This morning, I read that Pierre de Coubertain, the Frenchman who founded the modern Olympic Games had said, in French âThe important thing in life is not the triumph but the fight. The essential thing is not to have won but to have fought wellâ. Such a view seems rather out of date nowadays, but to his credit he was born in 1863 and when he was a lad the high ideals of amateurism and the Corinthian spirit still flourished. I have a lot of sympathy for such views because if winning is important then some people will cheat, and when that happens we might as well pack up our goal nets, deflate our footballs, give the referee his bus fare and just go down the pub.
To save time, I havenât put up nets or inflated any footballs today but I will soon be in âthe Arbâ with Gary and Mick. Although beneath cold, grey skies, Gary and I had a largely enjoyable train journey to Ipswich, talking humourously, I think, about Memorial Matchdays, last wills and testaments, and postmen working in the afternoons as pall bearers. But best of all, we saw two polar bears, one of which was almost pulling the classic Foxâs Glacier Mints pose, even if it did look like it had also been rolling in his own excrement.   On Princes Street bridge a middle-aged Manchester City supporter asked us (Ipswich Town) to go easy on them (Manchester City) today and I felt somewhat resentful of his probable sarcasm. âAre you being sarcastic?â I enquired, unable to think of anything in the least bit clever to say, and I still havenât.   In Portman Road we each buy programmes (ÂŁ3.50) in the modern cashless manner from a bloke with a little blue trolley, and to make up for my electronic ticket having worked first time at the railway station, the technology fails and I have to type in my PIN number. Leaving the programme seller to his trolley, we speak of how dull and uninspiring the front covers of the programme is compared to the poster design inside the back page.  Townâs kit manufacturer Umbro reportedly objected to the posters because they donât flaunt the Umbro logo,  and I tell Gary I dream of a fansâ rebellion a bit like Mai â68 in Paris, but with a boycott of replica kits under the slogan of âYou can stick your Umbro up your bum Broâ.
The Arb is predictably busy when we get there and it takes a short while for Gary to kindly buy me a pint of Mauldonâs Suffolk Pride whilst treating himself to a pint of Lager 43 too. Mick is already in the beer garden, sat alone at the sort if wooden table Yogi Bear might have known, but heâs soon released from his isolation as we arrive to talk about the new Bob Dylan film, which Gary has seen and Mick and I havenât and whether Mick has drunk the Calvados I gave him before Christmas (he has).  More conversation, Suffolk Pride, Lager 43 and a Jamieson Whisky for Mick follow (ÂŁ13 something for the three), before most if not all of the other drinkers have departed for Portman Road and then we do the same, parting ways within earshot of Sir Alf Ramseyâs statue, if only Sir Alfâs bronze effigy could hear.
The queues for the turnstiles are much shorter today than they were on Thursday evening, and seemingly cured of my need to always use turnstile 62, I enter by turnstile 59, that number corresponding to the year I was conceived. As ever, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here before me, lapping up the loud music and pyrotechnics that crowds of 29,000 people demand. I smile broadly as Pat from Clacton takes my photograph before the excitable young stadium announcer tells us today’s team and I attempt to bawl out their surnames in the manner of a Frenchman in the tribunes of Stade de la Mosson or Stade Geoffrey Guichard.
Death however, stalks every football match nowadays like the smell of frying onions used to, and after Thursdayâs Memorial Matchday, today we have a minuteâs silence for the very recently deceased Denis Law. But there is no silence, as the Manchester City fans , musical and loud as they are, like the ugly Gallagher brothers, wonât stop singing some song or other to which the words are completely unintelligible, and so the silence isnât a silence, it becomes an  applause, and it doesnât seem like it lasts a minute either, but I donât suppose Denis is bothered.
Finally, after the na-na-nas of The Beatlesâ âHey Judeâ, the match begins and Manchester City get first go with the ball, which they mostly pass in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand. The Town are of course in their signature blue and white kit, and therefore Manchester City are in a change kit of all burgundy or claret, like eleven fine wines but minus the bouquet of damson, truffle, chalk and damp fur. These footballers probably smell of eau de parfum by Chanel or Guerlain.
Excitement reigns in the opening minutes as the home fans chant âAddy-Addy, Addy O â and City fans chant âCity, City, City, Cityâ as if  people have become incapable of singing verses, being  mesmerized by the incantation of endless choruses. It works for Town, who inside three minutes win a corner when Omari Hutchinson shoots goalwards, and then win another. âCome On You Bluesâ is my mantra.  âGood startâ says the bloke beside me appreciatively and perhaps with a hint of surprise. âWho the fook are Man Uni-itedâ  sing the City fans to the tune of âGlory ,Glory, Allelujahâ and Erling Haaland the Norwegian sky-blue shoots over the Town cross-bar and then the City number eight does so too before City win a corner as they dominate possession, but donât  seriously look any more likely to score than the Town do, and fifteen minutes have already disappeared for ever.
