Mauldon's

Ipswich Town 3 Sheffield Wednesday 1

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The words Sheffield and Wednesday when added together conjure several associations in my mind, from the betting scandal of the early 1960’s when three Wednesday players apparently ‘threw’ the game in a 2-0 defeat to Ipswich at Portman Road, to speeding through the streets of Sheffield on a double-decker bus with police outriders after a match during the miners’ strike in 1984 , to dislike because from May 1986 to May 1995 Town never managed to beat them, to a Sheffield Wednesday supporter I met on a course when I worked for Royal Mail, whose idea of conversation was to speculate on whether the barmaid in the pub we were in at the time was wearing a suspender belt and stockings; for the record, he was convinced she was, but this was never confirmed.

Today, Ipswich Town will play Sheffield Wednesday, and I am cautiously optimistic that some degree of Karma will apply, to balance out all those bad associations from the past. After a dull start to the day, it has brightened up and as I wait for the train to Ipswich, I find myself in one of those clear, cold days that characterise winter in Suffolk.  The station platform is well populated and tell-tale club crests on articles of clothing suggest many people are heading for the match just like me.  The train is on time and Gary joins me at the first station stop. We talk of the African Cup of Nations and Gary tells me that he was once at a barbecue with a player who is in the Tanzanian squad and who has two aunts with exactly the same names.  As ever, our journey is crowned by the sighting of a polar bear as the train descends Wherstead into Ipswich; it’s the slightly grubby looking one and for a few moments we wonder if it’s possible to wash and clean a polar bear

Ipswich is busy with football fans and there’s entertainment too as everyone stops to watch a drunken Sheffield Wednesday fan outside the Station Hotel.  Sadly, he’s not a cheery drunk but a stroppy one.  When the traffic lights change Gary and I cross the junction outside the station diagonally, pretending we are in Tokyo where such pedestrian crossings are, I believe common.  I ask Gary if he’s ever thought of going on holiday to Japan; he has but understands it’s expensive and of course air travel for mere pleasure is to be discouraged because of its impact on the environment.   A man walking alongside us asks what we think the score will be today.  With reprehensible pessimism Gary predicts a “boring one-all draw” or worse still a “frustrating one-nil defeat”.  I have no idea what the score will be but retain my optimism by not giving it any thought.   We speed past the programme sellers whose booths look like they might also stock ice creams, and I wonder if the programme price increase to £4 this season has led to much of a reduction in sales. I hope it has because they’re overly glossy and mostly very uninteresting.

I get to the door of ‘the Arb’ first and burst in, eager for a drink.  There are people stood two-deep at the bar but one of them is Mick, who says it’s his turn to buy the round, but then he always does.  He either has a bad memory or is just naturally generous.  But today I convince Mick it’s my turn to buy, although I leave him to order his own felafel Scotch egg.  With a pint each of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary (£14 something with Camra discount) we retire to the beer garden and find seats in the shelter that backs onto High Street.  Unexpectedly, Mick gives me a Christmas card but explains that he had effectively inherited some, so thought he’d use them.  Along with the card Mick gives me a ‘present’ (unwrapped), which is a programme from Ray Crawford’s testimonial featuring games between Ipswich Town ‘past’ and ‘future’ and the then current Ipswich team and Wolverhampton Wanderers. The programme is a reminder of how plain and straightforward, or perhaps boring things used to be, even as recently as 1969.

Gary buys another round of drinks, which this time comprises just a half a pint of Suffolk Pride for Mick, and by way of a change a pint of Mighty Oak Solstice Porter for me, because tomorrow is the Winter Solstice and being a sucker for megaliths and the like  I like to remember the true meaning of Christmas.  The porter is very tasty indeed but does nothing to take my mind off the rapid emptying out of the beer garden and it’s not yet half past two.   It’s gone twenty to three when we leave for Portman Road and after a downhill stroll, we eventually part ways within earshot of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue, if only its ears worked. We are agreed that the next game is at home to Oxford United on New Year’s Day, and that I shall try and acquire three tickets together for the FA Cup tie versus Blackpool.

