Ipswich Town 0 Charlton Athletic 3

October 22, 2025October 23, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

The waking hours that fill most of the time before a mid-week evening fixture are a bit odd. I’m ‘at work’, albeit at home but my thoughts are mostly of knocking-off and travelling to Ippy, of pre-match pints and the match itself as I wish the day away waiting for the main event, the floodlight beams and the darkened streets.

It’s been a miserable day of showers and grey, threatening clouds and just as I walk out of my front door a heavy squall sends me back indoors looking for an umbrella. The train is on time however, and even though kick-off is not for nearly another three hours blue shirts bearing the mysterious word ‘Halo’ are out in force. Gary is soon sitting next to me having negotiated the assault course of the narrow aisle between the carriage seats. We see a polar bear through the deepening gloom outside as we settle into our familiar pre-match world.

In Ipswich the streets are wet and shiny as the traffic swishes up Civic Drive and what I still think of as a corporation bus lurches round the roundabout by the spiral car park, all glowing interior, rain-dappled windows and blurry faces heading home for tea. Low, setting sunlight shines onto the plate glass windows of the abandoned Crown Court building as Ipswich slips towards darkness. I remark to Gary how beautiful it all is, but I’m not sure he’s as moved as I am. At ‘the Arb’, homely electric light spills out into High Street, a welcoming beacon for the pre-match drinker. I buy a pint of Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella lager for Gary (£10.21 with Camra discount) and we choose what we are going to eat before heading out the back to the beer garden, where we get out from under the spits of rain in the long rustic shelter that backs onto the road

By the time Mick arrives Gary and I are about to tuck into pulled pork and Haloumi chips respectively, and we talk of boycotting the World Cup in the USA, Mick’s work and who saw Ipswich lose at Middlesbrough on the telly last Friday. Because he bought me my Haloumi chips, I buy Gary another pint of Estrella, and a Monkey Shoulder whisky for Mick and more Suffolk Pride for myself, before Gary then buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride and another Monkey Shoulder for Mick, and I tell him I fancy mooching around Europe for a bit when I retire. All the time our conversation has to compete to be heard above that of the half dozen blokes at the table at the other end of the shelter. I can’t quite decide if they’re loud or if the tin roof makes for unhelpful acoustics.

As ever, we are the last to leave for Portman Road, probably because we are the coolest over-sixties in the pub, me in my dark overcoat, Mick looking like a mature student revolutionary and Gary in his tan puffa jacket, like a lost ski instructor. We join the gathering crowds as we cross Civic Drive again and part ways beneath the dead gaze of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue. The queues for Sir Alf’s stand are long again tonight, possibly because there are now rows of barriers funnelling us towards trestle tables and then the turnstiles, although I eventually make my entrance via the side entrance as Mr Benn might have done had the shopkeeper given him a blue a white scarf and a bobble hat one day. It’s strange how often I think of Mr Benn.

By the time I emerge onto Sir Alf’s lower tier the teams are on the pitch, I have missed the antics of the excitable young stadium announcer, his suit and his Basil Fawlty style contortions, and everyone is shaping up for the kick-off. The man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here of course, but sadly Pat from Clacton is not; she’s in Clacton where, following her week playing whist in Great Yarmouth she has contracted Covid. I learned this through social media where it’s possibly the only thing I have ever believed to be true.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball tonight, kicking it towards me and my fellow ultras and wearing our signature blue and white, whilst our opponents Charlton Athletic sport sensible, plain red shirts and white shorts, a sight which has me reminiscing about my Continental Club Edition Subbuteo set and its anonymous and strangely posed red and blue teams. Town quickly win a couple of corners and I’m singing ‘Come On You Blues’ before I get a chance to work out who are ‘the Blues’ tonight; it takes me a while because it seems like another team and it’s going to be nearly half-time before I work out that number 29 is Akpom, and realise Philogene our top scorer isn’t even in the starting line-up.

