Ipswich Town 0 Queens Park Rangers 0

December 30, 2023December 30, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Matches between Ipswich Town and Queens Park Rangers don’t register very high, if at all, on my imaginary list of the memorable events in my life. I don’t recall anything about the first time I witnessed the fixture back in April 1974 (a one-all draw), nor do I remember the most recent fixture at Portman Road in October 2018, when QPR won 2-0. The only thing I recall of any of the near thirty games I’ve seen between the two teams at Portman Road is some mild crowd trouble back in the 1980’s, when some youths with their jumpers fashionably tucked into their stonewashed jeans spilled onto the pitch to goad and then run away from each other before anyone could say anything derogatory about their ‘girly’ haircuts.

Tonight is a rare Friday evening fixture at Portman Road, and happily, after the debacle of Boxing Day, public transport exists again and I can catch the busy, stiflingly hot train to Ipswich. A bloke sits next to me who talks to his friend across the gangway; he has a deep voice and an estuary accent, but he doesn’t say much, mostly “yeah”, which he elongates rather weirdly, a bit like a less well-educated Jeremy Paxman. Their conversation is about football. I would switch off and look out of the window, but it’s dark outside.

Arriving in Ipswich, it’s a Raymond Chandler evening and the pavements are all wet. It must have rained recently and large drops of water cling to car bonnets and windows, held there by pre-match surface tension. On Portman Road the ground is not yet open but the club shop is, I venture in to buy a programme for the Norwich match (£3.50) , which I didn’t do at the time, and one for tonight’s game too (also £3.50); I am told I have £1.75 on my club card, so I ask that it is deducted from the total. As I thank the sales assistant, pick up the programmes and turn to leave he entreats me to enjoy the match, which is nice. As I head off towards ‘the Arb’ I feel my heels rubbing painfully against the backs of my shoes, which is very odd as the shoes aren’t new and it’s never happened before.

Arriving at the Arb, I find Mick already here and waiting to be served at the bar. He buys a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for himself and very kindly, a pint of Nethergate Blackadder for me. I had originally asked for a pint of Suffolk Pride too, but changed my mind as I do enjoy dark beer in the winter. The bar is warm and quite noisy, and we retire to the cool and calm of the beer garden where fortunately there is a single free table in the shelter where we sit and talk of houses of multiple occupation, rogue landlords, television comedy, my impending trip to see Town play Wimbledon in the FA Cup, the dip in the number of funerals over the Christmas period and what we did on Christmas Day. I buy a further pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a Jameson Whisky for Mick and we talk some more, this time about tonight’s match and Town’s weakened team. By the time we depart for Portman Road the bar has emptied out, leaving only those people not going to the match.

Mick and I bid one another farewell at the junction of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, until the next match, the awkward five-thirty kick off on January 13^th; I might have to have dinner at about 9 pm that day. There are queues at the turnstiles in Portman Road, but no queue at all at my beloved turnstile 62, where I wave my season ticket about in the usual confused manner and walk right in. After syphoning off excess Suffolk Pride, I find myself at the portal to another world, at the foot of the steps up into the stand. Of course, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood are all here already; if I didn’t see them leave at the end of each match I might think they were here all the time. Apart from the blisters on my heels, things have been going well but then I hear stadium announcer Murphy is back after not being here for the Boxing Day game; like Wizzard I wish it could be Christmas everyday. Murphy makes his usual botched job of reading out the team, failing hopelessly to synchronise with the images of the players on the electronic scoreboard as he races to his climax like an inept lover; and I give up being French for another day.

The game begins and QPR get first go with the ball which they are mainly trying to send in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. Town are as ever in blue shirts ad white shorts whilst the QPR team are all dressed as Dennis the Menace. I look for Gnasher in the dugout but can’t spot him. The QPR fans are quick to tell us that somewhere, presumably the bit of London where they are from, is wonderful. According to their song it is “…full of tits, fanny and Rangers”, although I haven’t been able to verify this on visitlondon.com website.

After just three minutes QPR win a corner. “Come on you R’s” chant their supporters quite a bit more enthusiastically than most Town fans ever sing “Come on you Blues”. Fortunately, it makes no difference however, and three minutes later a peachy through ball releases Freddie Ladapo into the QPR penalty box. But in the time it takes for Freddie to think “ooh, this is good, just the goalkeeper to beat, now where shall I aim the ball” a defender blocks his view and he has to lay it back for Marcus Harness to shoot straight at goalkeeper Asmir Begovic, who I seem to remember once played a few decent games on loan for Town back in 2009 and is the only member of the QPR team who hasn’t come in fancy dress as Dennis the Menace.

Eight minutes have passed and the QPR fans are singing “You’re support is fucking shit” in the time honoured fashion and then Freddie Ladapo is through again thanks to a precision through ball from Marcus Harness. This time Freddie shoots but the ball strikes Begovic and balloons into the air descending to earth just the netted side of the cross bar. From the corner Dominic Ball shoots at Begovic. With less than ten minutes gone, Town have possibly already had their two best chances of the game although no one yet knows that yet, which is just as well because knowing what people are like, a lot of them would probably clear off home.

