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Ipswich Town 2 Sunderland 1

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A little strangely perhaps, the 2026-27 football season seems to me to have been a long time coming.  Obviously, I hope, I don’t mean that in the context of the whole of time, because everything has been a long time coming if that’s our measure, but just since the end of the 2025-26 football season.  As a result, this means I am both looking forward to this afternoon’s fixture versus Sunderland and not looking forward to it.  Being mostly human (apart from a bit of bovine tissue in a couple of heart valves), I have adapted quite easily to the football-free regime of June, July and most of August, and having done so I’m buggered if I can now be bothered to change back, but of course I will.

The last time Ipswich Town played Sunderland at Portman Road on the opening day of the season was seven years ago, a one-all draw courtesy of a late defensive error by captain and all round “man’s man” Luke Chambers. Less than a week later I was in hospital in an induced coma (see ‘mostly human’ above), so I will prefer to recall the time before that, in August 1981.   Remarkably, I vaguely remember that match from forty-five years ago and how disappointed I was that Town hadn’t won, despite having come back twice from two goals down to draw 3-3.   But I was young, Town were the UEFA Cup holders and after finishing university, life had barely hinted at trying to run off in directions I didn’t want it to.  In August 1981 I was about to start work or at least search for a permanent job; now at last I am about to retire.

This morning is fraught with concerns about getting into Portman Road using the new mobile phone-based ticket system.  Foreseeing queues, I arrange with Gary to meet him on the train that leaves a whole hour earlier than the one we usually catch and after an unusually late breakfast I am soon changing my mind about whether or not to take a jumper and a light coat because the wind is in the north and there could be showers.  At the local railway station, I resume my acquaintance with the fellow Town supporter who lives down the road from me but who I otherwise never see.  We talk of the currently unknowable prospects for the new season and it’s a conversation which gets more or less repeated when Gary joins us at the next station stop along with his nephew and his nephew’s wife.  Our conversation rattles along with the train, and I almost forget to look for polar bears as we pass through Wherstead; I do however remember to look, just in time to disappointingly not spot a single one.  I hope it’s not a portent of future disappointment.

Ipswich is glorious, sunny and busy when we get there, and with the exception of the man who lives down the road from me, whom I wish ‘bon match’ as I bid him farewell, we all head off up Princes Street towards the Arb, where weirdly people are once again queuing at the bar instead of swarming around it like people did in pubs back in 1981 and probably even in 2019.  Gary gets the drinks in whilst I claim the only vacant table and chairs in the already busy beer garden. Time passes amidst shared tales of organising tickets online and passing oneself off as an away supporter.  I learn that Gary’s nephew has a ‘dream car’ and so does his wife, which I find surprises me as I don’t, although I’d quite like an open-top bus.

Because Gary’s nephew and his nephew’s wife have to meet someone at the ground at 2pm they leave shortly after I get a second round of drinks comprising just a pint of Estrella for Gary and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£10 something with Camra discount).  Gary and I speculate as to when most people will leave for the match and by the time we finish doing so most people seem to have left.  We question whether by leaving early we will not just join a queue and perhaps we should leave late to hopefully arrive after everyone else has gone into the stadium.  But being cautious by nature we leave at about twenty past two.

At twenty-seven minutes to three I join a queue the back of which is within touching distance of Russell Road, which must be about 100 metres from the turnstiles.  I am soon joined by Pat from Clacton who seems a bit puffed after walking from where the Clacton supporters’ bus is parked on Sir Alf Ramsey Way.    Our queue is static, so we soon switch to one which is moving and looking ahead I see that there are minimal queues for the actual turnstiles, the delay is with everyone being checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal.  Fortunately, our queue seems to be leading to a couple of the more enlightened employees of Achilleus Security who are able to tell at a glance that whilst many of us are old enough to have been members of the Angry Brigade, the Baader Meinhoff gang, the Red Army Faction, Black September, the Weathermen, the Brigate Rosse, the Symbionese Liberation Army or even in a few cases the People’s Front of Judea and the Judean People’s Front (revisionist bastards), we are mostly only interested in football this afternoon, so just a cursory wave of their ‘wand’ and a smile is all that is needed to send us on our way towards the turnstiles.  There is a blockage at my favoured turnstile 62 so I move to turnstile 60 and am amazed and impressed that the sorcery that is a football season ticket on a telephone (whoever heard of such a thing?) actually works.  I run through the turnstile before it can change its mind, shouting “I’m in!” and waving my arms with excitement. 

When I reach my seat next to Fiona and just behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, it is four minutes to three. The man from Stowmarket (Paul) arrives soon afterwards and soon after that the excitable young stadium announcer, who now has the sort of haircut which suggests National Service might have been re-introduced, reads out the team and like a Frenchman at the Stade Marie-Marvingt in Le Mans or the Stade Felix Bolleart in Lens I bellow their surnames as they appear on the scoreboard.

The teams arrive amidst shooting balls of flame and the smell of sulphur affirming the Premier League’s deal with Satan, and once the roasted and badly singed seagulls have been collected up the game begins.  It is Sunderland who get first go with the ball, which they try and aim mainly in the direction of the former Spiritualist church on Anglesea Road. Sunderland are sporting an un-necessary and rather boring looking change kit of all pink with black shoulders.  The pink shirts look completely plain, but no doubt close-up it is possible to see that the fabric is woven with patterns depicting lumps of coal, ship rivets and Giro cheques to celebrate the north-east’s rich industrial heritage.