In the Cobbold stand, the Charlton fans are singing “ I want to go home, Ipswich is a shit-hole, I want to go home” and whilst I will admit I am ignorant of the attractions of beautiful downtown Plumstead, I surmise that they couldn’t have seen the fading sunlight on the plate glass windows of the old Crown Court or that glowing corporation bus. Meanwhile, I notice that the Charlton number six has the unusual surname of Coventry, which I mention to Fiona but we quickly decide there aren’t any potential quips and anything about being sent to Coventry wouldn’t really work.

Ipswich are dominating possession but in a somewhat dull manner devoid of decent shots and it’s no surprise when the Charlton supporters make the traditional “Is this a library?” enquiry and Fiona suggests it probably isn’t a library because as Ipswich fans we can’t read or write, only drive tractors. Such is fan “culture”. Non-plussed by everything, my eye is caught by the electronic advertisements on the Sir Bobby Robson stand which are thanking “today’s programme sponsor Cambridge Windows” before the words “Doors” and “Conservatories” flash up in neon blue and I wonder if this isn’t subliminal advertising. “Your support is fucking shit” chant the Charltonites and I like to think they mean Cambridge Windows’support, because if the programme is sponsored why does it cost four quid?

Town win another couple of corners and I chant “Come On You Blues”, but as usual to no avail although the bloke beside me concludes “They’re there for the taking “ meaning Charlton, and I tend to agree that they look pretty useless, I just can’t understand why their goalkeeper hasn’t had to make a save yet. The half is half over when there is a break in play as Town ‘keeper Alex Palmer is mysteriously stranded about thirty yards from his goal and receiving treatment, whilst the other twenty-one players all congregate by the dugouts for drinks, chit-chat and possibly nibbles and the exchange of phone numbers. The upshot is that Palmer retires hurt and Christian Walton takes his place.

When play resumes ,Town continue to accumulate corner kicks and with no football to cheer from their own team the Charlton fans resort to chanting “Ed Sheeran is a wanker”, and who wouldn’t? Ipswich accumulate a still larger stack of corner kicks as the first third of the match passes into forgettable history but experiencing a flashback from the ‘high’ of the last home game against Norwich, Town fans reprise The Cranberries’ “Zombie” singing “Nunez, he’s in your head” even though there are no Norwich fans here to fall victim to our untamed wit. The Norwich baiting continues with chants of “He’s only a poor little budgie” as the Sir Bobby Robson standers dredge up the euphoria of the last game to compensate for the lack of euphoria from this one. It’s a ploy that almost works however as Akpom strikes a fierce shot against the Charlton cross bar, although then soon afterwards weak defending by Leif Davis results in Christian Walton having to make a fine save from Olaofe who is left free to run at goal.

The half concludes with four minutes of added time, Nunez shooting wide and firing a free-kick over the bar, Town getting a final corner of the half, Charlton’s Docherty being the first player to be booked and Charlton getting two corners of their own, which are enthusiastically greeted by sonorous chants of “Come on you Reds” and also a header wide of the goal.

With the break for half-time, after venting spent Suffolk Pride I join Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand where Ray and I express mild dissatisfaction that Town are not several goals up against what appears to be the worst visiting team to rock up at Portman Road since our time in the third division. More optimistically, Harrison predicts a final score of 4-0 and I predict 3-0, although with unintended foresight I don’t say who to, or even to whom.

The match resumes at nine minutes to nine and within seven minutes Charlton score as the childishly named Sonny Carey easily runs at and past Dara O’Shea and shoots under Christian Walton. A man somewhere behind me becomes very sweary and the Charlton fans get so carried away that they start singing about being on their way to something called the Premier League. Two minutes later it’s almost 2-0 to Charlton from a corner and a minute later it is as Christian Walton dives low to spring the ball up in the air for an unmarked player with the possibly misspelt name of Gillesphey to head it unchallenged into the gaping goal. Charlton’s supporters are suddenly very loud indeed, and I begin to wonder if Keiran McKenna’s half time talk hadn’t included the ritual slaughter of a black cat.

