Liam Delap

Ipswich Town 0 Brentford 1

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It seems to have been a week of looking back on momentous events, with the 80th anniversary of the liberation of Europe, my own twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and also the forty-seventh anniversary of Ipswich Town winning the FA Cup.  Today however, I am returning to the present and am preparing to see Ipswich play Brentford, a club which back in 1978 had just won promotion from the fourth division, which perhaps helps explain why I always think of them as a ’lower division’ team, like Colchester United or Newport County.

For the first time this year It is warm enough not to need a coat, and I walk to the railway station beneath a clear blue sky.  It’s a pleasant walk, disturbed only by the loud, wailing sirens of four ambulances and a police car, which careen past me slaloming between lanes of traffic.  The train seems on time, but I don’t really know if it is, only that it smells unpleasantly of the on-board toilet.  The carriage is mostly empty and surprisingly seems devoid of Brentford fans.  Gary joins me at the first station stop and we talk of nothing much in particular, although the polar bears of Wherstead inspire a brief conversation about whatever happened to the soft drink known as ‘Cresta’, a beverage which was possibly at the height of its popularity in1978.   The fur of one of the polar bears looks very clean today and we speculate briefly about polar bears and shampoo.

In Ipswich, we head for ‘the Arb’ as quickly as Gary’s dawdling gait will allow, pausing only to buy a programme each (£3.50) at one of the booths that look as though they might also sell ice creams. As ever, I am disappointed that they don’t and that the programme seller doesn’t wish me ‘bon match’.   Today’s front cover design, which is not the front cover of the programme thanks to the evil capitalists of the Umbro sportswear company, is an ITFC version of Peter Blake’s sleeve design for The Beatles’ Sgt Pepper album.  You can’t beat a bit of Pop Art, and for a moment I find myself daydreaming of seeing Ray Crawford, Ted Phillips or Sir Alf Ramsey as they might have been portrayed by Andy Warhol, Pauline Boty or Roy Lichtenstein.

At ‘the Arb’, there is literally a queue at the bar, which I think I succeed in jumping because in my world people don’t queue at pub bars because the bar staff always know who’s next.  Happily, it’s not long before Gary and I are soon in the beer garden clutching pints of Lager 43 and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£9 something for the two with Camra discount) and looking for a place to sit. Mick appears from the back gate and while he is getting himself a pint of Suffolk Pride, Gary and I share a table with a man and a woman and two small dogs who are on a pub crawl of Ipswich’s dog friendly pubs; they’ve already been to the Woolpack and the Greyhound and have five more pubs to visit, when the dogs will qualify for ‘free’ bandanas.   I take their photo for them to record the event for their Facebook friends, and reminisce about visiting numerous Tolly Cobbold pubs in the early 1980’s in order to acquire a ‘free’ T-shirt advertising Tolly ‘Original’.

After Gary has bought a further round of drinks and Mick has promised that it will definitely be his round next time, we eventually find ourselves with empty glasses and nothing else to do but head downhill to Portman Road and the afternoon of delights that awaits us.  I bid Gary and Mick farewell somewhere near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey, which isn’t in the Pop Art style, and this is probably a good thing.  The queues at the turnstiles to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are short, but it still takes longer than expected to gain entry because of zealous use of scanners by the security staff, although I get the impression that they are losing heart because no one seems to be trying to smuggle in firearms or explosives; it can’t be good for their morale never discovering anything.

By the time I am reacquainting myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, the teams are on the pitch, balls of flame have burst into the sky, and a pall of smoke is drifting across the pitch as if all the explosives the security staff had hoped to find, but hadn’t,  had been let off at once.  The excitable young stadium announcer, whose grey suit looks as if he’s only just got it back from Sketchley’s reads out the teams and I bawl the Town players’ surnames as if I was in the tribunes of the Stade du Moustoir, Lorient or Stade Gabriel-Montpied, Clermont Ferrand.

Ipswich, sporting their usual blue shirts and white shorts get first go with the ball and are mostly trying to kick it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras.  Meanwhile, Brentford sport their traditional red and white striped shirts and black shorts, although closer inspection reveals that the black of the shorts bleeds into the red of the stripes and there are black bits underneath the armpits of the shirts too, as if the players were all using an experimental pitch or creosote-based under arm deodorant.

The game has only just begun, but already I’m thinking that Conor Chaplin is looking different today.  At first I think it must be his haircut, but then decide he has a beard, although such thoughts are suddenly swept away as Omari Hutchinson crosses and Liam Delap heads towards the goal, but Mark Flekken the Brentford goalkeeper, who is Dutch but has a French tri-colour against his name on the back of the programme makes a neat but not overly difficult save.  ‘Edison House Group’ reads the electronic billboard at the far end of the ground, and although I try not to, I hear ‘Love grows where my Rosemary goes’ playing in my head.

