Ipswich Town 1 Middlesbrough 1

April 14, 2024April 16, 2024 / 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 3 Southampton 2

April 3, 2024August 19, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I woke up this morning and without moving my leaden carcass squinted at the bedside clock. It was nine minutes past seven. I rolled over and soon descended back into a drowsy, drifting sleep. After what I thought was about twenty minutes I awoke and looked at the clock again. It was seven minutes past eight and l lay there thinking I should get up, whilst also becoming depressed at the thought that this is Easter Monday and I will have to go back to work tomorrow. I guess that with still a whole day of the four-day Easter break in front of me and a trip to Portman Road too, such thoughts must mark me down as a pessimist. I don’t think so though, I think I just don’t like having to work for a living.

Outside it is sunny, but it’s also breezy, so everything in the garden is moving and jiggling about, like I’m watching a Roobarb and Custard cartoon. My internal dialogue adopts the breathless voice of the late Richard Briers and I think of a young Felicity Kendal before wondering what people from the time before television thought of in idle moments. I get up, shower, eat breakfast, drink coffee and probably make my wife Paulene suspicious by performing a range of domestic tasks including ‘hoovering’ and ironing, before we enjoy a comforting late lunch of bangers and mash.

As a I step outside to walk to the railway station, it is spitting with rain; Paulene was watching men in lycra cycling around San Sebastien on the telly as I bade her farewell, and she gave me strict instructions that Ipswich Town must win today because they are playing Southampton and Paulene is a Pompey person, a former joint owner no less, before the rest of them sold out to Walt Disney. The train is on time but it’s an uneventful train journey, there aren’t many other passengers on board, although a young blonde woman asks me to look after her bag when she goes to the loo. I tell her “Don’t be long, I’m getting off in Ipswich.” But she’s back in her seat even before we glide on past one of the Wherstead Polar Bears, who appears to be hiding from the small handful of people who have paid to see him, or her.

In Ipswich, I exit the train and cross the railway tracks by the old footbridge because it has fewer steps than the new one. The streets are busy with policemen in baseball hats and day-glo gilets standing in pairs and watching. As ever, I stop in Portman Road to buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the ice cream booths, the vendor looks very young and is possibly very careless too as the screens on both her mobile phone and card reader terminal thing are cracked. “Did you drop them both?” I ask her, but don’t catch the reply; I’m beginning to worry about my hearing.

Approaching ‘the Arb’ however, I can hear the distinctive burble of pub conversation and the chink of glasses. Inside, ‘the Arb’ is heaving with people gathered around the bar, although most of them aren’t buying the drinks, but just waiting for them as if worried that theirs will be forgotten or slyly stolen. Next time I buy three drinks or more at once, I’m going to ask for a tray and reduce congestion at the bar; I urge everyone to do the same. But today it is academic as I am on my own; Mick still convalesces from the operation on his foot, whilst Gary has travelled by car with his brother. After acquiring a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.78 with Camra discount) I retire to the beer garden where there are no unoccupied tables except for one which would seem to be designed for standing at, so that’s what I do as I flick through my programme. Nearby, at a metal table a Mick Channon era Southampton shirt stretches across a beer belly and has me thinking about the first time I saw Ipswich play Southampton. It was during the three-day week, on a Saturday evening in February 1974 and Ipswich won 7-0. Southampton would go on to be relegated from what people now call the Premier League, along with Manchester United, and Norwich. The Seventies weren’t all bad.

Not getting a seat and having to queue at the bar felt like conceding early goals, but I’m back in the game with a second pint of Suffolk Pride, for which I don’t have to queue, and a seat at a Yogi-Bear style picnic table as the Johnny-Come Lately’s to Portman Road, who possibly weren’t alive in 1974, leave early for kick-off and a chance to be on the telly. By ten past five I’m on my own as a Town fan in the pub garden, or in the pub itself for that matter, so feeling lonely I drain my glass and head for Portman Road too.

I arrive at turnstile 62 early and have to queue, but I’m seemingly in the company of people who are unusually proficient in the wielding of bar codes and after a succession of green lights I’m soon bidding good evening to Pat from Clacton, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), as I settle in a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood. The teams parade onto the pitch and I feel the warmth of the pyrotechnics on my face, a mildly spectacular if not poetic expression of professional football’s double-standards. Murphy the stadium announcer does his stuff and for a second game in succession reads out the Town players’ names as they appear on the scoreboard, and we all pretend to be in France as we bawl out their surnames together. By ‘all’ I mean ever-present Phil and me. It’s taken him a while, (eighteen matches excluding the one he missed) but to mis-quote Rex Harrison (Henry Higgins) in the film My Fair Lady, like Eliza Doolittle “By George he’s got it!” I should really write to congratulate him.