QPR win another corner; their fans ask “Is this a library?” and “Where were you when you were shit?” All these questions, it’s like watching a game in front of a stand full of toddlers. QPR win another corner and are selfishly keeping the ball to themselves much of the time, although without ever managing a shot at goal. Omari Hutchinson runs down the wing when he can and pockets of Town support sing an overly wordy song that ends in Ole, Ole, Ole but doesn’t provide the inspiration the team seems to lack. We need a Marseillaise, but all we have is God save the King.

On twenty-two minutes there is applause and I wonder why. Fiona tells me it is for a Town supporter who has died; he was just twenty-two years old. “Oh” I say, and Fiona tells me that there will be another applause in the sixty-sixth minutes for another Town fan who has died, who was sixty-five. As sad as death is, I find these applauses mawkish and a bit weird, I also worry that when my mother dies we are going to need extra time, because she’s already ninety-eight. Fortunately, she’s not a football fan, so I don’t think she’ll be too bothered.

Three minutes later and the QPR fans are taunting the Town fans with chants of “No noise from the Tractor Boys.” The Town fans’ response is a stony silence. Then Hutchinson breaks down the left again, Williams makes a run in to the box, but Hutchinson is tackled. “I hope Williams didn’t swear then” says Fiona. “I think he did” says the man in the row in front, whose name is Kevin.

QPR win yet another corner and from my vantage point over 100 metres away it looks very much like Town almost concede an own goal, although QPR might have hit a post, but either way I’m not too bothered because the QPR score remains ‘nil’, although so does the Town score, and an Omari Hutchinson shot being tipped over the cross-bar by Begovic for a corner does not alter matters. Only ten minutes of the first half remain and I bawl “Come On You Blues” for all I’m worth. “Three of us singing, there’s only three of us singing” sings Pat from Clacton sotto voce. The corner is cleared and Conor Chaplin is the first player to be booked by referee Mr David Webb, who I think I remember playing for QPR in the 1970’s. The booking is probably for a well-conceived foul, although as Fiona points out Chaplin seems to be the only player on the pitch who is shorter than Mr Webb, so it might just be bullying.

The teams exchange more corner kicks to more chants of “Come On You R’s” and I once again bawl “Come On You Blues” raising the fever pitch in the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand to something like sitting in a bucket of cold custard. The corners come to nothing as ever, and then as Hutchinson is flagged offside, a QPR player applauds the linesman, I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic or if this is genuine expression of appreciation of a job well done, in which case he’s being patronising.

A minute of additional time is added in which the QPR fans sing cheerily of football in a library and people start to leave their seats for the underworld beneath the stand. “Dire that, innit” says a bloke as he passes by. “Not good” says his companion, possibly commenting on his friend’s grammar as much as the match. With half-time, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and I agree that we haven’t played as we would have hoped, and I then nip to the front of the stand to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison about what I was given for Christmas. When I return to my seat I eat a Nature Valley Oat and Chocolate Crunchy bar, but the start of the second half is delayed for some time by what Murphy tells us is a ‘medical emergency’ in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand lower tier, and in due course the crowd applauds the team of paramedics and the sight of a departing stretcher party, which is thankfully, but somewhat chillingly screened from our gaze.

When the match resumes at about ten past nine it is with added gusto, both on and off the pitch, as if the events of half-time have sharpened our appreciation of, and our lust for life, as well they might. “Blue and White Army “chant the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand a good four or five times in succession, and then, after not too long a delay, they do it again. A couple of minutes later they do it yet again. “Sit down if you shag your mum” respond the QPR fans, boldly recycling humour popular in year seven throughout the comprehensive schools of West London.

The first half was lack lustre, but now the match is fast and furious, which makes it more exciting but no easier to watch. If I could lip read and knew what ‘purists’ looked like, I am sure I would see them saying to themselves “this isn’t the game for me”. Luke Woolfenden is booked for a doomed attempt at winning the ball and Freddie Ladapo heads wide of the QPR goal. The QPR supporters tell us that QPR are “by far the greatest team the world has ever seen”, but I’m not inclined to believe them any more than I would Boris Johnson. “Come on Blue Eyes” says Pat to the dreamily blue-eyed Marcus Harness, and he almost obliges with a shot which looked to me like it was saved, but for which QPR get a goal-kick.

“Come On Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chants the crowd sounding increasingly desperate and as if sensing this a triple substitution follows with Harry Clarke, Kayden Jackson and Jack Taylor replacing Williams, Ladapo and Ball. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand possibly having heard the question on last night’s University Challenge about the Harry Belafonte and Boney M recordings of Mary’s Boy Child. Town win a corner and twenty-five minutes of the match remain plus any time added on for bad behaviour and injuries.