Ten minutes pass and Brentford begin to hog the ball, and then they win the game’s first corner.  “Football in a library” sing the Brentford fans perhaps expecting us to cheer their corner, and Pat asks who the well-known Brentford players are so she can photograph them.  But Fiona and I don’t really think any of them are well-known, although Fiona has heard of Mark Flekken.  I tell Pat I expect they’re well-known in Brentford.  With fifteen minutes up, the referee Mr Barrott, whose surname pleasingly rhymes with carrot decides it’s time Brentford scored from a corner and keeps giving them corners until they do.  Part way through the catalogue of corners the match is paused for VAR to check for a possible penalty due to over-enthusiastic grappling. “Place your bets” I tell Fiona and Pat from Clacton, but surprisingly no penalty is awarded, although Jack Taylor and Christian Norgaard are both booked.    From the next corner however, Brentford score as Kevin Schade, who in his spare time also plays for  Germany, rises unopposed at the near post and heads just inside the far post.

Ten minutes elapse after we rapidly come to terms with the likelihood of another home defeat, and Town then win a corner of their own.  “Come On You Blues” I bellow, hopefully, but the ball doesn’t even get past the first Brentford defender, who is stood at the near post. “Gotta beat the first man” says the bloke behind me censoriously.  The familiar sound of ironic cheers follows two minutes later as Omari Hutchinson wins a rare free kick for Town,  but two minutes later Brentford have the ball back and Alex Palmer is making a decent save to prevent a goal.

The final seven minutes of the half witness corners to both sides, more chants of “football in a library” from the Brentford supporters, Jack Taylor shooting wide of the goal and Pat from Clacton complains about the bloke behind her constantly talking (and swearing), most weeks as Pat tells us, there’s a “…nice, quiet older man sitting there”. 

After two minutes of added on time, half-time arrives as expected and the disappointments of the first half are forgotten as I go to the front of the stand to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison, applaud the promotion winning women’s team, see Harrison’s 21st birthday announced on the big screen  and finally  enjoy a Polish Przy Piatczku chocolate wafer bar courtesy of  the World Foods aisle in Sainsbury’s.  Unfortunately, the chocolate on one side of the wafer has melted in the warmth of the afternoon, and through being in my pocket , so after I’ve eaten it I have to ask Fiona if I’ve got any chocolate around my mouth; I haven’t and I think she’s pleased she’s not going to have to dab anything off with a hanky as if she were my mum.  

The second half brings the usual misleading, renewed hope, and after ten minutes Jack Clarke, or “Jack Claaarke” as the excitable young announcer calls him replaces Conor Chaplin.  Pat from Clacton shifts her attention away from the constant talking of the bloke behind her to the Brentford manager Thomas Frank, who apparently is “always chewing” and with his mouth open too, yuck.   More substitutions follow just five minutes later as Jens Cajuste and George Hirst replace Jack Taylor and Liam Delap.   Alarmingly, George Hirst has dyed his hair blond and now looks like a cross between a Midwich cuckoo and Sick Boy in the film of Trainspotting.

The game is a little more than two-thirds over and I’m beginning to feel a bit annoyed like Pat from Clacton, but my irritation isn’t down to talking and chewing, but down to the Brentford players who, when not charging at the Town players ( I think it’s called ‘pressing’), seem a whingy, whiny lot who are constantly running to the referee, ‘pressing’ him to give them free-kicks.  I begin to wonder if Brentford aren’t called The Bees because they’re always buzzing around the referee, although having grown up in the country I’d be tempted to liken them more to flies around a cow’s arse.   

Another Brentford corner brings another VAR check for a possible penalty, which is again turned down, this time with the explanation that there had been ‘mutual holding’,  which in the privacy of one’s own home sounds quite appealing and probably explains why no one was booked this time. Less appealing is a somewhat reckless overhead kick by Yoane Wissa which makes contact not with the ball, but with Jacob Greaves’ face, although fortunately he is not hurt and manfully he carries on despite the taste of dubbing.

The closing fifteen minutes of the match play out in a way that cruelly allows Town fans to retain hope of an equaliser,  which of course never comes.  Sam Morsy shoots over, George Hirst bursts through and shoots powerfully wide, Omari Hutchinson shoots beyond a far post too and Town win more corners.   Today’s attendance is announced by the now unctuous sounding but still excitable young stadium announcer as 29,511, of whom 2,953 are here for ‘the Brentford’ and indeed “You’re only here for the Brentford” is what they touchingly sing to one other.  Five minutes of added on time produce another shot on goal for Town which I think is saved, but before it was it had me off my seat almost thinking it was a goal.

The final whistle is greeted with applause for the Town players today and the realisation that with a bit more luck we might have got a draw and we would have deserved it, and so perhaps, like the season as a whole, it hasn’t been a complete waste of time.

Ipswich Town 1 Wolverhampton Wanderers 2

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This week has felt somewhat depressing, probably because I have been reading ‘The Kevin Beattie Story’ as told to Rob Finch (Cult Figure Publishing 2007).  It’s a sorry tale of lost innocence and cruel fate and its sadness was not helped by the fact that my copy of the book had belonged to a close, longstanding friend who sadly died; his wife kindly asked me if I’d like any of his collection of ITFC related stuff, and the Beattie book was the one thing I didn’t have in my own museum.