As has been the case for the past few games there are no queues at the turnstile to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and after quick scan for weaponry by a smiling, bearded man of probable south Asian heritage I step through turnstile 61; I would have used the noted turnstile 62 but there was a bunch of late middle-aged blokes milling around it who didn’t  seem to know what they were doing and I couldn’t be bothered to say “excuse me”.  Moments later, standing in front of the stainless steel urinals decanting  spent Suffolk Pride ( I don’t think the Solstice Porter can have made its way through yet) I hear the excitable young stadium announcer announcing the teams and by the time I’m shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat I only get to shout  “O’Shea” in the manner of a Frenchman at the Stade des Alpes in Grenoble or Stade Saint-Symphorien in Metz.   Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is of course here too but not his son Elwood or the man from Stowmarket (Paul).   The excitable young stadium announcer is today wearing a Santa hat as he presumably gets even more excited at the prospect of Christmas.

When the game begins, it is Sheffield Wednesday who get first go with the ball which they boot in the general direction of St Matthew’s Baths and the Broomhill Lido whilst sporting a necessary change kit of all-white, which presumably to the chagrin of Wednesday supporters makes them look like a bit like Leeds United.  It’s no wonder their team is bottom of the league table with minus nine points, although the travelling supporters are making the best of a bad job and chant “Wednesday ‘til I die” impressively, even though these lyrics might tragically imply to some that they haven’t got long left and are going to miss Christmas.    Ipswich are naturally wearing our signature blue shirts and white shorts.

Early exchanges are dominated by Fiona’s observation that the Wednesday goalie is very small. “He looks about ten” she says, a little unkindly but it is true he is not the usual giant you expect to see in goal and Wikipedia tells us he is a mere 1.86 metres tall, which is shorter than me. In passing I mention Laurie Sivell, who was probably smaller than most modern 14-year-olds.  Ipswich win an early corner, and I notice that the Wednesday shirts carry the words “Mr Vegas” on the front and I assume this is not some sort of self-promotion by comic actor and professional ‘funny person’ Johnny Vegas, but rather an attempt to part people from their money by gambling with it.  “Football in a library” chant the Wednesday fans to show that they’re no more original than the fans of all other clubs.

Five minutes wither away and George Hirst heads a Jaden Philogene cross over the top of the Wednesday goal, and I realise that Pat from Clacton is wearing a set of festive antlers whilst Fiona has donned a blue and white Santa hat, as has ever-present Phil. Meanwhile the Wednesday fans sing “I love you Wednesday” to the tune of “Can’t take my eyes off you”, which was originally recorded 1967 by Frankie Valli.  Nine minutes have left us forever and George Hirst retires early for Christmas due to a mystery injury, to be replaced by Ivan Azon and that’s as exciting as the first fifteen minutes get.  The home crowd is characteristically quiet, taciturn even, waiting to be entertained before deigning to offer vocal encouragement.   Wednesday win a corner which is headed very wide.  “Dogshit innit?” says the bloke next to me using the kind of symbolism which in the circumstances Charles Beaudelaire himself might have failed not to use.   Then Dara O’Shea carelessly loses the ball to the Wednesday number nine who is identified on the scoreboard as J Lowe and therefore not to be confused with either J Lo or as Fiona says, John Lowe the darts player.  Lowe’s shot goes past Christian Walton but is spectacularly cleared by a tumbling, falling, reversing Cedric Kipre.

“Shall we sing a song for you?” enquire the Wednesday fans clearly feeling uneasy about the awkward silences but then Ivan Azon stoops to head wide, almost reminding us of what could be before a rare cogent moment has Jens Cajuste breaking forward into the penalty area, shooting at tiny Pierce Charles and Nunez heading unnecessarily wide. A third of the match is consigned to mostly forgettable history but suddenly a less forgettable moment has Philogene kicking overhead against a goal post and Town winning a corner from which Kipre heads against the underside of the cross bar and into the net.