Tonight’s attendance is 29,100, with 1,698 supporting QPR we are told. Thank you for your “magnificent support tonight and all year” announces Murphy, toadying to the public. “Ere for the Rangers, You’re only ‘ere for the Rangers” chant the QPR supporters as if singing about Vincent Van Gogh. Twenty minutes remain and things are so desperate Pat from Clacton gets out the masturbating monkey charm along with several others that she carries in her purse, including a random owl and the Hindu deity Ganesh. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.

Thirteen minutes remain, and QPR’s appropriately named Ilias Chair sits down near the far touchline; he is ignored, and the game carries on before he is eventually substituted. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” chant the home crowd. “Fuck off Ipswich” reply the away crowd, employing what possibly passes for an exchange of pleasantries in places like Willesden. “Lovely feet” says the bloke behind me as Vaclav Hladky checks his stride to fool an opponent and then clears the ball. Begovic is booked for time wasting and QPR win two more corners in a rare second half attack. “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna…” chant the home support, relieved that the ball has been cleared, before a final switch sees Blue Eyes and Hutchinson replaced by Sone Aluko and Gerard Buabo, who nobody seems to have ever heard of.

The announcement of eight minutes of added on time comes as a bit of a welcome surprise; Fiona thinks it’s because of QPR’s time-wasting ‘tactics’. The added time passes all to quickly however and despite angry, desperate calls and shouts Town cannot score, although more happily they don’t concede either. After such a marvellous twelve months at Portman Road it is a disappointing match with which to end the year, the only home league game in which we haven’t scored since October 2022, but it is also the only match in which all five of our five best attacking players have not been available to play; it has been the sort of team selection we would more usually expect if playing a first round League Cup tie against Sutton United or Crawley Town.

Disappointed, but not downhearted, or even that bothered I leave the stadium and hobble to the railway station. It feels like old times, comfortably yet uncomfortably familiar. This is what football used to be like before we started all this winning malarkey, this is what real football is about, as lovely as the success is. I’m sure we will return to winning ways when the missing players return, but for now I’m going to enjoy listening to and smiling at the wailing and gnashing of teeth of supporters who haven’t benefitted from having had a season ticket every year since 1983.

Ipswich Town 2 Norwich City 2

December 19, 2023May 5, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Back in September of 2022 I was in Brittany, and as well as taking in football matches at Rennes, Concarneau and Vannes I drove to the coastal town of Lorient to catch the imaginatively named local team, FC Lorient play in one of their Breton ‘derby’ games against FC Nantes. Lorient was flattened by allied bombing in World War Two, but happily was re-built, and is now an unpretentious workaday port a bit like Ipswich in many ways. Nantes meanwhile has a castle and a cathedral and its football team play in yellow and green and are known as the Canaries. Based on my experience of our own East Anglian derby against Norwich I had expected an afternoon of passion, vitriol, obscene chanting, threatening behaviour, casual thuggery and a police operation to rival that of May 1968 in Paris. I was a little surprised therefore that when I spoke to a group of fans to ask the way to the Stade du Moustoir some of them wore the orange of Lorient and some wore the yellow of Nantes. Inside the stadium, I was further surprised to find Lorient and Nantes supporters sat side by side in every stand and the overall atmosphere was not one of hostility, but more a Breton love-in. I thought to myself why isn’t the East Anglian derby like this?

Today, I am leaving my house at a quarter past ten to catch the train to Ipswich for that very East Anglian derby. I’ve barely had time to digest my breakfast and kick-back with a coffee; strong evidence that a 12.30 kick-off is just wrong, and if only we weren’t all so stupid, we would rebel and refuse to go to football unless all matches kicked off at 3pm on a Saturday or between 7.30 and 8 o’clock on a Tuesday, Wednesday or Friday evening.

After texting my wife Paulene to tell her that I had forgotten to put any Champagne or Cremant in the fridge and could she please do it for me, I meet Gary on the train. We exchange Christmas cards and talk of polar bears, going to watch Colchester United play Salford City, how there should be no football on Boxing Day because there is no public transport, ‘half and half’ football scarves and the BBC TV comedy ‘Two Doors Down’. The train is full, and exiting it at Ipswich is slow, although whilst most people cross the tracks over the high bridge, Gary and I walk a bit further down the platform and save time and effort by using the original lower bridge which has fewer steps. Outside the railway station it’s as if a state of emergency has been declared, with legions of police in baseball hats and what look like wipe-clean uniforms, all strategically placed around the station plaza and down Princes Street.

Our walk to the Arb today is a slightly convoluted one because Princes St and Portman Road are partly cordoned off by some of the massed ranks of police officers; I didn’t realise Suffolk and Norfolk had so many of them, but good luck to anyone dialling 999 for police anywhere else in either county today. I can’t help but think the police use football matches to practice what they will do when ‘the balloon goes up’, the country descends into anarchy and our dystopian future is realised. Arriving at the Arb, Mick is already in the beer garden, whilst Gary generously buys me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, and a pint of Lager 43 for himself. In the beer garden we talk of how there are a lot of unpleasant and ignorant people about, of the closure of Portman Road, how I will get to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and how there might not be enough time for a second beer, there isn’t. Gary tells Mick that at the railway station we had seen Norwich supporters getting off their train and giving each other ‘High sixes’. We leave by the back gate almost half an hour before kick-off.