Hopes are raised as a Leif Davis shot, or may be a cross, hits the Charlton net, but these hopes are then dashed on the lineman’s raised flag. Substitutions naturally follow with thirty minutes to go as they nearly always do, but tonight they need to be game changers. In a way they are as two minutes later Charlton score a third, another header into a gaping net after Davis defends weakly again and Walton dives at the near post and no one marks Miles Leaburn who can’t believe his luck from the middle of the goal. Some people leave and the Charlton fans ask “Can we play you every week?”. With perfect timing the illuminated adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson stand read “If you see something that doesn’t look right…”

I sing “We’ll have to win 4-3” to the baleful tune of Rogers and Hart’s song form 1934 “Blue Moon” and as if to show willing Town continue to have the majority of possession and win even more corners. As I tell the bloke next to me however, we look no more dangerous from our corners than we do from Charlton goal kicks. Akpom shoots wide for Town and more substitutions follow, but nothing changes except for the Charlton songs which move on to Tom Hark with the curious words “See the Charlton, then fuck off home” and it’s hard to tell if this is an existential commentary on their lives, ours, or everyone’s, and if so, why?

Ipswich of course win the moral victory as Charlton have another player booked and then another and we also win the corner count and the curious satisfaction of knowing that tonight’s attendance of 28,006 is too large to fit into Charlton’s stadium at The Valley. But sadly, the actual victory, what we showed up to see go the way of Ipswich, is Charlton’s, and I haven’t even had the consolation of knowing what Pat from Clacton had for her tea. “Is there a fire drill?” enquire the Charlton fans as the Town fans head en masse for the exits, and it’s good to know that even if their team has won the match quite comfortably, they remain pitifully unoriginal in their attempts at humour. The four minutes of added on time will prove hopelessly insufficient for Town, but at least I will easily be able to catch the 9:53 train, which in these days of concern about our mental well being will help me ‘move on’, so it’s not all bad.

Of course it hasn’t helped me ‘move on’ , not for long anyway , and after one gloomy day there will follow another. But that’s autumn as one’s early season hopes and expectations wither and fall like leaves from the trees. I’m sure we’ll win on Saturday mind. Up the Town!

Ipswich Town 1 Southampton 1

August 19, 2025August 19, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

My wife Paulene grew up in the city of Portsmouth like her parents and their parents before them. Her father was present at Wembley to see victorious Pompey lift the FA Cup in 1939 and was a regular at Fratton Park before he got married. Paulene started watching Pompey in the late 1960’s and hers is one of the names on the wall behind the North Stand at Fratton Park which records those who bought shares to keep the club alive and take it out of administration back in 2011. Today, my team Ipswich Town play Pompey’s bitter rivals Southampton and must win, and by several goals. The reason for this is that Paulene will then be in my debt because yesterday Pompey lost to flippin’ Norwich.

Weirdly, it’s Sunday, and almost every other team in whatever league it is Ipswich now play in have already played. To make matters even more confusing, kick-off is at 12 o’clock, barely giving time for the God-fearing to get home from church before heading for the match. Untroubled by such matters however, I have already checked that ‘The Arb’ will be opening early, and after a breakfast of all manner of things left in the fridge and then introduced to a frying pan, I am heading to the railway station in sandals, shorts and t-shirt beneath an ITFC bucket hat and a blazing August sun. Despite my outwardly sunny disposition, I can’t help but quietly question what I’m doing embarking on yet another season of probable anguish and despair. After all, we reached the ‘promised land’ last year and it turned out to be something of a disappointment, why bother trying to go back? It was like saving up for a luxury holiday, expecting to stay at the Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo and then finding yourself with half-board in a B & B in Lowestoft.