Ipswich Town are of course wearing our signature blue shirts and white shorts and within four minutes Leif Davis is blocking a shot from a big Dutch bloke called Brobbey, and Sunderland have the game’s first corner.  But within sixty-seconds Town’s Enciso also has a shot blocked as it leaves his foot and Emersonn has a header comfortably saved by the diving Sunderland goalkeeper, whose name is Roefs.  I need the action to slow down so that I can begin to get to grips with who is in the Town team. As I say to Fiona, it’s almost like coming to support a different club, with only four of last season’s players in today’s team.

I quickly decide I like that Town’s new team is mostly peopled with players from abroad, because if the Premier League has taught us anything it is that as a general rule Englishmen are not as good at football as South Americans, Africans and people from the Schengen Area, but at least we have our sovereignty, whatever that is.   Sunderland it seems are having the majority of possession, possibly because they have not needed to sign a whole new team over the summer.  I wonder to myself why Town’s Issa Diop appears to be wearing puttees and realise I have previously seen Sunderland’s Enzo Le Fee and Thomas Meunier playing in France for Lorient and Paris St Germain.

It’s the twenty-fourth minute and Enciso intercepts a poor pass, runs past the poor passer, runs easily past another bloke in pink and finally squares the ball well enough for Emersonn to be able to roll it  into the empty goal and Town lead one-nil.  Happiness ensues and Town’s first twenty-four minutes in the Premier League this season already seem better than the whole of the 2024/25 season in the Premier League.  “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” we all sing to the tune of The Wild Rover, as we collectively raid our folk memories.

Five minutes later and fortunately for Town one of the pinks heads the ball more or less straight at Town keeper Scherpen.  “How many more games have we got left” asks Pat from Clacton anxiously.  Five minutes later and Sunderland have another corner, but in the Sir Bobby Robson supporters chant “Ole, Ole, Ole” whilst they still feel able to do so. Six minutes later and Sunderland claim the season’s first yellow card at Portman Road for number five Ballard, which consequently makes me think of JG Ballard, his novel ‘High Rise’ and Ipswich’s Cumberland Towers.  The bloke next to me is clearly hallucinating almost as much as I am as he then says to the bloke behind me “Imagine if we do get into Europe”. We must have inhaled something in the smoke from those balls of flame.

There are six minutes until half-time, and Sunderland have a free-kick following a foul by Issa Diop.  Unexpectedly, a tall bloke in pink with bleached hair by the name Angulo steps up to curl the ball into the top left had corner of the Town goal just beyond the very outstretched figure of Scherpen, and the score is one all.  To add to the disappointment, although celebrating the event as one might expect, the Sunderland supporters fail to break into a version of Brotherhood of Man’s 1977 number one record “Angelo”.   

The now even first half trails off into the past with a Sunderland corner and an additional two-minutes, but the mood is still positive with Town having scored a goal and despite a bit less possession than Sunderland no evidence that the away team are more likely to score than the Town are.  With the half-time whistle I remain where I am because Ray is still in hospital and his grandson Harrison and son Michael have moved seats.

The football returns at three minutes past four and most of the ensuing half suggests that another opening day draw might be the outcome as although Sunderland have the ball much of the time they don’t do very much with it and Town are tidy with Enciso playing a starring role and looking a better player than he did two years ago.  Angulo is the second Sunderland player to be booked, for being obtuse perhaps and O’Nien the third; Sunderland are the first to make substitutions and Town win two corners before making substitutions of their own in the sixty-sixth minute.

Five minutes later, Enciso is sitting on the ground looking like he might have felt a twinge or an ache and he is replaced by Jack Clarke or as the excitable young stadium announcer calls him “Jack! Clarke!”.  Town take a little while to adjust to the loss of Enciso and in the lull Pat from Clacton shares with us that today she is wearing a new pair of ‘Ipswich Town’ blue and white knickers.  I check with her that they are definitely new, and not old, and ask if they’re comfortable. Apparently, they are.  Pat goes on to say they’re sort of “silky” and I tell her I hope she doesn’t slide off her seat.

More substitutions follow for Town, with Abdoul Outtara and Eggy replacing Nunez and Daizen Maeda with less than fifteen minutes remaining, after another Town corner.   The simmering noise of the crowd seems to ask if there is going to be a winning goal and helps erase  memories of talk of Pat’s pants. The excitable young stadium announcer then tells that we are 26, 669 and after Sunderland take the game’s final useless corner I tell myself that there’s little prospect of another goal. 

The final minute of normal time arrives and as thoughts turn to the train home, Town’s Sasa Lukic intercepts another loose Sunderland pass and sets off Jack! Clarke! to run at the Sunderland defence.  With his characteristic style Clarke! drops a shoulder and then curls the ball into the far side of the goal net with a low shot. Town are winning two-one and subject to surviving four minutes of added on time will make almost everyone who isn’t about to make a long journey up the A1 deliriously happy.