Town lead 1-0 and I’m feeling grateful as Wednesday win a corner and at the front of the stand an obese woman makes her way back to her seat with a bottle of Coke, a packet of crisps and a bar of chocolate.  It’s not quite twenty to four in the afternoon.  Three minutes of added on time are added on and then it’s time to dispose of the remaining spent Suffolk Pride and the first of the spent Solstice Porter. Relieved, I head to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison and also Dave the steward, who I used to work with at Royal Mail, but who was not on the course with me and the Sheffield Wednesday supporter with the interest in barmaids’ hosiery.

The football resumes at five minutes past four and Pat from Clacton is soon telling me about her new rimless glasses before referee Mr Webb (‘Spider’ to his mates) unveils his yellow card for the first time when Wednesday’s Liam Cooper fouls Ivan Azon.   A minute’s applause follows seven minutes into the half in memory of supporter who died this week and two minutes later Cedric Kipre slashes a shot wide when given his earlier success he might have considered a header, even though the ball was on the ground. The sun has now long set and darkness looms behind each stand.

Town look a bit better this half, which shouldn’t be too difficult, and a sweeping move from defence into attack with a striding run from Cajuste and a perfect pass from Nunez allows Philogene to belt the ball past little Pierce Charles who as well as being small for a goalkeeper sounds like his name is back to front.   Town lead 2-0 and there are still thirty minutes left to play. “No points today, Ole, Ole, Ole” I think I hear the Wednesday fans sing and a couple of substitutions for Wednesday result in the appearance of one George Brown, a player who I can only hope joins Fulham to play alongside Harry Wilson in a tribute to the Labour governments of the 1960’s.

Today’s attendance is announced as 28,860 and the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for “our incredible support” and I wonder if he’s being sarcastic; personally, I’ve just hollered “Come on you Blues” a few times before two first half corners.  A minute later and from a Wednesday corner the ball fortuitously drops to the ground right in front of Cooper, who only has to swing his leg at it to send it low into the far corner of the Town goal and Wednesday have an unexpected goal.  Hope appears for Wednesday who chuck in a few awkward crosses and George Brown waves his arms about to encourage the away supporters. 

But with fifteen minutes left of normal time Town make three substitutions, replacing Cajuste with Taylor, and Eggy and Philogene with McAteer and Clarke, and Town look likely to score again, which with four minutes left they do as Clarke runs at goal, nips around a bumbling defender and flicks and rolls the ball past little Pierce Charles. 

The game looks won and Town nearly score two more but leave them in the pump for when they might really need them.  The Wednesday supporters, as supportive as they have been have seemingly run out of tunes and have even bored themselves with talk of football in libraries.   A staggering nine minutes of added on time are added on for assorted injuries, and stoppages to give remedial coaching.  At last, with the five o’clock chimes of an imaginary clock ringing in my ears the final whistle is blown, and Town are up to third in the league table.  There is applause, probably partly out of relief, and much of the crowd quickly melts away into the night exchanging seasonal good wishes as they go and talk of seeing everyone again in the new year.  The bloke next to me and the bloke next to him shake my hand; the bloke behind me says he reads this blog and my future memories of Sheffield Wednesday take a turn for the better.

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 Leicester City 1

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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 3 Millwall 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The promise of an evening kick-off at Portman Road has been enough to drag me through the drudgery of a Wednesday at work, albeit only the at-home form of work, which doesn’t involve having to go outside in the cold and travel on public transport early in the morning.  Today, I get to use public transport at a far more civilised hour, when the late afternoon becomes early evening and people have their tea.  Outside it is bloody cold. But I have an extremely warm coat, a hat, scarf and fingerless gloves so I’m ready for anything.  A slightly less than circular, pale, golden moon hangs low in the sky and the train arrives a minute late; I board and find I’m in a carriage where all the seats seem to face where I’ve just come from rather than where I’m going.  But it’s dark now so it doesn’t matter, it’s like being in a very, very long tunnel. “Shudda scored, it was all Fiorentina second ‘alf” says a voice from somewhere behind me.  On the other side of the carriage sits a man who looks like a bearded Trevor Eve, but shorter. “Second time this season, Scum two-nil up and lose three-two” says the voice. From the seat in front of me I can hear snorting noises.  I tune out and text my sister to ask her how she enjoyed Thanksgiving (she’s just got back from New York) and what she wants for Christmas.