At twenty-eight minutes to six the match begins very noisily. It’s Southampton that get first go with the ball, aiming it roughly in the direction of the telephone exchange and London Road Baptist church whilst wearing an un-Southampton-like kit of what looks like red and pink halved shirts with black shorts, “Are they in red and pink?” says a text from my wife, who I am guessing is no longer watching blokes in lycra on bicycles. In fact, the pink turns out to be an optical illusion created by very thin red and white stripes. Town of course are in their signature blue and white.

The visiting supporters are in good voice, probably as loud as any away fans this season as they launch into “When the Saints go marching in”, although I still prefer Louis Armstrong’s version from 1938. “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go” sing supporters of both teams being equally optimistic, but with eight minutes gone Southampton are selfishly keeping the ball to themselves to the extent that I momentarily lose interest and count the number of seagulls on the girder that holds up the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand; there are eight of them. A minute later and the Southampton fans start to sing “Your support is fucking shit” but strangely their chant gets drowned out by the noise as Leif Davis sweeps the ball wide of the goal for the game’s first missed chance.

Four minutes later and the ball is briefly becalmed in midfield before Sam Morsy plays it wide to Leif Davis, who takes one touch before it hits the back of the Southampton goal net. From my seat, almost directly in line with Davis’s shot, I feel as though I must have momentarily blinked; one second the ball was at his feet, then it hit the net. I guess the Southampton goalkeeper feels much the same way, but just a little less cheerfully so, although he had an even better view than I did; except for the hitting the net bit, that is.

I will admit the early goal was unexpected; I had been prepared to wait a while against one of the teams capable of packing out their goal mouth with parachutes stuffed full of cash. I sit back to enjoy the spectacle and unfortunately so do the Town players as a low cross from in front of the Cobbold Stand is tapped home from close range and Southampton equalise with what can only be described as indecent haste. There seems to be some debate as to the validity of the goal in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, where the conclusion is quickly reached through the medium of song that “Linesman, linesman, you’re a cunt”. The miracle of television however, will later confirm that it was a valid goal, although it won’t mention the status of the linesman.

Things soon get worse as a Southampton player falls over and the referee Mr Michael Salisbury heaps the blame on Sam Morsy, whom he books. “Sing when you’re winning” chant the Southampton fans, which is a bit odd given that Town were barely winning for long enough for anyone to clear their throats, let alone start singing. They proceed to follow it up by letting Conor Chaplin know that like the linesman earlier, they think his GP is actually a gynaecologist, and all because long ago he played for Pompey.

The first half is now half over as one bloke in pink passes to another, who runs half the length of the pitch and passes to another who strokes the ball beyond Vaclav Hladky and Town are losing. “Top o’ the league, you’re avin’ a laugh” sing the Southampton fans to the tune of Tom Hark before turning the knife with chants of “Football in a library, doo, doo, doo”. We are no match for their untamed wit, but I gain some solace from a Southampton free-kick hopelessly launched into touch as the occupants of the Cobbold stand shield their eyes from the slowly setting sun.

Southampton are keeping the ball to themselves still, and they’re still winning, and a Conor Chaplin shot goes straight to the visiting goalkeeper before the clock turns six and it’s time for a drinks break as Keiffer Moore is attended to for what looks like a bad back. Within five minutes Ali Al-Hamadi has replaced him. Kayden Jackson gets to chase a ball into the penalty area, but stupidly opts to fall over and look around expectantly for a penalty, when if he’d carried on somebody might really have kicked him. “We need to start waking up” says the bloke behind me as a low cross travels the full width of the Town goalmouth.

After seven minutes of added on time, a Southampton corner and fulsome roars of “Come On You Reds” . It’s half-time and, as I tell Dave the steward , we can but hope for a better second half. I predict we will win 5-2 because that’s what we did in February of 1982, and when it’s not doing something different, history repeats itself. I speak to Ray, his son Michael and his grandson Harrison and offer them Marks & Spencer mint choccy speckled eggs because it’s Easter. Ray doesn’t seem as cheerful as usual and bemoans that Axel Tuanzebe is really a centre-half playing at full-back, and although he can be a bit unreliable at times he’d rather see Harry Clarke.