Just like last season, Gary joins me on the train at the first station stop. Our conversation joins the dots between now and last May before we look for polar bears on the rolling slopes of Wherstead. Opposite us sits an inscrutable, full-faced and bearded man in dark glasses, who looks so miserable he makes me want to laugh. He has a face to ward-off evil spirits. As ever, due to careful planning our carriage draws up by the lower of the two foot bridges that span the tracks at Ipswich station, and having negotiated the ticket barriers we make for the Arb via Portman Road and its ice cream kiosks that sell programmes. But today there is a technical issue at the first kiosk, a queue at the second and so I buy my programme from a large young bloke with just a two-wheeled, blue trolley with a stick on it bearing a sign that says “programmes”. To my horror the programme now costs four pounds. “Four pounds!” I exclaim. “Yes, everything is going up” says the large young bloke sounding like the voice of experience. “How much were programmes when you first came to Portman Road?” asks Gary. “Five pence” I tell him, and for that you would also get a Football League Revue which cost five-pence on its own. I wonder why at French football matches programmes are free, and speculate that if everyone at the game was given a programme it might be possible to charge more for the advertising. On the plus side, the front cover of the programme features a painted portrait of Dara O’Shea with Umbro badge to the fore. The painting is in a conventional style by an artist called Louise Cobbold but I look forward in the weeks to come to enjoying the faces of Luke Woolfenden and Ali Al-Hamadi as they might have been seen by Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud or Picasso.

Since yesterday Gary has had a bad ankle. He tells me he drove to Braintree and when he got out of his car his ankle hurt. Our journey to the Arb is therefore a slow and arduous one and by the time we get there I feel a lot like Mao Zedong and the Red Army must have at the end of ‘Long March’, but minus the revolutionary fervour. I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10.50 for the two with Camra discount) because The Arb no longer sells Lager 43. Like a twit, I pronounce ‘Galicia’ as I imagine a Spanish person would, I think it’s my age. Beers in hands, we retire to the beer garden to mourn the absence of Mick, who is at a wedding in Scotland, and to talk of films, immigration and the town of Bromley. Gary later buys another round of pints of Suffolk Pride and Galicia too.

It’s just gone twenty-five to twelve when we head for Portman Road; we leave a little early because of Gary’s painful ankle but proudly we’re still the last people to go. We part ways near where Alf Ramsey’s statue stands hands in pockets perhaps wondering why football fans sing about Bobby Robson but not him, even though he won the League and the World Cup and Sir Bobby won neither. I saunter past queues for the turnstiles in Portman Road but at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand emergency measures are in place and as I arrive hopeful spectators are being ushered through the side entrance past recent building works and a sign that reads ‘Broadcasters Toilet’, which I hope is specially adapted to flush away what comes out of their mouths.

I make it into the company of the man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the excitable young stadium announcer finishes telling us who ‘our’ team are today. In the time-honoured manner, I bawl the players’ surnames out as if I was at the Stade du Roudourou in Guingamp or Stade Saint-Symphorien in Metz. It’s as if I’d never been away, or indeed to either of those stadiums and oddly enough I haven’t. At the far end of the ground a banner, it’s not really big enough in size or ambition to be called a tifo, reads “Side by side a sea of blue and white” which doesn’t quite sound right but I think I get the general idea.

When the game begins, it is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they proceed to boot very effectively towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras. Naturally enough Town are in traditional blue and white, whilst Southampton are in their usual red stripes and black shorts but have seemingly travelled here through time and have donned the kit that Mike Channon and little Alan Ball used to wear back in the second half through the 1970’s. Within four minutes Town score as George Hirst nicks a back pass and crosses to Jack Clarke who skilfully sets the ball up for the flamboyantly monikered Taylor Harwood-Bellis to score an own goal.

With promotion assured, we settle down to enjoy the match, the sunshine and the remainder of the season. Pat from Clacton has had an operation on one of her eyes she tells me, and I guess that’s why she’s looking extra cool in her shades today; and luckily, she’s looking much more cheerful than the bloke in the dark glasses on the train this morning. “Sit down if you love Pompey” sing the Southampton fans and so because we do, we do.

On the pitch however, things have taken a turn for the worse and Southampton unsportingly won’t let Town have the ball. The upshot is that it all gets a bit too much and Southampton score an equalising goal with a ‘towering’ header from a bloke called Jay Robinson. All around people agree that “it had been coming”, which philosophically speaking is probably something of a truism because looking back hasn’t everything? Disappointed, I seek solace in telling Fiona that Southampton’s number thirty-four, Wellington, used to play for Wimbledon. Without hesitation, Fiona gets the joke, possibly because I said the same thing the last time Southampton were at Portman Road.