I exit the train hastily on arrival in an Ipswich wreathed atmospherically in winter fog and police officers in day-glo jackets. I think of Poly Styrene and X-Ray Spex as I head up Princes Street and Portman Road towards ‘The Arb’, pausing only at one of the blue booths to buy a match programme (£3.50).  It’s too cold for ice cream tonight, but the streets look wonderful, everything looms out of the mist and is almost monochrome.  In ‘The Arb’ I am quickly to the bar and order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, whilst a woman next to me talks to her accomplice about Nethergate White Adder, before buying a glass of Rose.  The bar is busy and as I head for the beer garden I meet Mick coming in the opposite direction.  We meet again in the beer garden after Mick has bought his own beer.  We talk of Ipswich Town conceding early goals, of the person whose funeral I went to last week, of bowels and food diaries, of houses of multiple occupation, of the Lord Lieutenant of Suffolk and what is to be done about the poor.

Our conversation rattles on, breaking only while Mick returns to the bar for a whisky for himself and another pint of Suffolk Pride for me.  It’s a good job it’s an eight o’clock kick-off tonight or we’d miss the start of the game and Mick momentarily panics when I tell him it’s nearly twenty to eight.  We bid each other adieu until Saturday at the corner of Sir Alf Ramsey Way.  Portman Road is less thick with crowds than usual and at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I do not have to queue at all at turnstile 62 and am soon standing between Fiona and the man from Stowmarket whose name is actually Paul.  A row or two in front of us is ever-present Phil who never misses a game, but tonight there is no Elwood or Pat from Clacton, who I suspect has been kept indoors by the cold and her arthritis. 

Murphy the stadium announcer speeds through the team names as if they’re not important and I give up trying to call out their surnames as if I was French because Murphy is onto the next name before I have uttered a syllable; the names flow freely from Murphy’s mouth like diarrhoea.  As the teams parade onto the pitch flames shoot from little black boxes arranged around the touchlines, and we hold our hands out as if warming them by the fireside. I’ll bring marshmallows next time. An enthusiastic hand-warming minute’s applause for the recently deceased Terry Venables follows before tonight’s opponent’s Millwall are given first go with the ball, which they mostly try and direct towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and the goal in front of it.  Town are as ever dressed in blue and white, whilst Millwall are dressed perfectly for a foggy night, in all over orange, looking like Lyons Maid Mivvis, or how Ipswich will look when we play away to Millwall.

“Millwall, Millwall – Millwall, Millwall, Millwall – Millwall, Millwall, Millwall- Millwall, Millwall“ sing their fans imaginatively to the tune of Que Sera Sera. “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” is the quite a bit less tuneful Ipswich response, and the mist and fog rolls in over the roofs of the stands to replace all the condensing moisture burnt off by the flames moments before.  “Addy-Addy, Addy -O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand .  Barely six minutes of the usual opening exchanges passes and Wes Burns takes on the Millwall full-back and gets beyond him to cross the ball for George Hirst to head down and back for Conor Chaplin to half volley into the Millwall goal past Bartosz Bialkowski, and Ipswich lead one nil having not conceded an early goal.  Conor Chaplin thanks Goerge Hirst who thanks Wes Burns and Sam Morsy gives thanks to Allah.

The cold and the fog are forgotten, everyone is happy. “We’ve got super Kieran Mackenna, he knows exactly what we need” sing the north stand,  but it’s only in my imagination that they carry on to chant  “Wolfy on the bench, Ladapo on the bench and other people in the team instead”.   Town are dominant and surge forward on the end of through balls with regularity.  Wes Burns hurdles the perimeter wall to join the people at the front of the West Stand as he evades a challenge from Millwall’s Murray Wallace.  The twelfth minute arrives and following an eye crossing sequence of short passes, Conor Chaplin sets the ball back for Massimo Luongo to belt into the net from near the edge of the penalty area ; it’s the second life enhancing goal of the evening and it’s possible Bialkowski never saw it.