Wednesday’s win for the Town in Bournemouth perked me up a bit, although I hadn’t bothered to find it on the telly, preferring to watch the second semi-final of the Coupe de France between AS Cannes and Stade de Reims.  But now, as I step out into a bright blue Saturday afternoon, my mood has performed a summersault, and I can only think of a Town home win, a series of further improbable wins and the greatest escape from relegation ever seen.  The season starts now and given that today’s game is only the second match at Portman Road in almost six weeks, it genuinely feels like it.

Unhappily, my journey to the match begins with a rail replacement bus service, but on the plus side I sit across the gangway from a woman of retirement age brandishing an ‘Extinction Rebellion’ placard.  I think to myself how I might like to go on some demos in my retirement.  As a baby-boomer, moulded by the 1960’s I think I owe it to future generations to stoke up a bit of revolution before I shuffle off this mortal coil.  The diesel engine powered bus ride is mercifully brief and I’m soon with Gary on an electric train to Ipswich looking out for polar bears.  We sit at a table and a man about the same age as me, possibly a little younger, sits down opposite us, first asking if we don’t mind if he sits there. “As long as you don’t disturb us” I tell him, by which I really mean “As long as you don’t join in with our conversation”, and that of course is exactly what he does.  I’m not sure why I feel averse to social interaction today, perhaps it’s because with no match for three weeks I ‘ve become overly introverted.

Our arrival in wonderful down-town Ipswich is heralded by loud chanting from the car park of the Station Hotel where Wolverhampton supporters are singing “We are Wolves, We Are Wolves, We Are Wolves”.  Such loud, pre-match singing has been unusual from visiting supporters this season and Gary and I speculate as we head for the Arb, that either the beer here in Ipswich is stronger than they’re used to in Wolverhampton, or they’ve all arrived early and been here for several hours.  Gary asks if I’m going to get an ice cream; I tell him I am, but as usual I come away from the blue booth with just a match programme (£3.50).

At the Arb, there is no queue for the bar and I am soon stood in the beer garden holding my pint of  Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and one of something called Rosa Blanca belonging to Gary (the Lager 43 is ‘off’), as I wait for him to emerge from the toilet.  He takes an age, so regrettably I can’t help surmising that he must ‘doing a number two’.   Mick does not join us today because he is watching his paramour’s granddaughter play for Ipswich Town Under-16 girls against Leeds United at Needham Market (kick off 12:30).  I assume that the Leeds team is also made up of under 16 girls. After another pint of Suffolk Pride for me and an Estrella Damme for Gary, (he didn’t like the Rosa Blanca) it’s gone twenty to three and is time to leave for Portman Road and the main event of the day.

The back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand is thick with queues when I arrive and as I stand in line I pass the time by looking up at the dark metal fascia of top of the stand, which is impressively streaked with guano, although there is not a seabird to be seen, as if when asked they will say “it was like that when we got here” .  The queue to turnstile 62 is as ever the slowest, so I switch to the seemingly better lubricated turnstile 61, but I’m still syphoning off excess Suffolk Pride as the team is read out and by the time I am reacquainting myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood, all trace of the excitable, young and somewhat lanky stadium announcer, and his sidekick Boo Boo, has gone.

It’s the Town that get first go with the ball this afternoon and naturally sporting the famous blue and white they are soon getting the ball to travel in the direction of the goal just in front of me and my fellow fifty plus (with the exception of Elwood) Ultras.  Wolverhampton are almost in their signature gold and black kit, but disappointingly their black shorts seem to be in the wash and their ‘gold’ shirts and substitute shorts aren’t that golden, more of a dark yellow, so anyone who is a bit short-sighted, or just contrary like me, might think they’re a poor man’s Cambridge United.

Pat is soon asking me if I’m well and we exchange complaints about aching knees and joints, it’s been that kind of a week.  “Oh when the Town go marching in” chant the north standers miserably as if we’ll be doing it under duress, and the Wolverhampton number twenty-seven shoots over the Town cross bar.  “Ed Sheeran, what a wanker, what a wanker” sing the Wulfrunians, as well they might, given that they share their love for their team with the likes of Robert Plant and Noddy Holder.

The Wolverhampton number nine shoots and Palmer saves as the prequel to repetitive chants of “Come on Wolvers” which are the soundtrack to three consecutive corners before Town earn a couple of corners of our own and I get to bellow “Come On You Blues”,  which always seems to amuse Pat from Clacton,   Then the ball is crossed in again.  Dara O’Shea heads the ball back across goal and Liam Delap slides in to score, and Town lead one-nil. “Liam Delap, Ole,” chant the multilingual home supporters and Pat from Clacton snaps pictures of our hysterical faces.    This is what being in the First Division is supposed to be like, but then reality bites as we have to wait for VAR to confirm that what we think we saw, we really saw.  “VAR don’t work in football” says the bloke behind me bitterly as we grow cold and old waiting for the decision, which presumably takes so long because there is controversy over whether the blade of grass on the toe of Liam Delap’s boot is a part of his boot, in which case he’d be offside, or part of the pitch, in which case he isn’t.  Surprisingly perhaps, the goal stands, and feeling even more excited than I did when we actually scored, I celebrate all over again.