Wellington is booked before half-time by referee Mr Madley, who has taken to annoying supporters of both teams who accuse him through the medium of a tuneless chant of not knowing what he is doing. I however think he does know what he is doing and that is the opposite to what we think he should be doing. He proceeds to book Jack Taylor and Azor Matusiwa.

With half-time I vent excess Suffolk Pride and then reacquaint myself with Ray and his grandson Harrison who have spent the summer attending gigs, concerts and happenings and are soon due to see Tom Jones. I hope Ray has a clean pair of knickers to throw at the Octogenarian.

After the somewhat uneasy first-half in which Southampton would probably claim to have been the better team, in the second half it soon becomes clear that whatever Kieran McKenna said at half time to his players was much more worth listening to than whatever the ginger Anglo-Belgian Will Still said. Sammie Szmodics hits a post and the ball defies the laws of physics by bouncing back to the goalkeeper instead of into the net and Jadon Philogene executes a spectacular overhead scissor kick. There are other chances for Town too, whilst as a tall slim man, for Southampton I find Adam Armstrong and Ryan Frazer antagonisingly stocky.

Wellington is substituted by Will Still before he plays an hour and Fiona and I are disappointed but not surprised when he’s not replaced by Orinoco. Pat from Clacton tells me she’s having a baked potato for tea, with chicken and salad. Southampton’s number 18 Mateus Fernandes shoots over the Town cross bar from a free-kick and then smacks the palm of one hand obliquely across the other in a gesture that says ‘darn my luck’ or, if Google translate can be believed ‘droga a minha sorte’ in Portuguese. The excitable young stadium announcer goes on to thank us for our being 29,128 in number today and almost as a final act before declaring the game over, Mr Madley books Southampton’s Shea Charles in the manner of a man who enjoys being the architect of the practical joke. Madley allows Charles to walk away from the scene of his crime, before suddenly calling him back and thrusting the yellow card at him the moment he turns around. It’s a decent finale to a match that wouldn’t otherwise have one.

I don’t hang about after the final whistle and leave for the railway station to the sound of people reluctantly saying it was probably a fair result. I’m not sure my wife Paulene will think it was and I may have some explaining to do, but at least we didn’t lose.

Ipswich Town 0 Arsenal 4

April 22, 2025April 22, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Easter Sunday is the most significant date in the Christian calendar, one of only two days in England when even the big, mainly Mammon-worshipping supermarkets don’t open. As well as not going shopping for groceries on Easter Sunday, until today I don’t think I’ve ever been to a football match on Easter Sunday either, but today, because Ipswich Town are for now still in the evil Premier League, it is their turn to play Arsenal at Portman Road. My memories of previous Easter fixtures against Arsenal are not happy ones, with Easter Saturday 1981 looming large as one on which hopes of becoming champions of England were mortally wounded courtesy of a 2-0 defeat. Those hopes failed to be resurrected on the Easter Monday when we lost at Carrow Road, pretty much like today’s hopes of avoiding relegation, although I am told there is life after death in the second division.

The sun is shining this morning, but a cold north-easterly wind chills my un-gloved hands as I step out for the local railway station. It’s an eventful walk enlivened as it is by the sight of a horse’s bum through the open back of a horsebox trailer, the Colchester United team bus, a bumble bee crawling on the pavement where I’ve seen a bumble bee on the pavement before, a squashed ladybird with yellow innards, a dead squirrel, and a tall man sitting on the bonnet of a small car smoking a cigarette. By way of a conclusion to this odd combination of sightings, today’s train is going to be a bus that celebrates the fourth letter of the alphabet, a double-decker belonging to Don’s of Dunmow. But at least I get to sit upstairs at the front, from where I spot a banner imploring me to say ‘No’ to 180km of ‘giant pylons’. The banner sets me thinking about the stark beauty of electricity pylons in the rural landscape; I’m not sure about ‘giant’ ones mind, but imagine they’re better than tiny ones, which could be a trip hazard.