The four minutes are easily survived, there’s even some hope of a third town goal, but it’s probably best we keep that in the bank for a day when it will make a difference.  Pat from Clacton and Fiona are quickly away, Pat particularly so in her new, silky, free-moving pants, but I hang about to applaud and maximise my time spent learning what this new team look like.  The new season might have felt like it’s been a while coming,  but on the albeit slim evidence of today’s showing it’s been worth the wait.

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol City 0

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Looking back, as I often seem to do nowadays, I find that the first time I saw Ipswich Town play Bristol City was nearly forty-nine years ago. Back then, both clubs were in what has since become the Evil Premier League but this has no bearing whatsoever on the fixture that is taking place tonight at Portman Road. The past is a foreign country, which makes us all immigrants.

It’s been a dull day decorated with scudding clouds courtesy of a brisk but strangely cold southerly breeze. But then, it is January.  After a day’s work at home, I head for the railway station. The train is on time and Gary joins me on it at the first station stop. It’s dark outside so we don’t see any polar bears as the train reaches Wherstead and I’m not about to suggest the bears begin to wear dayglo gilets.    Leaving Ipswich railway station, the Portman Road football ground shines like a glorious blue and white beacon or even a jewel on Ipswich’s evening skyline. Gary, a man not known for his interest in graphic design remarks upon the clear, classic font of the letters that spell out the words ‘Ipswich Town Football Club’ on the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.

By way of a change this evening, I decide we should not walk up Portman Road, across the corner of Portman Road car park, along Great Gipping Street, up Civic Drive, across the car park where the Civic Centre used to be, up Lady Lane, over the crossing where St Matthews Street meets Crown Street, up St George’s Street, along Upper High Street and into High Street to reach the Arb.  Instead, we just walk up Princes Street and Museum Street and into High Street. Gary thinks the other way is quicker but he’s an Ipswich supporter who is awkwardly unfamiliar with Ipswich’s historic town centre and doesn’t realise how many more listed buildings we have passed tonight.

I’m first to burst through the door when we reach the Arb (not listed), and I get to the bar first to invest in a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£10 something for the two with Camra discount) for myself.  Gary heads for the cool of the beer garden whilst I linger a little longer to select a snack to help sustain me through the evening, choosing a felafel Scotch egg (£8) before joining him in the shelter (not listed) backing onto High Street, which is otherwise empty, for the time being anyway.

Our conversation meanders from Trump to religion to ‘famous’ Bristol City players (Billy Wedlock and Gerry Gow,) to how far south and east we’ve travelled, to tonight’s team and how unexpectedly cold it is this evening.  Gary buys another pint of Estrella Galicia for himself and one of Suffolk Pride for me.  I buy another half of Suffolk Pride and when there is no one else in the beer garden we up and leave; it’s a bit before twenty-five past seven.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand tonight, there are queues to be scanned for weaponry and scrap metal, it’s hard to know why, other than lots of people arriving at once or more people than usual carrying weapons and scrap metal.  But I’m soon on my way through the Football League Champions Memorial Turnstile, number 62, and after releasing spent Suffolk Pride I’m joining ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton on the lower tier of the stand.  There’s no Elwood tonight, nor man from Stowmarket (Paul), although his grandson is here with his girlfriend (Paul’s grandson’s girlfriend that is, not Paul’s), nor Fiona, who is feeling unwell.  In Fiona’s place however is Angie, who usually occupies the seat in front of Pat from Clacton.  I shout out the players’ names as best I can when the excitable young stadium announcer reads them aloud, but he’s not in time with the scoreboard.  In the questionnaire I receive from the club by e-mail after the match I will suggest he goes on a fact finding mission to Lens, Lille or Paris to see how it’s done.

When the game begins it is Ipswich that get first go with the ball, which they send mostly in the direction of me and my fellow ultras.  Naturally, Town are in blue shirts and white shorts but strangely, Bristol City, or ‘The Robins’ as they are known, presumably because of their signature red shirts, are wearing what must be their little-known winter plumage of white shirts and black shorts, like a poor man’s Germany or Port Vale.  Town are soon on the attack and win their first corner after barely three minutes. Angie remarks on the height of referee’s assistant, who although bearded like a garden gnome is much taller than the usual.  “Come On You Blues” five, or possibly six of us bawl and we do it again and then again as Town take two more corner kicks until Bristol goalkeeper Vitek punches the ball high into the air before catching it on its descent to spoil our fun.

It is the ninth minute. Jens Cajuste pirouettes to leave some hired imitation Bristolian in his wake and passes to Jack Clarke.  All floppy hair and loping gait, Clarke drops a shoulder or two, eases the ball on with a stroke of the outside of a boot, and then side foots it inside the far post past a clutch of legs from about twelve metres out. Town lead 1-0.  It’s yet another early goal from the left and Jack Clarke and Jaden Philogene who isn’t playing tonight seem to have become one.

“One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand, mysteriously goading the pensioners and conservative people in late middle age who populate the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand.  Fifteen minutes have melted into history and Town continue to do what is sometimes described as ‘taking the game to the opposition’. “Go on Wes, do ‘im” says Angie as Wes Burns receives the ball on the touchline and runs at the Bristol full-back.

