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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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