High on the goal and VAR decision I am  more convinced than ever that the Town will escape relegation, and decide that the Wolverhampton number seven, who mysteriously is just called ‘Andre’ , looks a bit like Freddie Mercury.  Naturally intrigued, Pat from Clacton zooms in on him with her camera and disappointingly concludes that he looks nothing like him.  It must have been the spring sunlight playing across his dark moustache.  “Balustrades” reads the electronic advert between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Strand, and then “Hot Sausage Company”, before then trying to convince us  it is the ideal place to get one’s pre-match meal, making me wonder in the interests of a balanced diet what vegetables they serve to accompany the hot sausage.

Life winds down towards half-time with an indirect free-kick on the edge of the Town six yard box after Alex Palmer misjudges a back pass and has to make a diving save to prevent the ball from going into the goal.   Another lengthy delay ensues as the referee struggles to employ the ten-yard rule within a space of only six yards, and predictably perhaps Wolverhampton miss anyway.  Alex Palmer is booked for encroachment, probably because he felt responsible.   Incredibly, but thankfully, only three minutes of added on time are added on and the first half ends with the home crowd feeling quite content with our lot.

Half-time is a blur of talking to Ray and his grandson Harrison, feeling a spot of water on my hand from the  sprinklers on the pitch, syphoning off more Suffolk Pride and eating an oddly named ‘Alibi’ chocolate bar,  which I found in the World Food aisle at Sainsbury’s and which comes from Poland and is a bit like a plain chocolate Toffee Crisp, but bigger; rather nice.

The football resumes at five minutes past four under the same clear blue sky that’s been here all day.  “Come On Wolvers, Come On Wolvers” is quaintly reprised up in the Cobbold Stand, Wolverhampton win a corner and Ipswich win two, but it is the team from the Black Country who are mostly running at the Town defence with the ball and looking quite good, much better than they did in the first half, unfortunately.  Silky Nathan Broadhead is replaced by the more combative Jack Taylor for Town.   There are only twenty minutes left and Town still lead but it doesn’t feel like it. “Come on Wolvers” continue the Wulfrunians and a SWAT team snatches away one of their number who has presumably been being doing something good football spectators shouldn’t. I beginning to think that the Wolverhampton team is a bit whingy, whiny and rough and a bad influence on their supporters.   “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers referencing football hooliganism of yore in solidarity with the naughty boys of Wolverhampton.

After the seventy first minute, the seventy-second minute turns up as we expected it would, but with unexpected consequences as Wolverhampton’s Pablo Sarabia turns on the edge of the penalty area and shoots with no particular power at the Town goal.  From where I am sitting I am fully expecting Alex Palmer to dive across to his left and palm the ball away, but instead the ball unsportingly evades him and carries on onto the corner of the net.  Town are no longer winning and life is suddenly not as sweet as it was a few moments ago.  Of course, VAR has to give us false hope that a loose thread from a gold shirt was in an offside position and might have distracted Palmer,  but it is not to be and our pain is doubled with the seemingly inevitable confirmation that the goal was indeed a goal.

“We are Wolves, We are Wolves” chant the visiting Wulfrunians, at last feeling bold enough to identify themselves in public, and by way of confirmation we are told that there are 2,955 of them  amongst a total crowd of 29,549 and we are all thanked for our “incredible support,” which I can’t help thinking  gets a little less incredible and a little more ordinary every time we are told that it’s incredible.   Meanwhile, back in the Cobbold stand the Wulfrunians have broken free of their shackles and launched into a chorus of the socialist anthem the Red Flag, although despite the lyrics of the song expressly forbidding it, they have changed the colour of the flag from red to gold. Flippin’ revisionists.

Ten minutes of normal time remain as hopelessly inaccurate shots rain in on the Town goal and the Wolverhampton fans gain in confidence to the extent that they tell us we’re “Going down with the Albion”, by which I assume they must mean Burton Albion because both West Bromwich and Brighton & Hove are both securely mid-table.  Either their barbed taunts provoke a reaction, or Keiran McKenna looks at his watch and realises it’s nearly tea-time as he makes a sudden rash of substitutions with Delap, Townsend and Cajuste replacing Philogene, Davis and Hirst on the bench.  The changes unfortunately bring disaster for Town as within three minutes a run into the box and a low cross allows a large Norwegian by the name of Strand Larsen to score a close-range goal similar to that which Delap scored in the first half.  “Like a a bag of cement” says the bloke behind me about some Town defender or other. “Piss poor” he concludes.  VAR twists the knife by again making us wait for confirmation that the goal was a goal, as all hope at first slowly but then more quickly bleeds out of us.

Seven minutes of added time are of no help; we lose and are well beaten by a more skilful, more exciting, more proficient team, interestingly made up entirely of players from Portugal, Brazil, France, Spain and other countries that aren’t England.   But the league table still says that they are the next worst team after us.