At Portman Road, the streets are less busy than usual, with no queues at the turnstiles or even the burger vans, everyone presumably having done as they were told and got here early and brought a packed lunch. The programmes seem to have sold out too. I leave Gary and Mick to negotiate their respective turnstiles into the ‘posh’ seats of the West Stand and I head down Constantine Road past the corporation tram depot and along Russell Road to my beloved turnstile 62, where I wait behind a man who is waving his ticket about in different directions in front of the automatic turnstile equipment. A steward is stood by the turnstile gazing up at the grey, cloud-filled sky in apparent wonder. I tap him on the shoulder to let him know it looks like a ‘customer’ needs his assistance, and he duly helps the man out by demonstrating the effective way to wave his ticket about, which also allows access to the ground. I follow on after randomly waving my season ticket about too, I still have no idea whether it’s the ‘screen’ on the left or the one on the right that reads my card and lets me in.

I am ridiculously early into the ground today and the teams aren’t even on the pitch yet, but naturally Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses and game and his young son Elwood, who is now not so young (he’s thirteen), are all here already. Murphy the stadium announcer makes his usual botched job of reading out the Town team, racing through it like he’s commentating on the Epsom Derby and failing utterly to co-ordinate with the players’ names and faces appearing on the big screen in the corner of the ground. Along with ever-present Phil, I do my best to bawl out the players’ surnames as if I were a Frenchman, but I can never remember the squad numbers of players past eleven, so give up after Conor Chaplin.

When the players eventually make their procession onto the pitch, flames shoot from black boxes around the edge of the perimeter and I realise I’ve forgotten to bring any marshmallows to toast. The game begins with Norwich City getting first go with the ball which they attempt to put in the net at the far end of the ground; they wear the usual unpleasant yellow and green creation, but this year the yellow shirt has narrow green hoops around it, which makes the players look a bit dumpier than they probably actually are. Town are of course in blue and white, and the home crowd sings “Blue and White Army” repetitively to make the point. “Fuck off Ipswich” chant the Norwich fans exhausting their supply of wit and ready repartee all in one go. “Carrow Road is falling down, Wagner is a fucking clown” respond the Town fans and so it goes on.

Seven minutes pass and Town haven’t scored. I’m relaxed but I wish the Town would score a goal, or six. Pat from Clacton has a headache, she looks worried. “Where were you when you were shit?” ask the Norwich supporters, not unreasonably. Pat was here all the time, so was I and ever-present Phil and Fiona and Elwood and the man from Stowmarket, not sure about everyone else though. Gary was definitely somewhere else and admits it. There’s a tackle and the Norwich number seven, who could be an Oompa Loompa, clutches his face. However, referee Mr Smith, if that is his real name, ignores the crocodile tears and simply tells him to get up, and knowing when he’s beaten, as Norwich players do because it’s a regular occurrence, he does. Town are showing themselves to be better than Norwich already and like a surge of adrenalin the understanding of this seems to hit the home crowd who burst into a chorus of “We’ve got Super Kieran Mckenna “ . Weirdly, the net effect is that Norwich win the game’s first corner to loud boos from what used to be the North stand and the referee engages in a long lecture to discourage players from mauling one another before the kick is taken.

With the corner kick lost in the past Town continue to dominate possession. Norwich’s number twenty-three sprawls on the ground clutching his face. “Fuck-off you fucking idiot” bawls the bloke behind me, which is conceivably what referee Mr Smith says to him too as he plays on. “On the ball city, blah, blah, blah” is heard for the first time and Wes Burns produces the game’s first decent shot on goal which the Norwich goalkeeper unfortunately saves without too much trouble. Then Nathan Broadhead beats one defender and then another, and now he has just the goalkeeper to beat; he shoots and I am convinced the ball is about the rattle the goal net, but momentarily the laws of physics take a rest and the ball goes past the far post to leave 27,000 people clutching their heads in despair. Leif Davis shoots, but it’s too weak to beat the goalkeeper. Wes Burns breaks down the right and the ball is played back to Nathan Broadhead who again places the ball the wrong side of the post when science said he would score. “Morsy being fucking unreal in the middle there” say the bloke behind me, Wes Burns arrives with perfect timing to smack the ball unerringly into the Norwich goal, but unnatural forces get the better of the ball and it goes over the cross-bar; Town should be at least three-nil up but aren’t.

Norwich somehow win a corner and then another. “You’re shagging your sister” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand at the corner taker. Norwich’s first shot on goal flies over the bar to jeers. A third of the match is over. “Football in a library” chant the Norwich fans and the lack of a goal despite almost total dominance has left the crowd perplexed. Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” I shout, along with Phil and may be four other people. The ball is crossed, it hits some heads, George Hirst heads it down and Nathan Broadhead smites it into the net from close range. Town lead one-nil and surely victory will be ours.