But five minutes later Bristol almost score, as ‘playing out from the back’ fails to live up to expectations and Bristol get gifted a free shot on goal that Christian Walton saves rather well, giving Bristol a corner. Tension is relieved however by the sight of former ‘Blue’ Sam Morsy stepping out from what once was a dugout but now looks like a section from a short but wide open-top team bus. “He’s Egyptian, but he comes from Wolver’ampton” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of “She’s electric” by Oasis, although I might have misheard.  After Wes Burns shoots to win Town another corner that comes to nothing Sam Morsy then replaces a bloke called Adam Randell and everyone applauds arguably Town’s best captain since Matt Holland.

The first third of the match begins to slip out of sight, except as recorded highlights, and Ivan Azon wins another corner and then shoots narrowly and quite spectacularly over the Bristol crossbar from about 20 metres away.  “Ole, Ole Ole Ole, Azon, Azon” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers as they tuck into their tapas and click their castanets.  Seemingly aiming to please the home crowd further, Sam Morsy shoots wide and everyone cheers ironically, and then with no hint of irony at all the few hundred visiting supporters and possibly the fifteen-hundred or so empty plastic seats allocated to Bristol City but left unsold sing “Your support is fucking shit” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

Nine minutes until half-time and Town notch yet another corner to a tiny chorus of “Come On You Blues” before Bristol City hint at having a pact with the devil as Cajuste’s shot is blocked and Azon’s sudden follow-up attempt is deflected by unseen forces over the bar, although it is goalkeeper Radek Vitek who gets the thanks from his team mates.   With five minutes until half-time the home crowd celebrate again as referee Mr Whitestone selects Bristol’s Neto Borge to be the recipient of his first yellow card, after Borge shoves Dara O’Shea headlong into the West Stand advert hoardings.

The half comes to a close with three minutes of added-on time, another necessary save from Christian Walton and yet another hollow chorus of “Come On You Blues” from me and the other five ultras as Town’s corner count exceeds its ultra count.  Applause greets the half-time whistle, and I take a short trip to the front of the stand to speak with Harrison and his dad Michael, and briefly with Dave the steward before I head indoors to release more spent Suffolk Pride, returning in time to see the football resume at twelve minutes to nine.

Unexpectedly, it is Bristol City who win the first corner within a minute of the re-start, whilst Pat from Clacton shares the news that Angie’s bobble hat was new from the club shop tonight; nine pounds in the ‘under a tenner’ sale.  Angie wears the woollen hat well, but I don’t think such a large bobble would suit me at all.  I might write to the club to suggest the shop stocks blue berets and ITFC pin badges to be sold in tandem with prescription sunglasses for that authentic Ultra look.

Seven minutes into the latest half and Walton makes another save, this time from Emil Riis. It’s an incident that prompts Town fans to plead “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” a minute later.  Clearly struck by the crowd’s imploring cries Town up their game and Azon chases down the right before squaring the ball to Jack Clarke who sweeps the ball very precisely but stylishly inside the far post as only a man wearing a hair band can. Two-nil to Ipswich.  “We’re on our way to the Premier League” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers suddenly filled with a hitherto missing confidence, although they soon reveal that they’re a little unsure how promotion actually works chanting “How do we get there?  I don’t know”.    Moments later however they seem more certain as they launch into “Ee-I, Ee-I, Ee-I, Oh, Up the Football League We Go”, again probably for the first time this season.

Mass substitutions soon follow for Bristol City as their fabulously Germanic sounding manager Gerhard Struber trusts in ringing the changes and bringing on players called Pring and Earthy.  Although often messy, with possession changing hands a bit too frequently, the game provides plenty for the crowd to enjoy and no more so than when, possibly just for old times’ sake, Sam Morsy gets shown Mr Whitehouse’s yellow card.  But Morsy is in good company in this Bristol City team, which almost queues up to be cautioned with a series of assaults on Jack Clarke, Dara O’Shea and Ivan Azon or anyone who runs past with or stands between them and the ball.

Not to be outdone by the former insurance salesman from Austria, Keiran Mckenna makes the customary multiple substitutions too, giving opportunities for the home crowd to give dedicated applause for the excellent efforts of Azon, Burns, Cajuste, Clarke, and Nunez, who have all shown skill and endeavour in the face of a team that with the possible exception of Sam Morsy due to his religious beliefs, probably trains on rough cider.

With the second goal the game had become a matter of will we or won’t we score a third goal.  “I don’t need to get Monkey out do I” says Pat from Clacton, referring to the lucky charm who apparently used to cause instant changes of fortune for struggling Town teams upon leaving her handbag but has since lost his touch a bit.  Angie is reduced to giggling about the surname of Bristol’s Rob Dickie, whilst I enquire of her whether she thinks he’s from Billericay.  I hope she remembers Ian Dury.