OâShea heads at the City goalkeeper from a free-kick after  a rampaging Liam Delap is fouled, and I realise Iâm not noticing the adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, Iâm watching the match. âAt least weâve had a shot on targetâ says Fiona. But then something goes wrong on the Town right, de Bruyne is behind the Town defence, he passes and Foden scores, hovering in mid-air to control the ball before flicking it into the Town net.  It feels a bit like our best chance of not losing has just gone. Confirmation comes three minutes later as short, quick passing ends with a low hard shot into the corner of the Town goal from the edge of the penalty area, and weâre losing 2-0.
âDown with United, youâre going down with Unitedâ chant the City fans to the Cuban folk tune Guantanamera, as if our losing brings more joy to them than their winning. I suspect itâs a result of low self-esteem, like a lot of things in England; and they are from âUp Northâ. Half-time is approaching and de Bruyne and Foden do pretty much what they did for the first goal and the score is three â nil. Usually, with Town losing like this I would have been distracted by playerâs with funny names or what the team managers are wearing, but despite the pain tonight Iâm strangely absorbed by the football.
I speak to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and then Dave the steward and Ray and his grandson Harrison. The mood is one of cheery resignation; everyone thinks we’ve played quite well, it’s just that Manchester City are out of our league; they’re backed by the 34th richest nation on the planet, while we’re backed by a firemen’s retirement fund. They have players worth as much as our entire squad, and to think I can remember when City were like a northern Tottenham Hotspur or West Ham United , clubs with a decent history but now seemingly playing mostly for laughs. Despite his status as  a convicted sex offender, former radio summarizer Stuart Hall accurately referred to Old Trafford as the Theatre of Dreams and Maine Road as the Theatre of Base Comedy.
At twenty-five to six, as much of the  nation sits by roaring log fires tucking into toasted crumpets and Battenburg cake as they watch Country File, the second half begins. Almost immediately, and I think four minutes later can probably be called âimmediatelyâ in the context of a lifetime, Town almost score, as a flowing move ends with a shot from Ben Johnson being saved by the City goalkeeper Ederson, Moments later however, Doku who hopefully has a sister called Sue, runs down the Town right hand side into the penalty area and scores with a lucky deflection.   Nine minutes later, with Pat from Clacton quietly singing âWe’re gonna win 5-4â to the tune of Rodgers’ and Hart’s âBlue Moonâ, Erlong Haaland scores a fifth goal after Jack Clarke spoils an otherwise tidy performance by passing directly to the player he should have probably taken most care not to pass to, Jeremy Doku.
Town do win a corner, and make lots of substitutions, but then so do City. Kevin de Bruyne, whose haircut is clearly an homage to that of former Town legend Ted Phillips is replaced by Jack Grealish, a man whose transfer fee was at least as much as the entire Town team added together and whose large calf muscles seem to have piqued the interest of Pat from Clacton. I resist telling her that I think Iâve got quite an impressive set of calves myself, and shapely with it.
Just beyond the hour both Town players with the initial JC ( Jack Clarke and Jens Cajuste) are substituted, and perhaps because this is some sort of blasphemy, itâs only seven minutes later that a sixth goal is conceded as two of Cityâs players move on a different plane to everyone else with a high diagonal pass being met with a looping header as everyone else looks on.
There are twenty minutes still to go and the home crowd is subdued, but still happy in their resignation. Some leave, perhaps because they think theyâre too good for this, but theyâre really not, and many who remain sing, not defiantly or sarcastically but appreciatively, because as the bloke next to me says, two years ago we were losing at Oxford United but now weâre losing to that season’s European Cup winners. Ever since relegation to the third division in 2019, Town fans seem to have understood about supporting a losing team.
I canât pretend Iâm not happy as the final whistle blows, not with result of course, but because the ordeal is over and at least Pierre de Coubertin would have been impressed.
Handelâs âZadok the Priestâ, strikes up and the teams line up on the pitch whilst some young people stand in a circle and shake a big circular thing; it looks to me like they are shaking the crumbs off a massive table cloth, possibly one used by UEFA officials in some lavish pre-match banquet; the comparisons with Versaille continue. Tonight PSG are wearing an all-black strip, whilst Red Star Belgrade wear red and white, looking like Stoke City from the front and Fleetwood Town from the back.
trippingovertheball 