Not to worry, this sorry tale of a season of lost innocence and cruel fate will soon be over.

Ipswich Town 1 Tottenham Hotspur 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 1 Southampton 2

/ martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

It’s not been a particularly good week, I’ve been tired, bored and feeling lazy a lot of the time, and have been trying not to think about football.  Ipswich have scored once and conceded twelve goals in their last three league matches, and I’ve dreamt that they will lose again on Saturday.  But then it has been January, and the days are mostly still short and miserable, even if they are growing longer and promising to be brighter.   Now, suddenly, it’s February and Town are about to play Southampton, by far the worst team in the league.  As people are wont to say, what can possibly go wrong?

It’s a dull, chilly day and the train is a minute late, another wasted, pointless minute in which all I do is introduce more carbon dioxide into the atmosphere.  I sit on the left-hand side of the train carriage because when I did that before, Ipswich beat Chelsea, actually beat them; our only home win in the league this season, so far.  Opposite me, a woman stares down at her mobile phone and I have to listen to the annoying jingles and voices emanating from it.  Why does she think it’s acceptable to disturb other people’s peace like this? Naturally, I don’t ask her, but instead look at my own mobile phone, checking the latest score in the match between Pen-y-Bont and Haverfordwest County in the Welsh Premier League, it’s nil-nil.  I log on to S4C-Clic where the game is being shown live, but it’s half-time so there’s nothing to see.  Happily, when we get nearer to Ipswich the woman puts her phone away, as if acknowledging that we’re approaching civilisation where social standards are higher. Descending through Wherstead I spot a polar bear, just the one today.

Arriving in Ipswich there is sunshine and blue sky emerging from behind the clouds; I have my train ticket ready on my phone and opt for human contact, heading for the gate where there is a ticket collector.  I show him the weird square bar code thing on the e-mail from Greater Anglia, I think it’s called a QR code, but he says he needs to see the ticket, I thought it was the ticket.  “Don’t worry” I tell him, “I’ll go through the automatic gate, it’ll be easier” and it is.

I walk briskly over Princes Street bridge, past the police station and into Portman Road where I pause to buy a programme (£3.50) and find myself approaching the programme seller from one direction, exactly as another man approaches from another; we’re set to collide, which makes the programme seller smile, and I do too, but the other man doesn’t, so I adjust my stride and nip in, in front of him. As I continue on to the Arb, programme zipped into an inside pocket of my coat,  I wonder at all the thousands of ‘new’ Town fans in the streets on a matchday lunchtime.  What did they used to do when Mick McCarthy was manager? Some of them don’t even look like football fans, more like visitors to a theme park.

At the Arb, I’m soon served with a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£4.14 with Camra discount) and am heading for a seat at the one free table in the beer garden, which seems to have been left just for me.  Mick isn’t here yet, so I look at the match programme and enjoy the cover which thanks to the philistines at nasty Umbro (You can stick Umbro up your bum bro’) is inside the back page. Today, the inspirations for the design we are told, are the covers of jazz LP’s and Conor Chaplin, who appears with a halo which, given that he is a Pompey boy, suitably ‘sticks it’ to the Saints of Southampton.  My wife, a Pompey girl would approve, and she doesn’t approve of much.

Mick soon appears, saving me from having to read too much of the programme, and mysteriously asks me if I’ve ordered anything to eat. He heads for the bar and returns with a pint of Suffolk Pride and we talk of clearing his dead neighbour’s house, Donald Trump’s insane ramblings, the film of ‘A man called Otto’ and when football club boardrooms were populated with the owners of local businesses.  Mick eats a vegetarian Scotch Egg before I buy another pint of Suffolk Pride for me and a Jamieson whisky for him (£8 something with Camra discount for the beer).  By twenty-eight minutes to three we are alone in the beer garden and we speculate as to why people are so keen to get to Portman Road early.  Mick laughs that there will be queues at the turnstiles for the West Stand  in Sir Alf Ramsey Way but he will walk on to the end turnstile where there will be no queue.  We agree that ‘people’ are so stupid, “Brexit voters.” I tell him, and we laugh some more.

We leave the Arb at about twenty to three and part ways near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey. Mick asks what the next match is, I have no idea, and revel in our ignorance, like people do.  The back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand is thick with people, so I take the long way round to approach turnstile 62 where the queue moves at an acceptable pace and I ask the security person if he’d like me to strike a pose as he waves his firearm detector over me; he smiles broadly and seems happy for me to do so, and so I go for something that is a cross between John Travolta and Usain Bolt .

The excitable young stadium announcer has already excitedly announced the Town team by the time I join Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood on the bottom tier of the stand. The game begins, and it is Southampton who get first go with the ball aiming it the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Town are of course in blue and white, but Southampton stupidly sport a pointless, unnecessary away kit of yellow shirts with navy blue shorts. The yellow is of a horribly pale washed out shade, as if their shirts from the 1976 FA Cup final had been very hard wearing and in constant use  for most of the past forty-nine years.