It’s been a relatively comfortable game for the Town with the feeling that if we wanted or needed to, we could always try a little harder and score some more goals.  Six minutes of added on time is therefore a little unwanted for both teams probably, but we survive it.  With the final whistle we can clear off home safe in the knowledge that a third consecutive home victory over teams beginning with letter ‘B’, after just one win and two draws in consecutive games against teams beginning with the letter ‘W’ back in September and October is a slightly strange measure of how much the team has improved. It’s just a pity that if things keep on like this, we might end up in the bloody Premier League again

Ipswich Town 2 Nottingham Forest 4

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

One of the many awful things about the awful English Premier League is that it is possible to go weeks on end without a home game.  It is three weeks since Ipswich played at Portman Road, and in that time the cost of the rail fare to Ipswich has increased by about four per cent.  It feels so long since I last went to a match that I would believe it if someone told me that not only have the fares gone up, but electric trains have replaced steam ones too.  It is with a sense of dim resignation therefore that I set out for the railway station beneath a blue, but cloud strewn sky.

Gary joins me at the first station stop after I send him instructions by text that I am sat at the back of the second, forward facing, pointy-ended carriage.  The train does not seem as busy as usual as if everyone is losing interest.  Descending into Ipswich through Wherstead, we spot one polar bear having a swim and another languidly strolling along like polar bears do.  Arriving in Ipswich we head for ‘the Arb’ via Portman Road, where Gary is handed a Panini sticker, which bizarrely features the gormless, messy-haired portrait of local ginger celebrity Ed Sheeran.  I tell him he should hand it back.  We pause to buy programmes (£3.50 each) at one of the booths that look as if they should also sell ice creams.  Today’s programme has a boring picture of a footballer on the front cover, I think it’s Luke Woolfenden, but am struck by the thought that it looks a bit like Kurtan Mucklowe from TV’s This Country.  Either way, the world would be a better place if the ‘poster’ design on the inside of the back page featuring the Cobbold Stand was the front cover of the programme.  I am sure that if the poster designs had continued to be used as front covers as originally intended, Town would not be in the relegation zone. Damn you Umbro.

At ‘the Arb’, Gary buys the drinks (Lager 43 for him, Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me), and then Mick appears, and Gary buys him a drink too (Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride), and at Mick’s request, a packet of potato crisps (Fairfeld’s Cheese and Onion flavour).  We repair to the beer garden where unusually there are plenty of vacant seats and tables, further evidence perhaps that the supposed excitement of Premier League football is wearing thin, or that it’s been so long since we had a match people thought, or hoped, the season was over.  We talk of firing squads, lethal injections, the full moon over Felixstowe, Allan Hunter, kitchen tidiness and wedding anniversaries.  We laugh a lot, Gary gives Mick his sticker of Ed Sheeran, Mick buys more drinks (Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, Lager 43 and a Penderyn Welsh whisky) and we predict a 2-1 win to the Town on the understanding that we actually expect them to lose, again.  Proudly, we claim the distinction of being the last Portman Road-bound drinkers to leave the pub.

In Portman Road we part ways near Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue and wonder on what far off date we will meet again for the next home match, which we think is against the Wanderers of Wolverhampton.  I sense that we don’t care too much about what match it will be, but are already mostly looking forward to the hour to be spent in the pub beforehand. At the back of the Alf Ramsey Stand the queues are modest in length, but I join those being ushered through the side entrance, which makes me feels like I’m entering Studio 54 or some after hours boozer. After venting excess Suffolk Pride I am soon with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  I must be early again today because I’m here in time to witness the attempt to barbecue any stray pigeons and seagulls in front of the Cobbold Stand, and to shout out the surnames of Town players in the style of the ‘Magic Fans’ of St Etienne or ‘Les Dodgers’ of Lens as the overly enthusiastic young stadium announcer reads out the team before he finally, embarrassingly, bellows ‘Blue Army’ into his microphone.

Today’s visitors and therefore inevitable winners are Nottingham Forest, who also get first go with the ball, which they initially send only in the general direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  Sensibly, Nottingham wear all red, having only swapped their usual white shorts to avoid any hint of a colour clash, rather than donning some weird all-black or gaudily-coloured away kit which will sell well in replica versions in Myanmar, Papua New Guinea and South Korea, but is not necessary.

In the upper tier of the Cobbold stand the Nottingham fans sing incomprehensibly about their team, who hold on to possession for almost two minutes before Town get to have a go with it too, courtesy of a throw-in. “England’s, England’s, number ten” continue the Nottinghamians mysteriously, about a player who, unless it’s Nigel Clough, I have probably never heard of.  It’s the fourth minute and Town have a free-kick in the sort of location from which Colin Viljoen or Arnold Muhren might have easily scored in happier days, but today’s effort only strikes the defensive wall.

“Down with the Leicester, you’re going down with the Leicester” chant the Nottingham lot as I fantasize about a big wheel of red cheese, whilst the words “Home of the XL vent shipping container” scroll their way along the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand before disappearing into the side wall of the Planet Blue shop. Not much is happening on the pitch, but with a seemingly limitless but mostly unimaginative back catalogue of songs and chants, the Nottingham fans proceed to resurrect Tony Christie’s cheesy ‘Road to Amarillo’ before hitting on the old classic “Football in a library, do-do-do”.   The Nottingham Forest team seems fashionably short-haired, looking as if National Service didn’t end in the East Midlands in 1960, like it did in the rest of Britain,  but the exception is number thirty-four who resembles side-show Bob from The Simpsons, and probably has more hair on his head than all of his team mates put together; if he went to head the ball with any part of his skull but his forehead, there’s a risk the ball would disappear.