The bloke next to me disappears somewhere, strangely taking the long route to the gangway. “I expect they’ll go up the other end and score now” says the man from Stowmarket with uncharacteristic pessimism. But he’s right, Town’s lead lasts six minutes before the ball develops a mind of its own and gives itself up to a short stocky bloke in a number twenty-seven shirt and out of the blue he scores. “Who are ya? ” chant the yellow and green horde in the corner mysteriously, as if troubled by a vision of someone they don’t know. “You’re not singing anymore” they continue, providing an unnecessary commentary. The bloke next to me returns as if he had known Norwich would score and hadn’t wanted to be here to witness it. Conor Chaplin shoots wide and weakly before Murphy announces three minutes of added-on time in which Nathan Broadhead shoots wide again. Town win another corner and Pat says “Ooh, I hate that song” as we hear another rendition of “On the Ball city”, a ditty so awful it makes the Baby Shark song sound like Dvorak’s New World symphony.

With the half-time whistle I walk to the front of the stand to speak to Ray and his grandson Harrison. We bemoan our luck and talk of our wives’ birthdays, although Harrison doesn’t because he’s only nineteen and not married, before Ray leaves to use the facilities and I return to my seat to eat a Nature Valley Crunchy Peanut Butter bar. In the seats next to Ray a couple break open the Tupperware and tin foil to enjoy a packed lunch of ham rolls. “Do you know ‘Son of My Father’ the No 1 single for Chicory Tip in 1972” I ask him. “No” says Phil. I sing it for him anyway. “Son of your sister, Norwich City, Norwich City, Norwich Scum, you’re all no better looking than a baboon’s bum”. Phil looks at me as if to say “We’ll let you now”, although he liked the tune.

The football resumes at twenty-four minutes to one. “Stand-up if you ‘ate the scum” chant the home crowd. Frankly, I can’t be bothered. As shows of solidarity go, it’s a pretty lame and pointless one. The second half proves not to be quite as good as the first and pretty much immediately proves the point but somehow letting Norwich score again as the ball drops to the chunky number twenty-seven whose bobbling, not particularly well hit shot squirms beneath Vaclav Hladky and spins insultingly into the Town goal net. I can’t begin to imagine what the twenty-seven must have sold to the devil to buy such luck, twice. “Two-one on your big day out” chant the Norwich fans, stretching their wit to its absolute limit and forgetting that it’s actually their big day out, not ours, we’re at home. But then, in Norfolk going down the garden to the bumby is a big day out.

Conor Chaplin shoots wide. Town win a corner. Cameron Burgess heads over the cross bar. “Oh for fuck’s sake” says the bloke behind me, I’m not sure why. An hour of anxiety has thankfully receded into the past, just a half an hour to go. Town take the ball down the left and then across into the middle in stages before it arrives with Wes Burns who takes a touch and then strikes the ball cleanly, just inside the left hand goal post and it’s two-all on our big day out. I suddenly feel much better.

The game carries on, and Town are still much the better team. George Hirst heads over. The Norwich goalkeeper fumbles the ball a couple of times to gift Town corners, Norwich make a double substitution. Murphy announces today’s attendance as 29,611 with 2,004 of that number being from a single family. Murphy thanks us for our “continued support”, perhaps because no one is leaving early, yet. The Norwich number seven waves his arms up and down to encourage the visiting fans to sing, but they mostly ignore him and there are moments of almost reflective quiet. Massimo Luongo shoots very wide of the goal indeed. Conor Chaplin curls the ball over the cross bar from a free-kick. Another fumble, another Town corner. Wes Burns is booked.

Not much more than ten minutes of normal time left and I still don’t think Town will not win, after all, we always do, and today we are more superior to the opposition than usual. But Norwich are the new Cheltenham Town, not particularly good but with windows covered in guano, boots made from rabbit’s feet, pitches full of four leaved clover and a horseshoe nailed above the door of the team bus. Pat from Clacton has been lucky too today, she has drawn 2-2 in the ‘predict the score’ lucky dip on the Clacton supporters’ bus, but she doesn’t want to win it.

With time running down, final mass substitutions are made and Norwich take a long time over their goal kicks. There will be six minutes of added on time. Nathan Broadhead is announced by Murphy as the man of the match as selected by some sponsor or another, there is a ripple of applause, but hopefully most people see the stupidity of having a man of the match in a game which more than ever is about the effectiveness of the team. With the final whistle the Norwich supporters are beside themselves with joy at their team having drawn; they must have been so convinced they would lose, and heavily, I know I was.

Pat and Fiona are quickly away and after a bout of applause I don’t linger long either, I want to get to the club shop to see if they’ve got any of those half and half scarves.

Ipswich Town 2 Coventry City 1

December 3, 2023December 4, 2023 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

Some Saturdays, when I wake up early in the morning, I am full of enthusiasm and ideas about how to fill the time before I set off for Portman Road. On other Saturdays however, I simply can’t be bothered, I just want to turn off my mind, relax and float down stream. When I go to bed on a Friday night, I rarely know what my state of mind will be when I awake. Today, I am proud to report, is one of the enthusiastic Saturday mornings and I proceed to clean the kitchen shelves, top up the bird feeders in the garden, separate the recycling, put the week’s vegetable peelings on the compost heap and try, but sadly fail to mend a roller blind. It may not sound a lot, but to me it’s like a lifetime’s achievement.