Back in my seat, I share some speckled eggs with Fiona and Pat from Clacton and at twenty to seven the football resumes. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” sing the Sir Bobby Standers to no particular tune that I know of, as Mr Salisbury picks up where he left off and doesn’t award Town a free-kick. Southampton win a corner. “Come on You Reds” we hear. Southampton win a free-kick. Vaclav Hladky makes a fine flying save. Southampton win a corner. “Come On You Reds” again. Not fifteen minutes of the half have gone and I look up at the scoreboard, it still reads 2-1 to Southampton, but it feels like we’re losing by more. Southampton win another corner.

The game is two-thirds over and it’s the traditional time for mass substitutions. Kayden Jackson, Axel Tuanzebe and Massimo Luongo are replaced by Nathan Broadhead, Harry Clarke and Jack Taylor. Murphy announces this evening’s attendance as 29,393 with 1,969 from the place my wife calls Scumton. “Here for the Scummers, You’re only here for the Scummers” chant the Scummers to the traditional Hampshire tune of Guantanamera, and some people applaud. I can’t work out if they’re applauding themselves, each other, Murphy, the singing or just life itself.

Six minutes later and it looks like Ali Al-Hamadi must score, but his shot strikes a goal post, although from where I’m sitting it looks like he’s shot horribly wide as the ball rebounds back at an angle. “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Standers, and then possibly again, but I’m not counting. The substitutions have made a difference and just to prove it Jack Taylor plays a first time pass to Nathan Broadhead who from just inside the Southampton penalty area turns and scores, shooting beyond goalkeeper Bazunu, who interestingly also used to play for Pompey, just like Conor Chaplin, who Fiona and I both decide must, for the sake of the Southampton fans, now score the winning goal.

Southampton are no longer dominating possession, and Town only have to win a throw-in for the home crowd to roar them on. “Come On Ipswich! Come On Ipswich!”. The stands are moving with waving, punching arms and fists and wide-open, shouting mouths, and probably some spittle too. Pat from Clacton tells Fiona and me she’s been ill during the week; I ask her if she brought the lurgi back from Norfolk where she was playing whist in Great Yarmouth the week before. She won £95.00, she tells us.

“Oh when the Town go marching in” bawl the far end of the ground gloatingly, as if only the supporters of the team in the ascendency are allowed to sing black spirituals. Ali Al-Hamadi runs at goal and Conor Chaplin shoots wide with fifteen minutes left of normal time before Southampton substitute Che Adams, whose parents I like to think were, and hopefully still are, both Marxists, with Sam Edozie. Five minutes later and Southampton make a double substitution bringing on the lanky and totally bald Will Smallbone, who sounds like a character from a novel by Charles Dickens (born in Pompey) and looks like the popular perception of what an alien looks like, which is a remarkable coincidence because the other Southampton substitute is called Rothwell, which is how people who lisp pronounce Roswell.

Five minutes of normal time remain and as ever Leif Davis runs down the left, but this time he will be through on goal if defender James Bree doesn’t foul him and get sent off. Bree makes the long walk of shame to the dressing room last as long as he can, doing his best not to look ashamed or remorseful and as Nathan Broadhead lines up to eventually shoot the ‘Bree-kick’ into the defensive wall, I count fifteen seagulls on the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand; squawks have spread .

After Conor Chaplin is substituted for Jeremy Sarmiento, who of course is on loan from Brighton (the Seagulls), in the final minute of normal time I put my notepad and pencil away in my coat pocket knowing that if Town score now I might throw them up in the air and never find them again. Seven minutes of added time is more than enough for Town to score again and somehow I think they will, perhaps because it seems they always do, and it seems like everyone else feels the same.

The final minute of added on time inevitably arrives on time and equally inevitably Sam Morsy finds Leif Davis on the left. Davis plays the ball into Jeremy Sarmiento, who ‘skilfully’ meets it with his left foot as he stumbles forward, falls, and stabs it with his right into the corner of the goal as he gets up again. The roar from the crowd is the biggest I’ve heard at Portman Road since Jim Magilton slalomed through the Bolton defence to score in the play-off semi-final twenty-four years ago. Men, women, children are hugging each other in scenes of reckless abandon, not the sort of thing that happens in puritan Suffolk at all. Like in a dream there’s barely time for the game to re-start before it ends, and yet again Town have won.