Ipswich win a corner and I bawl “Come On you Blues” with minimal accompaniment before Omari Hutchinson shoots over the cross bar. Pat is working hard taking photographs this afternoon and seems particularly interested in snapping the Nottingham number five.  “Murillo” she says. “What like the cherry?”  I ask.   Pat tells me she follows him on some social media platform or other.  “Oooh, he’s gorgeous” she says. “Take a look, you might even fancy him yourself”.     “If you hear something that doesn’t seem right” read the advertising screens between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.   I think of Gary’s Panini sticker, which he gave to Mick.

Over twenty minutes have gone forever, and Town aren’t losing.  Cruel hope and foolish optimism begin to insinuate their way into my mind.  Nottingham take a corner and still it’s goalless. “Come of You Reds” sing the occupants of one end of the Cobbold Stand. “Ole. Ole. Ole” sing the occupants of the other.   The game is a third of the way to finishing goalless.  “Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers a good two or three times and the words “Hot Sausage Company” appear above them in bold red letters moving from left to right.

The thirty fourth minute and Nottingham earn a corner as Alex Palmer’s hacked clearance cannons off Jens Cajuste.  The corner is cleared but then crossed in again, knocked down and a big bloke called Milenkovic scores.  Bugger. Two minutes later Town lose possession, have no left back and Elanga sprints away with the ball down the Town left and scores.  “We’re gonna win 3-2” says Fiona. “Yes, we’re going to win 3-2” I reply as convincingly as I can.   Five minutes later, the ball bounces and Elanga scores again.

Pat from Clacton is going to Great Yarmouth this week for her twice-yearly week of playing whist.  She’s hoping to win lots of money and is looking forward to seeing the sun rise over the sea from her bedroom at the Palm Court hotel.  “Down with the Leicester, you’re going down with the Leicester” chant the Nottingham fans, but Pat won’t mind.  The half ends with Kalvin Phillips shooting over the bar, two minutes of added on time and an obese woman walks up the steps from the front of the stand carrying a bottle of Coke and bag of crisps.

With the half-time break, I take a short walk to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison. In front of us are three ‘trainee’ guide dogs.  “What do you call a group of dogs?” asks Ray. “A pack” I tell him “So this is a pack of guide dogs”.  We go on to talk about the popular image of packs of dogs tearing other animals or even people apart, and contrast this to a pack of guide dogs who we imagine compete with one another to help people.

It’s three minutes past four when the match resumes. Town soon win a corner and Omari Hutchinson has a shot, then win another and O’Shea heads over the goal. As the man from Stowmarket remarked before the game, it’s very cold today, possibly the coldest it’s been at Portman Road all season. Kalvin Phillips is the first player to be booked because fifty-four minutes have departed and it’s about time for a booking.  Pat reveals that she’s already started looking forward to eating the baked potato she’s having for her tea.  There is a half an hour left and whilst Town are having most of the possession there’s not much going on.

The best bit of the game so far arrives when Nottingham’s Nicolas Dominguez rolls around on the ground having committed a foul, gets up, gets booked and then hobbles about pathetically. “There’s nothing wrong with you” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of Verdi’s “La Donna e mobile”, which the Argentinian Dominguez will no doubt appreciate if he’s ever been to the Teatro Colon opera house in Bueno Aires.

“It’s not worth getting monkey out, is it?” asks Pat, raising the possibility of employing her masturbating monkey good luck charm to influence the result.  “Probably not”, agree Fiona and I. “He can’t perform miracles” says Fiona, and I suggest that we’d have the RSPCA round, especially on a day as cold as this.

Town win yet another corner, but nothing comes of it and the bloke behind me comments that “You can make all these passes around the penalty area look good, but it don’t do anything does it, fart-arsing around with it?”.  As I digest the truth of this, the excitable young stadium announcer tells us that we are 29,878 and 3,000 of us are mainly here to watch Nottingham, not Ipswich;  meanwhile the Nottingham fans sing something which sounds like “We’re eating porridge”, but they could be singing about Norwich.  I resign myself to neither knowing nor caring, but instead enjoy the mass substitutions from both teams that greet the 80th minute.   What game-changing substitutions these prove to be as within two minutes Town are on their way to winning the second half.  Presumably elated at having for once not been substituted, Jens Cajuste superbly turns and scores into the top corner of the Nottingham goal.  Admittedly, just four minutes later a typical breakaway at pace allows Silva to restore the three goal lead for Nottingham, but then in one of the four minutes of added on time, substitute George Hirst rises to head into the other top corner of the Nottingham goal to win the second half for Town.  Most of the home crowd have left by now, which in itself is quite satisfying because people who leave early don’t deserve to experience the joy that late consolation goals bring to proper fans.

The final whistle sounds, and with my train home still twenty-five minutes away, I stay to applaud what people not prepared to wilfully disregard all that happened before four o’clock will fail to realise is a victorious Town team as they traipse off the pitch.  There are now just four home games left, we’re out of the FA Cup, in the relegation zone, effectively nine points behind the team above us in the league, and Spring is in the air. Today, it still feels like Winter and I suspect it will continue to do so for another four games, whatever the weather does. Up The Town!