By the time I bid my wife farewell and leave for the railway station I feel flushed with success and optimistic for this afternoon’s match versus Coventry City, a fixture which always conjures distant memories of disappointing low scoring draws and floodlight failure. The train is on time despite the app on my mobile phone telling me it is delayed; it is also quite full, and I end up in one of those annoying seats which only has a half a window to look out of. I spend my time trying to avoid staring at a man on the opposite side of the carriage who sports mutton chop whiskers and a tweed flat cap of a type you might expect to see on the heads of drivers in the London to Brighton veteran and vintage car run. Unhappily, the name Rhodes-Boyson also pops up in my unfortunate mind. More fortunately however, I know that Gary will be getting on at the next station and I text him precise instructions of where to find me on the train (in the middle of the third (middle) carriage).

Once the train has stopped and moved off, it’s a little while before Gary appears, a vision in orange at the far end of the carriage, tottering between the rows of seats towards me. As he sits down, he questions whether I am not actually in the fourth carriage. “Bloody cheek” I tell him and draw his attention to the display directly above us which helpfully says ‘you are here’ in the middle of a diagram of five railway coaches. We don’t let it spoil our friendship of about thirty years however, and we are still talking merrily as the train draws into Ipswich station and we become small particles in the mass of humanity that squeezes over the footbridge, through the ticket barriers and spills out onto the plaza in front of the station. I tell Gary that I think the progress through the station was particularly slow today because everyone is wearing big coats.

We head up Princes Street and Portman Road, pausing only for me to buy a programme (£3.50), and we discuss how the club could offer supporters a deal, much like the East Anglian Daily Times ‘goody- bag’, of a programme and an ice cream for four quid. In due course we arrive at ‘the Arb’ where I buy a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and by way of a change a pint of Nethergate ‘Black Adder’ for myself. As I am about to pay, Mick appears and I buy him a pint of his ‘usual’ Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride. (£12.54 for the three including Camra discount). Gary tells us that Lager 43 is much better than Lager 42, and we retire to the beer garden to sit in the cold and talk of Henry Kissinger, Terry Venables and Shane McGowan, cheap rail travel for the over sixties and bus passes. Before we talk more of counting the carriages on trains and eventually leave, Gary buys another pint of Lager 43 for himself, a pint of Suffolk Pride for me and a Jamieson whisky for Mick.

The beer garden has cleared by the time we depart for Portman Road and we soon join the gathering masses as we cross Civic Drive and make our way across the Portman Road car park before Gary and Mick break away down Sir Alf Ramsey Way towards their seats in the West Stand and I continue towards the Sir Alf Ramsey stand. Turnstile 62 has a slow-moving queue, and I would probably do better to jump ship to turnstile 61, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Happily, my life proves long enough to stand some queuing and I am soon edging past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat. Of course, ever-present Phil who never misses a game is already here, but absent today is his young son Elwood and most surprisingly, Paul, the man from Stowmarket.

The names of the teams are read out by Murphy the stadium announcer, and unusually he does okay today, for a while anyway, until he gets to “Conor Chaplin”, which he announces as if it’s all one word, wrecking all attempts by people trying to be French and bawling out the players’ surnames as they are announced. I might have to write to the club about Murphy, he’s certainly no Stephen Foster. Disappointed, but not surprised I await the start of the match and enjoy some magnificently fulsome “Na-na-nas” as the crowd joins in with “Hey Jude”.

The game begins and Town get first go with the ball. Coventry have their backs to us and wear shirts of black and green halves and black shorts; a kit which harks back to the Coventry City of the 1960’s and 1970’s, although it was in stripes back then. Town of course are in blue and white. It’s a gloriously grey afternoon, which is oddly how I remember the 1970’s, but the strains of the Eton Boating Song emanating from the Coventry supporters in the Cobbold stand give it a somewhat surreal edge. “Wolfy at the back, Ladapo in attack” sing the North Stand uninterested in facts. “Wolfy” appears to have had his hair bleached again, which might explain why he didn’t play on Wednesday. Mist and fog swirls around above the pitch like wraiths, the ghosts of Saturday afternoons long past come to see the best football at Portman Road in almost a generation.

“Football in a library, der-der-der” chant the Coventry-ites jealously and, for the time being, slightly mysteriously. Five minutes pass. The ball is played out of defence, Nathan Broadhead jinks past an opponent and slips a precision pass through for George Hirst to chase, he steps across his pursuer, slowing him down and creating the space and the angle to shoot perfectly beyond the Coventry goalkeeper. Yet again, a goal, a thing of beauty. Town lead one-nil and immediately look to increase their advantage, earning a corner almost directly from the re-start. “Come On You Blues” I chant repetitively, along with ever-present Phil and no one else at all.