One day I might wake up and not find myself in another dream, but I hope not.

Ipswich Town 3 Bristol City 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 1 Leicester City 1

December 27, 2023December 28, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today is Boxing Day, the day when in Britain we traditionally celebrate our lack of decent public transport and our love of global warming and air pollution by not running buses and trains and then arranging some of the biggest football fixtures of the season to which we flock in our tens of thousands by petrol and diesel-engined cars. It’s a great day and shows just how much everyone really cares about our children’s future, because after all, if we leave aside the birth of the Messiah bit, Christmas time is all about the children, and the football.

I had thought about not attending today’s match. As a one-man protest however, it wouldn’t really have been measurable on the scale that includes the Buddhist monk Thich Quang Duc in Vietnam in 1963, so I sensibly reasoned that nobody would notice a bloke staying in doors for the evening, except my wife Paulene, who would be forced to watch the match on the telly with me and would therefore probably just go to bed early; if Town aren’t playing either Portsmouth or Paris St Germain she’s not really interested. I have decided therefore that by driving my planet saving Citroen e-C4 and giving Gary a lift, I can both reduce noxious emissions and reduce congestion thereby earning me brownie points, which I can bank for Judgment Day.

After breezing silently through town, we park up in a quiet, dimly lit residential side street. As we leave the Citroen a family getting out of their car and sporting club colours eye us suspiciously, as if we might be a couple of the drug dealers, who they probably imagine populate this part of town. I guess there’s no reason why some of the more socially responsible drug dealers won’t also be driving electric cars. Not wanting to disappoint we give the family a special Christmas deal on a couple of Solpadeine and a half a bottle of Night Nurse before we head for the Arb to spend our ill-gotten gains.

It’s chilly and damp out tonight, and stepping into the glowing warmth of the Arb, my glasses immediately steam-up. I buy Gary a pint of Lager 43 and in the absence of my ‘usual,’ Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, order a pint of Mighty Oak Captain Bob for myself (£8.11 for the two including Camra discount). We retire to the cool and calm of the beer garden, where a good number of other drinkers are already enjoying the evening air. We sit and talk of the King’s Christmas broadcast, retirement, the ailments and disabilities of work colleagues we have known and how one who qualified for a parking space was considered disabled on account of his poor eyesight. We reminisce about the days when we worked in a fug of tobacco smoke and how many of the sick and infirm are to be found ‘puffing-up’ outside the entrance to Colchester General Hospital. Gary fetches me a pint of Lacon’s Saint Nick (the Captain Bob was far too citrusy for a winter’s night) and a glass of mulled wine for himself. At about twenty-five past seven we depart for Portman Road.

We march mob-handed down High Street with fellow fans who’ve just left the pub. Gary and I part at the junction of Portman Road with Sir Alf Ramsey Way, and I check that he knows the way back to the Citroen and our stash of gear; he does. I walk on down past the Cobbold Stand pausing only to purchase a programme (£3.50) from one of the out-of-stock ice cream sellers that double up as programme vendors. There are still queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand as people consumed with the conviviality of the season take their time getting here. I join the queue at the legendary turnstile 62 and emerge onto the former terrace in time for the announcing of the names of the home team. Wonderfully, Murphy the usual announcer is nowhere to be heard tonight and he is replaced by another announcer, who sounds less like a superannuated BBC local radio presenter and more like someone who does voiceovers for adverts. Marvellously, the new man synchronises the announcement of the players’ names with their appearance on the electronic scoreboard making it possible to bawl them out as if I was in the crowd at Lille, Lens or Lorient. The joy on people’s faces at discovering this new ‘French’ way to support their team is wonderful to see. The new guy is a consummate professional and it is to be hoped that Murphy has been sacked or has fallen down a hole somewhere and will never be heard again at Portman Road.

When the match begins it is Town who get first go with the ball, which they’re aiming at the goal just in front of me, Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his teenage son Elwood, but not the man from Stowmarket (Paul) who prefers Boxing Night at home, and who can blame him. Town are of course in their signature blue shirts and white shorts whilst Leicester are in a rather unusual combination of yellow shirts and white shorts, which resurrects temporarily forgotten memories of Torquay United on Friday nights at Layer Road, Colchester in the 1980’s.