Ipswich Town 1 Leicester City 1

/ 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 Bristol Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

When the draw for what used to be called the League Cup was made, I was quite pleased to find that Ipswich had drawn Bristol Rovers; this was because Bristol Rovers were the only one of Town’s third division opponents I didn’t see last season.  I’m not sure why that mattered, it’s not as if I keep notes on each team, although in an odd way, through this blog, I suppose I do. Oh dear.

Despite my earlier happiness at the draw, it has taken me until the night before the game to get round to buying a ticket because despite the grotty weather, in my head it’s still summer, and summer is for dreaming and for World Cups, oh, and occasionally for European Conference League qualifying games.   Football is mostly something for autumn, winter and spring.  As usual for League Cup matches, because all the seats cost a tenner I choose not to sit in my season ticket seat, but to explore one of the twenty-nine and half thousand odd other viewpoints.   Usually, I head for the best view and the padded seats of Block Y, and there are still single seats available, but craving company I texted my friend Gary to see if he is going; he is, and gives me his seat number which he tells me is close to where he usually sits in what used to be called the West Stand.  I buy the seat next to Gary which turns out to be uncomfortably  close to the corner of the ground; but it’s okay as I had warned Gary that I would blame him if the seat wasn’t very good, and now I can.  To think, I could have been in Block Y.   I also texted my friend Mick to see if he is going to the game, but he tells me that he has “no interest in the League (Carabao) Cup”, which I thought was a bit haughty of him.

Having parked up my planet-saving Citroen e-C4 in a street between Norwich Road and Anglesea Road, it’s a short walk to the Arb on High Street where I obtain a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra 10% discount). The bar is not very busy, and I tell the barman that I had expected it to be busier, but he tells me most people are in the beer garden.  He’s correct, most people are, but there are still free tables and I can only see one bloke in an Ipswich Town shirt.  I settle down to drink my unexpectedly cloudy pint, and read Issue 26 of the Turnstile Blue fanzine, a small pile of which were in the corridor between the bar and the gents.  I read an article which, in the context of the ‘fuss’ surrounding the death of the old queen, attempts to debunk the apparently mythical status afforded to former Town chairmen John and Patrick Cobbold.  The basis of the argument seems to be that they were incredibly wealthy and posh, and ‘Mr John’ drank and swore a lot.  I don’t read much more because the penetrating voice of a man possibly in his late twenties, who is with the bloke in an Ipswich shirt, and the mild but loud Ipswich accent of a woman probably in her forties are preventing me from concentrating.  After half an hour of slow supping and covering my ears, I leave for Portman Road.

Arriving in Sir Alf Ramsey Way shortly after seven-thirty, I buy a programme (£2.00) in the modern cashless manner and am then surprised to see long queues at the turnstiles.  Tonight, in the spirit of saving the planet by not using unnecessary pieces of paper, my ticket is on my mobile phone and my inner Luddite wonders if technology is the reason for the slow progress into the stadium.  Moments before reaching the turnstile, my finger slips on my phone screen  and I accidentally delete the e-mail that includes my ticket, but fortunately I know I can still find it if  I look through all my e-mails and that’s what I do.  Happily, the QR code on my e-mail also works and I pass through the turnstile just in time to drain off some Suffolk Pride and make it to my seat before the names of the Ipswich team have all been announced.  I try to call out the surnames of Town players in the manner of a French football crowd, but the ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy says Dom Ball instead of Dominic Ball and ruins things completely.

The match kicks off at fourteen minutes to eight according to the digital clock on the scoreboard. Town get first go with ball, kicking it mostly towards Sir Alf Ramsey’s stand, and are wearing the traditional blue and white kit, which this season has broad white stripes down the sleeves that from some angles make the whole sleeve look white.  Kits have to be imbued with meaning nowadays and we are told that the design is inspired by the kit worn by the promotion winning team of 2000.  When the sleeves look all white, I am reminded of our Premier League winning side of 1962.  Bristol Rovers for their part wear black shorts and white socks to cover their loins, buttocks and calves and grey shirts over their torsos.  I do not know if the Rovers shirts are imbued with meaning or not, but I like to think they are inspired by a foggy day in the Bristol Channel or specks of ghostly coal dust blown across from the South Wales pits or Cardiff docks.  Gary and I speculate as to whether we have already seen this season’s dullest kit worn by an away team at Portman Road and recall how Manchester United once wore a grey and black kit at Southampton and changed at half-time when already three or four goals down, supposedly because the players couldn’t see each other against the background of the crowd.  It seems probable from the half-time score that they couldn’t see the Southampton players either.

Town dominate possession and after just twelve minutes take the lead. A passing move down the right ends with Jack Taylor passing a ball from Kayden Jackson into the Bristol goal net.  That was easy.  I haven’t really tuned myself into the game yet however, and rather than leaping up and punching the air in a display of forgotten youthful exuberance like I would normally, I just slowly raise my bottom off my seat and applaud politely in a semi-stooped position.  Gary’s reaction is similarly sluggish. For these supporters it still feels like pre-season, the overture, or to employ a war-themed comparison popular with football pundits, like 1939, the phoney war.  Elsewhere in the stadium people are more attuned to the programme as they beat drums and chant “Blue and White Army.”