“Addy, Addy, Addy-O, ITFC, they’re the team for me” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers and the volume seems to rise a notch as Town regain possession. Fourteen minutes have gone and Nathan Broadhead materialises in the penalty box, ghosting out of the miss, but as I tense my leg muscles ready to leap from my seat he sends the ball inexplicably wide of the far post. I had the faith, why didn’t he score? May be he’s not the Messiah after all.

It takes nearly twenty minutes for Coventry to win a corner and then shoot over the cross bar. “Carrow Road is falling down” they chant at the far end of the ground and through the fog the tops of St Clare House and the AXA buildings peak over the Cobbold Stand as if taking a look at what’s going on. The Eton boating song is heard again; who knew so many Coventry fans went to public school? Time rolls on. Wes Burns shoots over the Coventry goal, Nathan Broadhead heads over it from a corner. The Eton boating song is aired again and Coventry put the ball in the Town net, but the ‘scorer’ was offside. Half-time creeps nearer, Massimo Luongo is booked for an innocuous looking foul and the fella in front of me informs us that he’ll be suspended for next Saturday’s match, Luongo that is, not the bloke in front of me.

There are four minutes until half time. Town should have scored more goals and I’m beginning to wonder if a one-nil home win could be a reality. Conor Chaplin produces a majestic cross field pass to Leif Davis. Leif Davis does the same, but to Wes Burns. For a bit of variety, Wes Burns doesn’t attempt to go past the full-back and cross the ball, but instead he cuts inside on his right foot and drifts past two surprised Coventry players. Burns is still 20 metres out but there’s a gap, but the ball is to his right, he can only hit this on the outside of his right boot, surely not. Town lead two-nil and it has to be the best Town goal of the season so far, it might be the best this century. Wow. “Burns, Burns will tear you apart again” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand delving into their parent’s and grandparent’s record collections.

Murphy announces three minutes of added on time and the otherwise joyful mood is brought down by the usual dirge-like rendition of “When the Town going marching in”, the miserable, plodding tempo of which suggests that when the Town do go marching in we’re all gonna jump off the Orwell bridge.

Half-time is a glorious release from the misery of the Sir Bobby Robson stand song book and it’s time to siphon off some excess Suffolk Pride and have a chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison about nothing in particular, except of course that goal.

With the start of the second half I eat a Nature Valley cereal bar and Pat from Clacton takes a selfie with Fiona, I think to show how wrapped up against the cold they are today, and indeed they do look as if they will be going back to their igloos after the match. On the pitch, Coventry’s Sheath shoots over and then Vaclav Hladky has to perform a decent save, which prompts more boating for the Eton old boys up in Cobbold stand. Jimmy Hill has a lot to answer for, although he’s probably not responsible for what follows next which is the singing over and over again of the 1961 song, Twist and Shout, although this does at least explain why, when the Beatles covered it on their “Please, Please Me” album, they kept it down to a listenable two minutes and thirty-three seconds, clearly understanding the maxim ‘leave them wanting more’, not less.

Coventry are having the better of the second half in terms of possession and they have succeeded in preventing Ipswich from looking like scoring whenever they go forward. A Coventry corner is headed wide and with the game two-thirds over the first Town substitutions are made. “Na-Na-Na-Sky Blues” sing our guests before justifiably pointing out “ Two-nil and you still don’t sing”. Coventry gain another corner and the atmosphere can best be described as tense amongst the preternaturally pessimistic Town fans. It’s hard to sing when you feel sick. Pat from Clacton is so worried she’s thinking about releasing her Cambodian masturbating monkey charm. I tell her it’s a bit too cold for anyone to have their trousers down today, and together Fiona and I question whether he’s a brass monkey.

Murphy announces this afternoon’s attendance as 29,378 with 1,970 being from Coventry. He thanks us for our support but happily doesn’t describe it as ‘amazing’ or ‘incredible’, so he is improving, if only very slowly. Coventry win yet another corner and then, more worryingly, a penalty as Harry Clarke’s foot accidentally makes contact with the shin of Tatsuhiro Sakamoto who inevitably then makes contact with the pitch as if hit by a tram. “Miss it, miss it, miss it, miss it, miss it “I chant to myself and the mantra works as Godden smacks the ball against the cross bar. The penalty miss seems to shut the Coventry fans up and Massimo Luongo has a shot saved as the fates smile on Ipswich again giving Kieran Mckenna the confidence to make two more substitutions. “Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand sensing the need for a moment’s support.

The final ten minutes of normal time find Pat from Clacton looking forward to her baked potato when she gets home as well as some sticky chicken drumsticks; Marks & Spencer were out of the usual ones. Coventry have another corner and their number twenty-two Joel Latibeaudiare shoots hopelessly over the cross bar. Five minutes of added on time are to be played and our thoughts are turning to the next match at Portman Road, which is the Norwich game. Pat from Clacton hates the Norwich match. “You get that lot up in the Cobbold singing their stupid On the Ball City song” she says, and she’s right, it’s not a pleasant experience, unless Town win of course, but the match has to be endured before that. The fifth additional minute becomes the sixth and the ball is crossed into the Town penalty box where Brandon Williams looks to be shoved by the hefty Ellis Sims causing the ball to bounce off Williams’s torso and inside the far post to gift Coventry a goal that they seemed incapable of scoring by the usual, conventional means. The goal however, is the last but one ‘kick’ of the match, as time is called as soon as the game kicks off again.