Town start the match to a loud aural background of “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna…” spilling from the stands, or bits of them, and for seven or eight minutes it inspires the team to put League leaders Leicester on the defensive. An early Wes Burns run and cross invokes chants of “Blue Army, Blue Army” which almost seem to echo around the ground. Town win two corners. Wes Burns heads well wide of the goal, as if he’d lost his bearings. “You’ve let yourself down, you’ve let your school down” says the bloke behind me as if to Wes, but probably recounting words from his own life story. Pat from Clacton mouths to me “Who are these, behind?” as she swivels her eyes and raises her eyebrows.

On the pitch, the Leicester goalkeeper looks festive in a bright pink top and purple shorts. After ten minutes Leicester win a corner and one of them heads over the bar at the near post. “Small town in Norwich, You’re just a small town in Norwich” chant the Leicester fans as they risk hernias, straining themselves to be witty and amusing whilst at the same time doing a terrible dis-service to the Latin-American rhythms of Guantamera, drowning them in essence of east Midlands. George Hirst heads across the face of the Leicester goal and after more excellent work from Wes Burns Town have another corner. “ Fifteen minutes gone and no goals conceded” notes the bloke behind me. “He’s a shit David Luiz and Luiz is shit” says the bloke behind me of Leicester number three, Wout Faes, a gloriously continental looking player with a fantastic mop of hair, the kind of bloke you’d see in the Eurovision Song contest or a heat of It’s a Knockout. Belgian Faes is actually more like France’s Matteo Guendouzi, or Leo Sayer. Ipswich needs more Belgians.

As the bloke behind me infers, so far so good, but Leicester are now in the game and then George Hirst pulls up hurt. Hirst is treated whilst everyone else has an impromptu drinks party on the touchline and get remedial coaching; the blokes to my left exit for the facilities, excusing themselves with the poor excuse that it’s Christmas. Meanwhile, Pat from Clacton complains to the bloke behind her about his constant swearing, she’s “…fed up with it”. He tries to defend the indefensible, as small boys and Tory politicians do, but I think Pat’s won the day. Back out on the grass, and George Hirst is on the touchline waiting to come on again. Referee Mr Sam Barrott, who I hope, when people ask him how to spell his name, tells them “ Like Carrot, with a ‘B’, oh and two ‘T’s”, eventually waves Hirst on, but after just a couple of paces he grips the back of his thigh and sits down on the grass again. He is replaced by Kayden Jackson.

Leicester’s Stephy Mavididi has a couple of unopposed sorties down the Town right and on the third occasion his shot into the far side of the goal gives Leicester the lead; it’s not any consolation that what Leicester paid Montpellier to sign him isn’t much short of what Town paid for their whole team. Wes Burns and Harry Clarke are in discussion as Town kick-off again. The Leicester supporters sing a song about Mavididi, which sounds as if it is to the tune of Lonnie Donegan’s “My old man’s a dustman”. Skiffle is still new in Leicester apparently.

“We shall not be moved” sing the Leicester fans recalling another old song not much heard nowadays, but then the ground falls quiet but for some localised chanting in the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Leicester are much the better team now and won’t let Town have the ball. When they do Town earn a corner and Kayden Jackson hurriedly hooks a snap shot past a post. Up on the back of the Cobbold Stand, the flags hang limp and motionless like very large soggy handkerchiefs. Vaclav Hladky makes a decent save from Patson Daka but Town end the half winning a corner from which Kayden Jackson kicks the ball unintentionally into the pink and purple-clad goalkeeper’s face, for which the goalkeeper gets a free-kick; very strange. Contrary to the laws of physics, time is extended by four minutes, in which moments Marcus Harness produces a fabulous dribble between two players and a low Leif Davis cross wins a corner. “Come On You Blues” I chant, sensing a final chance to equalise before half-time and then“ Ipswich, Ipswich, Ipswich, Ipswich”. I am a one man cauldron of noise inside a vacuum, a human volcano in a lifeless desert of blank faces. Half-time is a relief even though Town haven’t equalised.

With the break I visit Ray, his son Michael, and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand. We all agree Leicester are easily the best team to have visited Portman Road this season, but it’s not hard to guess that given they are the one team above us in the League. I watch the pitch being watered by what look like ornamental fountains and recall that under a rule instigated by Louis XIV, ‘third division’ Versailles FC in France don’t play floodlit matches at home because the light would disturb the setting of the palace and its gardens.