A minute later Bart tips a first time George Hirst shot over the cross bar to give Town a corner and ever-present Phil and I manfully chant “ Come On You Blues” as the rest of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand looks on in puzzled silence.  Behind me a bloke who doesn’t sound like the usual ‘bloke behind me’ explains Town’s recent success to his accomplice as something to do with passing, but with liberal use of the word ‘fucking’. I don’t think it can be the same as Ruud Gullit’s ‘sexy football’.   Town win another corner I don’t pause for breath between lonely shouts of “Come On You Blues”.  I can only think all the noisy people I stood alongside in Churchman’s forty years ago have gone to an early grave.

Town are cruising and even let Millwall have a corner, and Vaclav Hladky also makes a neat save. As the man from Stowmarket will say at half time, it’s as if we’re inviting Millwall to have a go and then we’ll just hit them on the break.  I feel a little sorry for Bartosz Bialkowski, although he has the consolation of a psychedelic purple kit with abstract shapes that make him look like he’s wearing the sort of “dazzle” camouflage applied to ships during World War One, which Picasso claimed was invented by Cubists, the camouflage that is, not World War One.

With a quarter of the game gone for ever, except on Sky tv highlights, Massimo Luongo is the first player to see the yellow card of referee Mr Bramall, apparently because of a supposed foul.  Wes Burns makes things a bit better with a shot that hits a post that  almost lives up to the description “cannons off”.  I notice that I am being dripped on by droplets of moisture condensing on the cold steel girders of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand roof, and the North stand deliver a funereal version of “When the Town go marching in” before upping the tempo for a brief encore.

I’m beginning to think it’s been a while since I saw a goal, but as half-time beckons Wes Burns crosses from the right and Cameron Burgess moves into space in front of the penalty area. Everyone wants him to shoot thinking that he’s been possessed by the spirit of Bobby Charlton, but wisely he lays the ball off to an overlapping Leif Davis whose cross is met full on by Nathan Broadhead, who lives up to his name with a very straight and well  directed header into the far corner of the Millwall goal net. Town lead 3-0 and every goal has been a sight to commit to memory and treasure.  There is not a hint of irony tonight as we all sing “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen”.  Three minutes of added on time are surprisingly not enough to give Town a fourth goal, but the applause and appreciation are not diminished by this as the teams leave for their half-time break and I make the short journey to the front of the stand to chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison, who is much taken with ‘new’ Beatles single, which I can’t remember the name of.  I tell him it’s not as good as their old stuff, so everything they ever did before really, even Yellow Submarine.  I haven’t seen Ray for several weeks and I learn that he has been on two back to back cruises and not on the Orwell Lady either, but down to Madeira and southern Spain.

Back in my seat, I quickly scoff a Nature Valley cereal bar as the fog is thickened by use of the Versailles fountains on the pitch, before the game resumes and Nathan Broadhead is viciously hacked down by some Millwall oik who is then shoved by George Hirst who seems to have come over all protective of his team mate Nathan.  An unseemly melee ensues as if the players hadn’t been drinking tea or isotonic drinks at half time but pints of Stella.   Eventually however, the original perpetrator, the deceptively bitter George Honeyman,  is booked by Mr Bramall and everyone simmers down.

More bookings follow for both teams before the game reaches its 60th minute birthday ,and Millwall make a double substitution with the plain sounding Billy Mitchell replacing the more exotic Casper de Norre and the boring sounding Kevin Nisbet replacing the equally dull sounding Tom Bradshaw. Town have a brief flurry of attacks, Massimo Luongo shoots very narrowly wide and Bialkowski makes a save, but the fog has thickened  and I couldn’t swear to having seen any of it very clearly, and up in the Cobbold stand the Millwall fans are singing “ We can’t see a fucking thing” to which the wittiest of the  Ipswich fans in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand reply “We forgot that you were here”, and all to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

The second half is not as entertaining as the first and with twenty minute to go Keiran Mckenna, who must be freezing in what my friend Pete’s mum would have called “just a shorty-arsed jacket”, commits to a mass substitution as Marcus Harness, Omari Hutchison, Dane Scarlett and Kayden Jackson usurp Nathan Broadhead, Wes Burns, George Hirst and Conor Chaplin.  Moments later Murphy tells us that there are 27,702 of us here tonight of whom 1,270 are from Millwall, and no one likes them.  Murphy thanks us very much for our support, but unusually applies no adjectives to it, which is a good thing.