Town continue to dominate possession and occasionally come close to scoring a goal, but not close enough.  I haven’t seen Gary since July 1st, so we talk as much as we concentrate on the game.   Gary asks me what is the worst football ground I’ve ever been to. I tell him I think it was Oxford United’s Manor Ground.  He asks what the best ground was. I tell him possibly The Velodrome in Marseille, although the Allianz Riviera in Nice is pretty good when full.  Having been unexpectedly put on the spot I forget to mention the Stade Felix Boleart in Lens and the Stade Geoffrey Guichard in St Etienne.

Bristol Rovers only occasionally approach the Town goal and their first shot just creeps and bobs and bounces its way across the turf into the arms of the Town goalkeeper, the interestingly monikered Cieran Slicker. It takes a good twenty minutes or more for Rovers to have another shot and this time Grant Ward’s much more powerful shot is parried away by Slicker for what amounts to a pretty good save. It’s a moment which results in my hearing the faint call of “Come On Rovers” carried over the pitch on the warm evening air from the one hundred and twenty-three Bristolians in  the far corner of the stadium.  Otherwise, the first half of the game leaves no lasting impression on me and after a minute of time added on it’s time for Gary to nip to use the facilities whilst I stand up and try to manipulate my neck, which has grown achy and stiff from having my head turned towards the Sir Alf Ramsey stand for most of the previous forty-six minutes.

 Once Gary has returned, the ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy appears on the pitch wearing what looks like the same suit that replaced announcer Stephen Foster used to wear.  Murphy tells us he is going to talk to a Town legend and with the artificially excited intonation and words-all-rolled-into-one pronunciation of a former local radio DJ, he announces “Johnny Warks here” and Gary and I look at each other wondering who the hell Johnny Warksear is.  Johnny Wark appears on the big screen and all that’s missing are the subtitles when he speaks.

The game resumes at ten minutes to nine and my hopes of spending the second half just looking straight ahead take a dive as Bristol start quite well.  “Wo-o-o-oh, That’s the way we like it” or something like that sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of what seems to be an original composition or a song I don’t know.  Rovers are gifted a corner as Lee Evans passes the ball back to a place where Cieran Slicker isn’t standing.  But then Ipswich win a couple of corners of their own to redress the balance, before on-loan Omari Hutchinson is the first player to be booked after not so much a bad tackle as an inept one.  “Ole, Ole, Ole” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the drums up in the corner of the stand by the club shop beat; inside the shop stuff must be bouncing off the shelves.  In the seat in front of me a bloke with not much hair has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his head.    There’s a holiday feel to the crowd tonight with adults and children wearing T-shirts and shorts, looking as if they’ve been at the beach all day.  I half expect to see someome eating candy floss or wearing a ‘kiss me quick’ hat. On the pitch, the second half is reflecting the cheery mood with carefree attacking football and as result Cieran Slicker makes a spectacular save with his feet.

Substitutions arrive on sixty-six minutes with Cameron Humphryes and Sone Aluko taking a bow. Shots rain in on the Bristol goal and a corner is won.  “Oooh Sone Aluko” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand to the tune of the White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army.  Marcus Harness half-volleys the ball from close range, but too weakly to bother the Rovers’ goalkeeper.  As more substitutes warm up on the touchline in front of us I say the name of George Hirst to Gary.  “I know what you’re going to say” says Gary “He has a haircut that looks like his mum cut it using a pudding bowl”.  Gary knows me too well and is almost exactly right, but I’d say she used a side plate or small frying pan giving his hair the appearance of a little hat or beret.  I struggle so much to accept George’s haircut that if it had been up to me I wouldn’t have signed him, so it’s probably as well that it wasn’t.

In the seventy-third minute George and Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke get to make the transition from bench to pitch, but the only immediate result is that Javani Brown shoots wide of the Town goal for Bristol. Within a minute of that however, a sweet passing move down the left sees the ball relayed across the penalty area for Sone Aluko, who seems to be existing in his own isolated moment of time and space, which allows him to then pass the ball into the far corner of the Bristol goal, and Town lead 2-0. Gary tells me how his mother recently received a new copy of the local telephone directory and that there were three people in it with his surname; they were Gary, his mother and his uncle who died several years ago, but it wouldn’t surprise me if BT was a hotbed of spiritualists.

All that remains is for Murphy to announce the crowd as being 15,047 with 123 of that number being from Bristol, and for people to applaud themselves, each other, and more acceptably the travelling Bristolians.  Bristol is a long way from Ipswich on a Wednesday night, although logically no further than at any other time of day or week.  Five minutes of time are added on to ensure we get our money’s worth and when that expires we rise as one to applaud and then seep out into the night.  It’s been a decent little game, a bit low key like a pre-season match, but it’s good to see a match where none of the players appear to think winning matters more than life itself.  Bristol Rovers played their part and should have scored at least once, but on the plus side they will now have time on their hands in the middle of the week to think about what their away kit should look like next season.   As for Ipswich,  we are on our way to Wembley, my stepson and his family live in the RG24 postcode area so if I get the urge I might march on to Basingstoke, or Reading.