The bus journey is mercifully short, and I’m soon sat on a train next to Gary looking out for polar bears. I spot a couple as we pass through Wherstead, and when I tell Gary he asks if they were waving to the train. I tell him they were, and that it was a scene reminiscent of a polar bear-based version of the Railway Children, but without Jenny Agutter. In Ipswich, our carriage lands perfectly adjacent to the bridge over the tracks that has fewest steps, and with the benefit of the energy saved we are soon in Portman Road buying programmes (£3.50 each) and looking at what the design of the programme front cover should look like. Today’s design is a mash of the Town and Arsenal club crests and for some reason reminds me a little of the programme for the 1951 Festival of Britain ,I think it’s the colours. Cursing the grandees of Umbro for the actual programme cover picture (Conor Chaplin’s modelling for Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’), we ascend to the Arb, where for £8.94 including Camra discount I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary. Drinks in hand we find Mick in the beer garden and join him to talk of film, religion, sexual politics, double funerals, beer, wedding anniversaries, incels and birthdays before Gary buys a repeat round of drinks, including a Jameson whisky for Mick. Eventually Mick says “Its twenty to three, we’d better leave” so we do.

Either our ambling has got faster or The Arb and Portman Road have drawn closer together, but I’ve been checked for firearms, relieved myself and am shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the teams are even on the pitch. This means I get the opportunity to bellow the Town player’s surnames in the manner of a Gallic ultra as the over enthusiastic young stadium announcer reads them out, although sadly like a latter day Murphy he is not wholly in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard today. The announcer ends his announcement by doubling over in the style of the deranged Basil Fawlty and bawling “Blue Armeeee! ” into his microphone three times before turning to hug his silent sidekick, Boo Boo, who I can only think is on hand to finish the announcement if he were to suddenly explode or have a seizure.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball this afternoon, sending it for a short while, until Arsenal steal it, towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow over-fifties ultras. Town are in blue and white, whilst Arsenal are in their customary red with white sleeves and shorts, resembling, to those familiar with the ‘lower divisions’, an uncharacteristically ‘up themselves’ version of Fleetwood Town . “We ain’t getting nuthin against this lot” remarks the bloke behind me optimistically, before the first minute has elapsed. “Fuckin’ unbelievable play” he says. “Just the way they play” he continues , explaining himself to the bloke next to him.

For all their ability, it takes Fleetwood nearly five minutes to win a corner. “Oh, When the Town, go marching in, Oh when the Town go marching in, I’m gonna be in that number, when the Town go marching in” drone the Sir Bobby Robson standers mournfully and the mood only lifts when the words “Home of the XL vent shipping container “ chase themselves across the illuminated billboard between the tiers of the Sir Bobby stand. Then, suddenly, Julio Enciso incisively runs at the Fleetwood defence, singling himself out as the Ipswich player with attacking intent, but sadly his flash of inspiration, is just that, a flash.

It’s the fourteenth minute, it’s still goalless and then it’s not as a run down the Town left and a low centre becomes a goal and the illuminated billboard reads “External Wall Insulation”. Fleetwood lead 1-0. “Come to see the Arsenal you’ve only come to see the Arsenal” sing the jubilant Fleetwood fans and then “We’ll never play you again, we’ll never play you again” confirming perhaps that they are some of the more pessimistic supporters with regard to their hopes for the future of the planet.

The once blue sky above Portman Road has become cloudy. A corner is headed over the Town crossbar, but otherwise the game consists of Fleetwood just passing the ball about endlessly. I begin to wish to myself that somebody would just do something. Fourteen minutes after the first goal comes a second. Again, a run down the left, a low cross, which is more of a pass, a flick which is a pass, and a player is free to pass the ball into the Town net. Fleetwood lead 2-0.