I can smell meat pie as the supporters of both clubs exercise their voices beneath a light blue afternoon sky and Town win an early corner through on-loan Paraguayan Julio Enciso.  It’s an early chance to chant “Come On You Blues” and I do, which is just as well because unbeknown to me, it will be the only corner Town win.  “If you see something that doesn’t look right send a message to the clubs dedicated reporting number” announces the illuminations across the centre of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  I think to myself that Southampton’s shirts fit that description, but is that what they mean?

Ten minutes pass into history and the incisive Enciso has a shot which Southampton ‘keeper Ramsdale saves.  “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” chant the home crowd and Pat from Clacton talks to Fiona about having seen Peter Andre.  Back on the pitch, Southampton seem to be unexpectedly dominating possession. I had thought that this might be one of the few games that the Town would dominate.  ”Bloody dangerous going forward. Awful at the back” says the bloke beside me of Southampton and I notice that Axel Tuanzebe has had his hair braided, I guess he had a lot of time on his hands when he was out injured.

Another eleven minutes pass by and Southampton score, getting down Town’s left and pulling the ball back for Aribo, the Premier League player whose name most resembles that of a brand of jelly sweets, to awkwardly bounce a shot past a diving Aro Muric. “Oh bugger” is surely the collective thought of twenty-seven thousand people, even those in the family enclosure, whilst the two-thousand nine hundred odd Southampton fans in the top tier of the Cobbold Stand begin singing about saints going marching in, confirming what Martin Luther already knew centuries ago that the Roman Catholic church has a lot to answer for.  Buoyed by their religious fervour and one-nil lead, the Southamptonites attempt to be humourous by  singing “Sit down if you love Norwich”  before moving on to chants of “Your support is fucking shit”.  Crushed by their untamed wit, grown men in the top tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand openly weep.  

Ten minutes have passed since the fateful goal and Southampton are now playing a game of strategic fouls to break up play, but when Liam Delap bundles past Bednarek with a pass from Nathan Broadhead, he is through with only Ramsdale to embarrass, which he does and Town are deservedly level. “Our number nineteen, Liam Delap” shouts the excitable young stadium announcer adding ear popping emphasis to the letter ‘P’ in Delap.  “Hot Sausage Co” say the illuminations between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and Nathan Broadhead almost adds a second goal, but his shot is saved by Ramsdale.

Half-time looms with Town on top. Southampton’s number forty, Welington is booked for a very blatant foul and I tell Fiona he used to play for Wimbledon, with Orinoco, who, along with Tomsk,  she seems to know all about.  Omari Hutchinson runs and shoots at Ramsdale, and three minutes of added time are added on as the excitable young stadium announcer confirms “That’s three minutes added time”, just in case we weren’t paying attention the first time he said it.

With half-time, I eat a Slovakian Horalky wafer and syphon off excess Suffolk Pride before, as tradition dictates, speaking to Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game expresses surprise that I’m not wearing a Pompey favour on account of Mrs Brooks being a Pompey fan, but I tell him I am just under strict instructions that Town must win.  At four minutes past four the football returns beneath a clear blue sky with all clouds having dispersed, and the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson stand turns pale orange like Donald Trump in the soft glow of the winter’s afternoon sunlight.

Southampton have made a substitution replacing a local Hampshire firm of solicitors Taylor Harewood-Bellis with Jack Stephens,  who himself is substituted ten minutes later to be replaced by Will Smallbone, a character from Charles Dickens’ Old Curiosity Shop, possibly.  Jens Cajuste treats us to one of the worst shots ever seen at Portman Road as his shot fails to travel in the general direction of the goal at all.  An hour has passed and Southampton, the ‘Scummers’ as my wife and many others call them, win a corner.  Nathan Broadhead takes a rest and Philogene replaces him, and with game two thirds over and Town not winning against the league’s biggest duffers, the crowd seems impatient.  Pat tells us that at the end of May she’s going on cruise around the western Mediterranean which takes in Rome, Corsica and Sardinia; it should be better than this match is turning out to be.

Only sixteen minutes of normal time remain. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” chant the crowd, beginning to sound desperate.  Jack Taylor replaces Jens Cajuste and the excitable young announcer tells us that we number 29,902, with 2,961 of us not really being ‘of us’ ,but of the other lot.  “Pompey get battered everywhere they go” sing the other lot as they display, given their status as the only club in the English professional leagues not to have reached double figures in their points tally, considerably less grasp on the concept of irony than even the average American.

With the match into its last ten minutes, Southampton edge into the lead in the corner count before a break down the left from substitute Sulamana ends with a shot, which Muric initially saves.  But Muric cannot hold the ball and Southampton’s number thirty-two, Paul Onuachu , a man so huge he didn’t need to be in the Town half to do this, just sticks out a leg ahead of Jacob Greaves and pokes the ball into the net .  Defeat was unthinkable, but now it’s not being thought, it’s actually being witnessed.  Some of Town’s famously loud and loyal supporters leave, and some of their famously less loud, less loyal ones do too.