As the game re-starts I munch my way through a Nature Valley Oats and Honey Crunchy bar and before I’ve finished it Kayden Jackson has earned Town yet another corner, from which Cameron Burgess heads wide. “Come On You Blues” chant the crowd to my surprise. Town have Leicester pinned back and are having to employ ‘last ditch defending’ to block shots and stop us from tearing their defence apart like so much Christmas wrapping paper. “De-de-de, Football in a library” chant the Leicester fans out of the blue, perhaps suddenly realising they haven’t sung that one yet and there’s not much more than 30 minutes left.

In the first half referee Mr Carrot with a B and two T’s had taken a relaxed attitude to people falling over, probably adopting the view that giving free-kicks is a mugs game when all footballers are cheating bastards who, if they’re not trying to kick the opposition are making out they’ve been kicked. The ref’s attitude has suddenly changed however and Ndidi and Pereira are both booked for fouls before Marcus Harness also has his name taken.

Despite dominating this half, Town haven’t had many shots at goal , then Conor Chaplin spots the goalkeeper Hermansen off his line and shoots from over 40 metres, forcing Hermansen to pat the ball away for yet another Town corner. “Blue and white army, blue and white army” chants the crowd a good five times, which is almost impressive, but being a bit of a peacenik myself it’s a chant I find un-necessarily militaristic. Time is slipping away; there are twenty minutes left and Pat fromClacton says she might have to get the masturbating monkey charm out of her hand bag. That’s a bit of a threat I tell Fiona. A Conor Chaplin shot brings a corner and then Conor shoots over the cross bar, when from 110 metres away he looked likely to score.

“Come On Leicester” plead the Leicestrians ; it seems we’ve got then worried. Fifteen minutes remain and again the ground falls silent as Town fans concentrate hard, willing Town to score and Leicester fans curl up in a ball anxiously sucking their thumbs and rocking back and forth in their seats. Today’s attendance is announced by the announcer who isn’t Murphy as 29,410, surely the biggest crowd to ever witness a match versus Leicester at Portman Road. “Thank you so much for your support” says the anti-Murphy “and thank you to our away end”, of whom he tells us there are 2,004.

It’s getting late and we’ve hardly made any substitutions yet, but then Wes Burns, Kayden Jackson and Jack Taylor are off and Omari Hutchinson, Massimo Luongo and Nathan Broadhead are on. Amusingly to me and Fiona at least, Leicester also take off Dewsbury-Hall, the EFL player who most sounds like he was once owned by the National Trust. I also notice Leicester’s number eight, Harry Winks, and I am disappointed that his squad number isn’t 40.

The substitutions work and see Town dominate even more. Leicester have a few break aways but nothing me, Pat and Fiona can’t handle. Freddie Ladapo replaces Kayden Jackson with just two minutes of ‘normal time’ remaining. “Come On Leicester, Come on Leicester” the Leicester fans continue to plead as they wring their hands. Omari Hutchinson wins an eleventh Town corner. “Your player of the match ………Sam Morsy” announces the announcer, although as I say to Fiona, he’s not our player of the match, he’s some sponsor’s man of the match. But then Town win a throw, the ball is passed to Morsy; we need a goal; now, he shoots, the ball might be going wide, it hits a defender’s heel, it might still be going wide, then it hits another defender’s back and now it is spinning wide of Hermansen and we’ve scored, and Portman Road erupts; it’s the biggest roar I’ve heard at Portman Road in, I don’t know how long. It might be the loudest roar ever, it might not, but it’s up there with the Bolton play-off match goals, and people are up and dancing and hugging one another like we’ve just woken up to find that the last fourteen years of Tory mis-rule has only been a bad dream after all.

There are five minutes of added on time and Mr Carrot with a B and two T’s adds another, just to crank up the tension for everyone, but sadly we don’t score again, but nor do Leicester and everyone can go home happy, or at least not sad. The best of it is that it feels like we’ve won, such is the relief that we haven’t lost.

Back at the Citroen, Gary and I agree that tonight we have seen a very good game indeed. I muse to myself that a goal such as Morsy’s tonight must only ever be scored very late in a game to realise it’s full delirium inducing effect. The fact that it was, almost has you believing in some sort of divine intervention, it has to be Christmas.

Ipswich Town 2 Coventry City 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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