With time slipping away, empty blue seats are appearing in the Cobbold stand and Millwall supporters would seem to be slipping away too, but then with twelve minutes of normal time remaining a deep cross drops to the far post and Nisbet’s leg reaches in front of Cameron Burgess and he hooks the ball into the net for a Millwall goal.  ”We’re gonna win 4-3” sing the Millwall fans admirably, and then “How shit must you be, we’ve just scored a goal” showing a streak of self-deprecating humour not expected from fans of London clubs, although Fulham supporters also have it.  For a few minutes Millwall’s supporters have renewed hope as their team get forward, but don’t really threaten the Town goal.  It might just be that they are trying to keep warm, but there are some roars of encouragement , a chorus of “We Are Millwall, No one likes us” and one of “One-nil in the second half”, all healthy signs of supporters who know winning isn’t essential and have learned to get their fun where they can.

As the cold begins to get to grips with my woollen socks the sound of the final whistle can’t come soon enough. Jack Taylor replaces Massimo Luongo with a minute of normal time left and, we quickly learn there will be a mercifully brief four minutes of added on time.  Man of the Match,  Murphy tells us is Conor Chaplin, which draws an impressively uninterested response from the crowd and the final whistle is met with a sharp exit into the fog on all sides of the ground.

It’s been yet another enjoyable game at Portman Road, made even more memorable by three excellent goals, fog and freezing temperatures.  Whilst I loved the football, what I think I learned  most from tonight is that fingerless gloves do work, I have a very warm coat, but my socks could be better.

Ipswich Town 2 Fleetwood Town 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s a cool, almost cold, still, grey autumn day.  As I walk down through Gippeswyk Park a leaden pillow of cloud hangs over the town and Portman Road.  I march on through the gathering crowds, past people perched on car park railings folding foamy bread, heavy with sauce-laden sausage into their gaping mouths.  I stop only briefly to buy a programme (£3.50) and to put a coin in a collection box for an NHS charity, although I thought that’s what we paid our taxes for; I guess we’re being asked to make up the shortfall for the very wealthy and those companies like Amazon who could pay more, but choose not to because how else is their owner expected to be the richest man in the world and launch ageing actors who once played fictional astronauts into space.

At the Arbor House (formerly the Arboretum), Mick is already sat at a table enjoying a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride. I toy with the thought of copying him but opt for a pint of Mauldon’s Phantom (£3.90), it occurs to me that the beer seems to increase in price by 10 pence every time I come here.  I join Mick to discuss how we’ve passed our respective weeks and other assorted issues of our times, including driving a hearse on the M25, cycling in Belgium, the Kray twins and East Suffolk County Council police houses. At twenty minutes to three we depart for Portman Road, as do the three people sat at an adjacent table, we follow them down High Street.

Mick and I bid our adieus near the turnstiles close to the corner of Sir Alf Ramsey Way and Constantine Road, Mick’s seat is in the upper tier of what is now called the Magnus Group stand; I’m in the cheap seats at the bottom of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand.  Having vouched for my being double-jabbed I enter the ground through turnstile sixty-one, which I select over turnstiles fifty-nine and sixty because 1961 was when we won the Second Division for the first time.  I make my way through the undercroft of the stand having put on my face mask, although few others have the decency to do likewise, and Ipswich has the country’s highest Covid infection rates.

The teams are walking out on to the pitch as I shuffle past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat.  “We were getting worried about you” says Pat as I sit down, and in dipping my head my glasses fly off.  “You’ve every reason to be” I reply.  The Beatles ‘Hey Jude’ plays and people join in with the na-na-nas. The floodlights are already on and with knees taken and applauded, at a minute past three the game begins. Town are attempting to put the ball in the goal just in front of me, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood.  In their red shirts with white sleeves Fleetwood look like a bargain basement Arsenal, and it’s good to see a team not change their kit unnecessarily just because they’re playing away from home; both teams are even wearing white shorts!

