald Trump. We’ve sunk a second round of drinks by not much after half past two and it’s against our will when we can’t help leaving a little early for the ground. Mick asks me for a score prediction; I tell him I’ve grown so accustomed to crashing disappointment that I can’t foresee anything other than defeat, however badly I want to say we’ll win and however poor I think Tottenham probably are. We go our separate ways at the junction of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, saying our farewells until next time in what might be the shadow of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue if we were in the southern hemisphere.

The queues to get into the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are fulsome, but sensibly again, at turnstiles 59 to 62 supporters are soon syphoned off through a side gate by people with hand held bar code readers, which make them seem as if they’re interrupting their afternoon supermarket shop. In the stand, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are of course already here. The teams are only just coming out onto the pitch. “You’re early “says Fiona. “I know, I didn’t mean to be” I reply, and flames leap up in front of the Cobbold stand. I expect to see roasted seagulls and pigeons fall to the ground as the flames subside. The excitable young stadium announcer reads out the team as if it’s the most important announcement ever made and I mostly manage to bawl out the team surnames as if at a game in Ligue 1, but the excitable young stadium announcer panics towards the end like the youngster that he is and gets out of sync with the scoreboard. As ever, the excitable young stadium announcer who I admit I now find a bit annoying ends his announcement with his usual shout of “Blue Army” , before disappearing into the tunnel with his shorter side kick in the manner of Yogi and Boo Boo, Cheech and Chong or Rene and Renato.

It’s Tottenham, in white shirts with navy-blue sleeves and shorts that get first go with the ball, which they quickly boot in the general direction of the telephone exchange. But I’ve barely had time to register that the seat in front of me has no one sitting in it when Ipswich nearly score; Liam Delap bears down on goal, panic ensues in the Tottenham defence, the ball appears as if it might have been bundled over the goal line by Philogene and the linesman raises his flag for an apparent offside. Moments later Delap bears down on goal again but produces a pretty lame, scuffed shot which rolls harmlessly beyond the far post. It’s two-nil to Town, almost. The bloke behind me is getting excited about how Town have got Tottenham rattled. “He ain’t no strength if Omari pushed ‘im off the ball” he says as Town win the ball back in the Tottenham half, and then a free-kick is headed against the goal post by Liam Delap, who completes his hat-trick, or he would have done if any of his attempts had gone in the goal.

So much early excitement and it looks like Town are going to win handsomely as the Cobbold stand is bathed in soft, late winter sunlight. “Hello, Hello, We are the Tottenham boys” sing the Tottenham fans revealing possibly, not unexpected sexist attitudes, or more encouragingly that Tottenham girls now comfortably identify as boys if they feel like it. Fifteen minutes are lost to history and Tottenham’s Brennan Johnson is the first player to see the yellow of the referee’s cards. “Oh when the Spurs, Go marching in” sing the Tottenham fans miserably as if they might at any moment burst into tears or slit their own throats, but then their team unexpectedly scores. The best pass of the game so far, some jinking about by Son Heung-min, a low cross and Johnson arrives on time to convert a simple chance.

As supporters of a team that has already lost eight home games it’s a situation we are well acquainted with and is like water off a duck’s back. Within minutes Town have a corner and I am bawling “Come on You Blues” in glorious isolation. Delap shoots and again doesn’t score but the game then takes a surreal turn as alarmingly the Tottenham fans sing “Can’t smile without you” by Barry Manilow, before Son again gets past Godfrey on the left and provides a pass for Johnson to sweep into the Town net and Tottenham lead 2-0. I had hoped for better, and the mood is not lifted as Pat reveals that she has had sciatica all week and has been taking Ibuprofen and Paracetemol. “The hard stuff” says Fiona, and Pat does seem a bit spaced out as she admits that much more of this and her thoughts will turn to the jacket potato she’s going to have for her tea. I can’t help wondering if she hasn’t thought of the jacket potato already, which is why she mentioned it.

In the Cobbold stand, the now jubilant Tottenham fans sing “Nice one Sonny, Nice one Son, Nice one Sonny, Let’s ‘ave another one” stirring unhappy memories of “Nice One Cyril”, which phenomenally reached No14 in the UK singles chart in 1973, although more happily it was released for the League Cup final in which Tottenham beat Norwich City, and it wasn’t by Chas and Dave. In an apparently unrelated incident, Jack Clarke is the first Town player to be booked, probably just to even things up. A Spurs player meanwhile, is down on the ground receiving treatment. “Oh, just dig a hole” I say, having lost my carefree, happy-go-lucky outlook. “That’s an old song” says Fiona.

Four minutes later, and our depression lifts a little as Leif Davis squares the ball for Omari Hutchinson to sweep into the Tottenham goal and cruelly restore hope.

The final nine minutes of the half and three minutes of added-on time play out with Ben Godfrey getting booked, Alex Palmer making a save, Tottenham winning a corner and an obese woman walking down to the front of the stand and then back carrying a pie, a bottle of Coca Cola and a bar of chocolate. Having not had any lunch myself, at half-time I eat a Slovakian Mila wafer and chocolate bar from the Sainsbury’s World Food aisle, but not before I’ve gone down to the front of the stand and spoken with Dave the steward, Ray and his grandson Harrison.

When the football resumes, Luke Woolfenden is on as substitute for Godfrey, who it seems has been excused. Only seven minutes elapse before another substitution is made with a limping Jens Cajuste replaced by Jack Taylor, who fortunately is moving normally. “Edison House Group” says the illuminated advertisement display between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I think of the bubble-gum pop stylings of ”Love grows where my Rosemary goes”, before Town win a corner and have a goal by Luke Woolfenden disallowed for an apparent offside.

More substitutions follow, Tottenham bring on former Canary Maddison to boos from the home crowd and a chorus of “He’s only a poor little budgie…”, whilst the bloke behind me exclaims “As long as he don’t score, I don’t give a shit now”. Tottenham win a corner, Town win a corner, chants of “Come On You Spurs” and “Come On You Blues” are followed by those of “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee”, and then the same again but louder as Mr Robinson ups his game by awarding a random drop ball to Tottenham. Then it’s 3-1 to Tottenham and there’s only thirteen minutes left.

Today’s attendance is announced as 30,003 by the excitable young announcer , who as usual thanks us for our “incredible” support, something that he does with such monotonous regularity that if he weren’t so excitable he would probably now swap the word “incredible” for “usual”. Kalvin Phillips becomes the second Town player to be hurt and unable to carry on, but despite the deepening gloom in the stands the match is being played out under a beautiful blue sky dappled with puffy clouds. “Hot Sausage Co” reads the electronic advertisement hoardings. A fourth Tottenham goal leads to more rancour and “The referee’s a wanker” is chanted enthusiastically as Town win a late corner and the words “Home of the XL vent shipping container” appear on the electronic advertising hoardings to accompany a reprise of “When the Spurs go marching in” before a fruitless eight minutes of added-on time, is added on, fruitlessly.

The final whistle witnesses several sharp exits from the stands of those who of course haven’t already left, whilst others hang on to boo Mr Robinson, or applaud the team, who overall have not played badly, and have for all but four brief, but somewhat decisive spells of play matched their opponents. Sadly, I no longer have my Subbuteo teams, but if did Idon’t think I’d be painting out the blue stripes I painted onto those Tottenham shirts any time soon.

Ipswich Town 1 AFC Bournemouth 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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