It doesn’t look like Town are going to win this now,  even though when eight minutes of added time are announced I tell Fiona this gives us so much time we can probably win four-two.  Of course, it doesn’t, and the eight minutes evaporate into a cloud of frustration, which finally condenses with the referee’s final whistle into a stream of boos, mostly, I hope to think, from the people who weren’t present when Mick McCarthy was manager.

So, the Town have lost to the team which is likely to go down in history as the one with the worst record of any top division team, a team we all expected to beat.  Whatever, we’ll just have to beat some teams we’re not expected to beat, or get relegated; that’s what comes of running towards adversity I guess, death or glory.

Ipswich Town 0 Brighton & Hove Albion 2

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It’s been a much more eventful, activity-packed day than usual, with visits to my dentist and my surviving aged parent, a bit of driving around Ipswich, and spending my once a week day in the office, from the window of which I saw the Brighton and Hove Albion team bus drive by.   It’s nevertheless been a grey day, but now, as I pass through the portals of ‘the Arb,’ darkness has fallen and as it’s not raining or snowing the weather is no longer noticeable, although for January it’s quite mild.  Most incredible of all however, today is Thursday, and the Town will be playing at home tonight.  Foolishly nostalgic, I pine for the days when no football was ever played on a Thursday unless it happened to be Boxing Day, or two clubs were embroiled in multiple FA Cup replays, such as when Ipswich gloriously beat Leeds United on Thursday 27th March 1975, or less gloriously lost at home to West Ham United on Thursday 6th February 1986. But whatever, I’m here now.

In the present, Mick is already stood at the bar ordering a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and some food and he kindly buys me a pint of the same, and when I say I want to order some food too, he says he’ll pay for that as well; what a great bloke he is.  We repair to the beer garden, which is deserted, and wait for our food.  Over vegetarian burgers with what we think are sweet potato chips, we discuss how our lives and attitudes have been shaped by passing the 11-plus and being sent from rural primary schools to ‘posh’ schools at the expense of the County Council,  working class people’s mistrust of authority,  comedy, and how the environmentally friendly ‘Ecover’ cleaning brand is actually owned by evil multi-national Johnson and Johnson. After another pint of Suffolk Pride for me, and a Jura whisky for Mick because I misheard the bar maid when she said they only had Jamieson Stout and thought she said that the Jamieson is ‘out’, it is nearly ten past seven and time to exit through the now totally deserted bar towards Portman Road.

With ten minutes until kick-off, Portman Road is thick with queues, but I buy a programme from a queue-free seller and make my way around to approach the Sir Alf Ramsey stand from the direction of Russell Road. I join a shuffling queue but am quickly ushered towards a side gate in the style of Mr Benn and find myself inside the stadium just in time to bawl out the surnames of Burns, Broadhead, Hutchinson and Delap like a Frenchman would, as the excitable young stadium announcer reads out the Town team.  Around me, the familiar faces of Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, but not his son Elwood, who is absent tonight, await the imminent kick-off to a soundtrack of na-na-nas from The Beatles’ song ‘Hey Jude’.  Kick-off is delayed however because tonight is the annual “Memorial Matchday” and we are told that a minute’s applause for recently deceased Town fans will begin with the referee’s whistle, but instead it starts straight away, so keen are the remaining Town fans to celebrate the dead. Perhaps football has finally replaced religion.

It’s Brighton who get first go with ball, which they mostly try to send in the direction of the goal fronting the Sir Bobby Robson stand; they wear a kit of all yellow, just as they did when I first saw them play a league game at Portman Road back in 1980.  Unless you’re FC Nantes, in which case it’s your home kit, all-yellow is the anonymous, archetypal away kit, which is what away kits used to be before everything was put up for sale, or ‘monetised’.  The Town are of course in blue and white.

“Al-bion, Al-bion” chant the Brighton fans boringly, as if they’re here under duress, before launching off into some song or other which at one point sounds disturbingly like ‘On The Ball City’.  On the pitch, Brighton start well, selfishly keeping the ball to themselves.  “Who’s the Brighton manager?” asks Pat from Clacton.  He’s German isn’t he says Fiona.  “I don’t know who he is” I reply, “Alan Mullery?”.   “Alan Mullery!” says Pat as if she’s really saying “Pffft”.   “I suppose Steve Foster is playing at the back is he?” scoffs Fiona.  Behind me, two blokes discuss the Brighton team, although this mostly consists of them saying players’ names and then adding “Yeah, he’s good”.

Brighton claim the game’s first corner in the eighth minute and we are treated to more morose repetition of “Al-bion, Al-bion”, which compares unfavourably with what I expected to hear, which was the much more upbeat “Sea-gulls, Sea-gulls”.  But in the final league table of disappointment over the course of the evening I don’t expect it to rank highly.  Ten minutes have passed and so far the game is all Brighton, and Ipswich fans are looking to the floor or the sky and whistling as if a little embarrassed, before some Bobby Robson standers eventually sing “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” in an attempt to change the subject.