Just a minute of the game has passed and already the Sir Bobby Robson stand are singing “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away, and we will fight for evermore because of Boxing Day” as if to reiterate the often made point that Christmas seems to get earlier every year.  Town win a corner. “Come on you Blues” I bellow hopefully. “Is that Martin?” says Phil, turning round to Pat to ask a question to which he already knows the answer.

It’s early, the game is still settling down and the crowd are getting accustomed to what they are seeing before them. The referee Sam Allison is black; a voice behind me says “Uriah Rennie, innit”, a comment which unfortunately is unthinkingly racist, although I have no doubt it was not intended as such, but at least it does highlight the scarcity of black football referees despite there being a lot of black footballers.

Ten minutes pass and it looks as if Fleetwood almost score; Gerard Garner appearing from my low down, distant view to beat three players before having a shot blocked.  Four minutes later and Town have a goal disallowed as the oddly named Macauley Bonne heads in a free-kick, but is considered by the assistant referee to be have been offside. Another five minutes later and Bonne directs a free header at the Fleetwood goalkeeper Alex Cairns, a large man who has made the double fashion faux-pas of wearing dark pants beneath his yellow shorts and displaying a distinct VPL.  Cairns is however one of the few footballers to share a surname with the name of a northern Australian city.  

The game has settled into a somewhat disappointing pattern of Town passing the ball about quite a bit, but not having any decent attempts at scoring a goal.  It’s nearly half past three and Paul Cook is gesticulating wildly from the touch line like someone directing traffic having dropped a few amphetamines.  Janoi Donacien wins Town a corner.  “Come On You Blues! Come On You Blues!” tumbles from the Sir Bobby Robson stand and a handful of people in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand join in, including me. Toto Nsiala heads the corner kick over the cross bar from a position so close to the goal that it looked easier to score. 

 It’s gone half-past three and after Fleetwood’s James Hill fouls Conor Chaplin, his name becomes the first to enter Mr Allison’s notebook.  I like to think of Mr Allison amusing himself childishly by stroking his chin as if in deep thought and then writing down Hill’s first name as Jimmy.  Ten minutes until half-time and Sone Aluko has Town’s first decent shot at goal, but it goes past the post. Finally, as the half peters out Sam Morsy becomes embroiled in a contretemps with Fleetwood’s Jay Matete, as they literally wrestle each other for the ball; Morsy is clearly at fault and Matete is awarded a free-kick.  A bit like the weather, the half has been rather dull.

My half-time snack of a Nature Valley chocolate and peanut protein bar is the highlight of the afternoon since leaving the pub and Ray offers the opinion that Town haven’t done very much so far as he stops by to chat on his way to use the facilities beneath the stand.

The game resumes at four minutes past four and the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson are soon singing “You’re fucking shit, You’re fucking shit, You’re fucking shit you’re fucking shit, You’re fucking shit,” which strikes me as being not very polite.  From the comments of the man next to me I think their “song” is directed at the Fleetwood goalkeeper Alex Cairns, and I can only think that they too have spotted that you can see his pants through his yellow shorts, although I think it would probably have been more helpful to sing “Don’t wear dark pants, Don’t wear dark pants,  Don’t wear dark pants with yellow shorts, Don’t wear dark pants.”  

Cairns’ misdemeanor is soon punished however and with just four minutes played of the new half, Conor Chaplin turns outside the penalty area and sends a firm shot into the corner of the goal with, as the man next to me says, the goalkeeper “stranded”.  Clearly getting nostalgic for former glories, the Sir Bobby Robson stand erupt into a chorus of “1-0 to the Tractor Boys” to the tune of Village People’s 1979 hit ‘Go West’.  Feeling elated by taking the lead I risk sensory overload as I breathe in the smell of the damp turf. This afternoon’s attendance is announced as 20,099 with 133 of that number being from Fleetwood.  Pat from Clacton thinks she might have won the guess the crowd competition on the Clacton supporters’ coach and passes me the sheet containing everyone’s guesses.  Sadly, I have to break the news that her guess of 20,069 is not closer than someone else’s guess of 20,103, although to be fair to Pat her number looks a lot more like 20,099 than 20,103 does and she got five of the digits right; there has to be a field of experimental maths where what the numbers look like matters.