Four minutes later and Leif Davis’s studs come into contact with the back of Bukayo Saka’s ankle. Saka leaps into the air like a startled cat and Davis is sent off for endangering life, which VAR confirms. Later this evening in France, in an almost identical incident a St Etienne player (Lucas Stassin) will be sent off for a similar foul against the less feline Corentin Tolisso of OL, but this will then be rescinded and changed to a yellow card when the referee looks at the VAR screen. Tolisso will be carried off on a stretcher and Lucas Stassin will go on to score the winning goal. Sadly, Ipswich is not St Etienne.

In the aftermath of Davis’s dismissal, Cameron Burgess replaces Jack Clarke and Saka proceeds to miss two decent chances for a goal to loud jeers and boos from Town supporters before I notice that the floodlights are now on and it’s not even a quarter to three yet. I surmise that the lights are on because conspicuous consumption is one of the rules in the Premier League. Five minutes of added on time are added on thanks to the delay when Saka received treatment from the club vet. It allows time for a moment of joy for Town fans and the opportunity to cheer ironically when George Hirst is awarded a free-kick for being fouled. Ironic cheering is one of the skills supporters of ‘little’ teams promoted to the Premier League quickly develop .

Half-time is a brief island of pleasure in a sea of pain and is made all the more pleasurable by my consumption of a catchily named Na Okraglo chocolate and wafer bar, which I picked up in the World Food aisle at Sainsbury’s, and which is made in Poland and is just one of the many benefits of immigration into Britain in recent years.

But the football resumes all too soon at seven minutes past three and Town are quickly defending another corner. The highlight of the match for Town arrives in the fifty seventh minute as Sam Morsy shrugs off a couple of opponents, strides forward and places a ball over the top of our opponents’ defence, for George Hirst to run onto and then cut inside a defender to curve a shot just beyond the far post. Apart from Enciso’s early enthusiasm, it’s probably been the only thing worth seeing from Town all afternoon and I can’t help wondering if the opposition are that good, or if we’ve just given up.

Fleetwood make some substitutions, but it doesn’t seem to alter their ability to dominate the game and as I begin to wonder what Pat from Clacton might be having for her tea and whether it will be any different to usual because it’s Easter Sunday, I hear her say “potato”. “Mashed?” I ask, half believing I heard her say that too, but no, she said “Jacket”. I then have a brief conversation with Fiona about hot cross buns. She had hers on Friday as you should, but I admit to having been eating them for weeks now.

We’re heading towards the last twenty minutes and corner follows corner follows corner, and from the last one Town concede a third goal, as some bloke in a red shirt turns, shimmies and just kicks the ball into the goal in a ridiculously simple manner, as if suddenly bored with all this passing the ball around the goal, so he thought he’d just score instead. “We’ll never play you again” chant the Arsenal fans once more, gloomily foreseeing Armageddon within all our lifetimes and then the excitable young stadium announcer gives us that the news that there are 29,549 of us here this afternoon, but 2,955 of us are just passing through. Unsportingly, but failing to realise most of us no longer care, the Arsenal fans now taunt us with chants about ‘going down’. But who won the FA Cup in 1978 eh? Winning the Cup is permanent, as is losing in the final, but relegation isn’t.

Nothing continues to happen except the ball going backwards and forwards across the pitch as if we’re playing a team of hypnotists. I’m struck by what a miserable looking lot the Fleetwood players are. Eighty-seven minutes are pretty much up and a shot hits a Town goalpost when no one is looking, and then a minute later a different shot strikes Cameron Burgess’s bum and swerves off the perfectly angled buttock into the goal; perhaps that’s why they call them the Arsenal; Town lose, four-nil. As if to rub it in, there are four minutes of added on time too.

With the final whistle, those that haven’t already left, mostly leave quickly. With just thirteen minutes until my train departs I swiftly clear off too, feeling suddenly alive as if awoken from the afternoon nap equivalent of a nightmare in which I’ve been mesmerised by life-sapping close passing and bad singing. I’m just glad it’s over, just Brentford and West Ham United to go now.

Ipswich Town 1 Wolverhampton Wanderers 2

April 8, 2025April 23, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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 2 Nottingham Forest 4

March 16, 2025March 17, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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