“Thank you to today’s sponsors” reads the illuminated strip between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby stand but I quietly curse Umbro for apparently objecting to the poster style front page of the programme like philistine, money-obsessed bastards. The Brighton fans sing “Football in a library, der, der, der” to no particular tune.  Twenty minutes pass and Brighton have dominated them all, but without looking as if they will score, and therefore the belief remains that if only Ipswich can keep the ball for more than a few seconds they might nip away and demonstrate to Brighton what the point of the game is.  Brighton win another corner to no effect, before hope springs from the fleet of foot Nathan Broadhead, who runs away down field, shoots and the modern equivalent of Perry Digweed makes a diving save to give Town a corner and an opportunity to shout “Come On You Blues” with feeling .  It’s an event that changes the pattern of the game and enlivens the home crowd as chants of “Blue and white army” ring out. The twenty fifth minute, and Omari Hutchinson runs and shoots and ‘Digweed’ saves again.  “Town have woken up.“ says the bloke behind me and three minutes later Liam Delap runs and shoots at ‘Digweed’ too.  The words “Mezzanines, Staircases” flash across the front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and Liam Delap oafishly barges his marker Paul van Hecke, to the amusement of many, and referee Mr Harrington awards a free kick.  Moments later Delap is fouled by van Hecke in what looks like revenge, but Harrington plays on.  “Winding him up” says the bloke behind me.

The Town continue to look the most likely team to score; Hutchinson sends Wes Burns down the right, Burns pulls the ball back but Jens Cajuste and Hutchinson both go to shoot at once and bounce off one another like Keystone Cops as the ball runs on and is cleared.  “Blue and white army, Blue and white army.” Chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers over and over and over again. Pat from Clacton tells me she had her tea before she came out; toad in the hole.  Brighton win a corner, “Al-bion, Al-bion.”  “Blue and white army, Blue and white army, Blue and white army.”  Two minutes to half-time and again Hutchinson shoots and ‘Digweed’ saves.  A minute of added on time is taken from the well of infinity and I wonder if we get ‘added on time’ when we’re about to die; if so, I expect to get quite a bit, some for the few days when I was in a coma in 2019, but mostly just for time wasting.  With that minute soon gone forever and half-time in full swing I go down to the front of the stand to chat with Ray, who with his wife Ros has been on a cruise to the unfortunately named Canary Isles and has missed the last three home matches.  He was sick in the Bay of Biscay too; I’m glad I stayed at home, not that I was invited, that would have been very weird.

The football resumes at twenty-eight minutes to eight.  “RJ Dean Plasterers” say the bright lights of the illuminated adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I think of Pearl and Dean the cinema advertisers before Liam Delap seemingly barges Joel Veltman just for the hell of it, like a sort of hobby to undertake in idle moments; Delap is booked.  Four minutes later, Joao Pedro, Brighton’s number nine, raises the level of violence as he flies through the air to shoulder charge Christian Walton.  Pedro is also booked, despite much baying for a red card from home fans, and VAR confirms that a yellow card is sufficient censure, possibly because he didn’t draw blood.

The half is almost twelve minutes old and the ball drops to Wes Burns in the Brighton penalty area, but his snapshot carries on beyond the far post.  It will prove to be the Town’s last decent attempt on goal and the game is about to change course as within two minutes Jacob Greaves can’t quite stop a ball from going beyond him and Yasin Ayari gets behind the Town defence and pulls the ball back to O’Riley, but it’s Mitoma who sweeps it into the net.  It’s the goal either Jens Cajuste or Omari Hutchinson would have scored in the first half had they not both tried to score it at the same time. 

It’s only 1-0, we’ve been one down before, but from here on Town are not going to be in the game. Pedro turns and forces an excellent flying save from Walton, Brighton win corner after corner and Town play the ball across their defence but seldom retain possession as far away as the centre circle.  Substitutions make no difference and finally, eight minutes from the end of normal time a free kick on the left is played into the Town penalty area, is deflected onto Jack Taylor and falls to Georginio Rutter, who is able to turn and stroke the ball into the Town goal.  VAR decides that the man on the pitch with the best surname, Lewis Dunk was not interfering with play when stood offside and Town are losing two-nil.

“How shit must you be , we’re winning away” sing the Brighton supporters, putting yet another set of carefully crafted lyrics to the football supporters’ staple ‘Sloop John B’, and the excitable young stadium announcer tells us that our ‘incredible’ support numbers 29,403, although 2,977 of us have been shouting for the wrong  but nevertheless winning team.

Six minutes of additional time fail to adequately atone for the lost hope and disappointment suffered, and with the final whistle Pat from Clacton, Fiona and ever-present Phil are away faster than greyhounds out of a starting trap.  I’m hot on their heels as I try to put distance between myself and the scene of yet another of life’s failures but feel a bit like I’m the dog who’s been doped.  I’ll be back on Sunday though, having forgotten all about it, perhaps until that final moment when my life will flash before me and I head for the ultimate memorial matchday.  Once a Blue, eh?