Back on the pitch and Wes Burns replaces Sone Aluko who is wiping his nose and has presumably either suddenly developed a heavy cold or has a nosebleed.    Meanwhile, back in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand Pat from Clacton tells us that she will be having a Marks & Spencer prawn salad for tea. 

It’s nearly half past four and Christian Walton makes a save from Ged Garner who had been allowed to dribble far too close to the goal.  From the resultant corner the ball is hit into the crowd where a man over the other side of the gangway from me calmly stands up and heads it back onto the pitch.  The last time I did that I tell Fiona and Pat from Clacton, my glasses flew off (Woodbridge Town, September 2018, FA Cup extra-preliminary round v Clapton).

Fleetwood’s Jay Matete is booked for a foul on Sam Morsy and meanwhile I count twenty-one seagulls on the cross girder above the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Fifteen minutes of normal time remain and Town miss two chances in quick succession as first the oddly named Macauley Bonne has a shot saved by the bloke in the dark underpants and then Conor Chaplin sends a shot above the crossbar.  Attempting to create a diversion, Fleetwood replace Ged Garner with someone called Paddy Lane; it’s Penny’s brother I tell Fiona, although of course I do know that Penny Lane is really a street in Liverpool, and Paddy Lane is round the back of the Roman Catholic cathedral.

Town miss another opportunity as Wes Burns billows the net with a shot to make half the ground think he had scored, only to realise the ball had gone behind the post. Sam Morsy is eventually booked for persistent fouling with Mr Allison offering a fine mime, pointing in different directions to indicate that Morsy had committed fouls here, there, and everywhere.  Whilst Morsy receives his punishment from Mr Allison I am struck by the long shins of Fleetwood’s number nine, Callum Morton, a youth who the app on my phone says is English, although his stroppy demeanour, ginger hair and surname shared with a Greenock football club imply he is Scottish.  I have a premonition that he will score, which is based on the fact that he looks like he has the capacity to annoy.

Something happens across the other side of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and from up in the Cobbold stand comes a chorus of “We forgot, We forgot, We forgot that you were here” and I think to myself “Who said that?”.  Back on the grass and Fleetwood’s Johnson fouls Celina and is booked before Fleetwood string together an alarming number of passes prior to Town eventually clearing the ball. Less than ten minutes of normal time remain, and Lee Evans concedes a free-kick.  The Liverpudlian back street crosses the ball and the annoying youth with long shins heads the ball into the Town goal from unfeasibly close range.  What had felt like a comfortable one-nil lead isn’t any longer,j but as I said to Fiona, we hadn’t conceded a goal for almost two whole games, so it was unlikely we’d hold on much longer.  We would probably have conceded sooner or later even if we had to score it ourselves.

To the credit of the Town supporters, we don’t become over-anxious and we even raise a few chants of “Come on Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” and indulge in some rhythmic clapping.  On the pitch, Town remain patient, passing the ball back and forth waiting to prise an opening rather than just hitting and hoping or ‘getting it in the mixer’.  In the eighty-eighth minute a deep cross from Lee Evans is headed across the goal by the oddly named Macauley Bonne, it’s a decent chance; and then the game enters five minutes of added on time.  A draw wouldn’t be unexpected, but hope remains that we can win; this is a team that has scored twenty-eight times in thirteen games, an average of more than two goals a game, so we’re due another one.

It’s the ninety third minute; Fiona has had to leave early to catch a train because she’s going out this evening.  The excellent Janoi Donacien runs all the way to the goal line to knock back a deep, cross field ball; his flicked pass falls to Bersant Celina who sweeps it imperiously past the man in the dark underpants to give Town victory.  It’s the best ending to a match at Portman Road in years, possibly since Pablo Counago scored almost directly from the kick-off after Coventry had equalised in 2010.  Town did manage a near last minute win against Shrewsbury last November, but that doesn’t count because last season only happened on ifollow.

What started as a grey, dull, cold day has ended in a blaze of glory, the embers of which will glow all week long and at least until we lose again, which hopefully won’t be for ages; and just to add a barely needed coat of varnish, Norwich have lost 7-0 too.  Some days are definitely better than others.