Town have largely had to defend their lead in the second half, but they did it quite comfortably and overall the game was just the latest in the steady procession of Town victories since the start of last season. But the special ingredient today was ‘that goal’. No one here today will surely ever forget that, and I can only guess that when Wes Burns woke up this morning he was definitely feeling enthusiastic for the day ahead, just like me.

Ipswich Town 3 Swansea City 2

November 12, 2023October 13, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

This morning at about half past one I suddenly awoke from what had been a deep sleep, and as I tried to return to my dreams my mind began to race and I was thinking of the first time I saw Ipswich Town play Swansea City, almost exactly forty-two years ago, on 7^th November 1981. Swansea, enjoying a very good start to their first ever season in what some people now call the Premier League, went on to win by three goals to two. I was only twenty-one years old, and recall being royally pissed off at what I think was the Town’s first home defeat of the season. The following March, I drove down to the Vetch Field, Swansea with my friend Tim in his 1968 Morris Minor 1000, and despite the best efforts of referee Clive Thomas, who awarded the home team a highly dubious penalty, we witnessed Town exact revenge as we won by two goals to one. We stayed the night in Swansea, and spent an evening crawling the city’s pubs. Sadly, all I really recall, apart from correctly pronouncing Cymru Cenedlaethol on the side of a bus, is playing pool in a pub and leaning down to look along my cue and seeing beyond it and the cue ball and the cushion and up the dress of a young woman sat on the other side of the bar, opposite the pool table. I was a shy, single, young man so I probably blushed, but shamefully I cannot deny that the sight of this young woman’s red pants has stayed with me ever since. In their early twenties my grandfathers and my father had all been tasked with killing Germans, but I just had to cope with the freedom they helped win.

Since that guilty, intoxicated evening in South Wales, I have seen Swansea City a further fourteen times, but only half of those matches have been against Ipswich Town. The other seven matches were at Manchester City (one), Portsmouth (one) and Colchester (five), and Swansea didn’t win any of them. In all the intervening years I have never seen another Welsh woman’s pants and even though Ipswich are once again playing Swansea City, I do not expect to do so today as I step from my front door beneath a clear blue sky and head for the railway station. I have been looking forward to today’s game after no home match for three weeks, and in an early morning trip to the shops even bought two packets of Welsh cakes by way of celebration; I ate a couple for breakfast. I was born in Wales see, albeit in Haverfordwest.

The train is on time and not particularly busy. At the first stop I am joined by Gary who is wearing a bright orange jacket over his Ipswich Town home shirt. We talk of whether we are sat in a carriage or a car, when Gary is likely to retire, the sort of people who ‘go postal’, and on which train journeys to watch football matches it might be possible to see a Polar Bear from the train window; surprisingly Swansea to Ipswich is one of them. It seems unlikely there are trains to Svalbard, but hopefully there is football even if only with seal skins for goalposts. Arriving in Ipswich, my exit from the station is annoyingly delayed by being unable to display my e-ticket on my phone, I eventually manage to create a glimpse of it for a split second and fortunately the ticket collector seems happy with that. I will later learn of an “update”.

Gary and I stroll up Princes Street and Portman Road towards ‘the Arb’, pausing only so that I may buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the blue booths, the appearance of which tempts me to ask for a choc ice as well, but luckily I resist. At ‘the Arb’, Mick is already stood at the bar about to order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride. Now aware of our arrival, Mick generously buys two pints of Suffolk Pride, and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary, who to my knowledge never has drunk proper beer. We repair to the beer garden to talk of the horrible Suella Braverman, the ‘A Load of Cobbolds’ fanzine, the Covid enquiry and the lies of Boris Johnson, and last night’s Ligue 1 encounter between Montpellier Herault SC and OGC Nice, which despite being an open, attacking match, ended goalless. I return to the bar to buy myself a further pint of Suffolk Pride, a Jameson whisky for Mick and a half of Lager 43 for Gary (£10.40 including Camra discount). We continue our conversation, which unusually does not involve reference to death or illness today, although we do talk of remembrance poppies and Mick recalls how his father was responsible for distributing them in the Orford area and how in the days when the ‘stems’ were made of wire the poppies first had to be assembled. At about twenty-five to three we depart for Portman Road.

The queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are shorter today and seem to be being managed by stewards. I go to queue at the illustrious turnstile 62 but am ushered towards a side gate where my season ticket is scanned by a woman using a hand-held device which looks like one of those things you use to find hidden electrical wiring in walls. I arrive at my seat moments before the two teams parade onto the pitch. Naturally, the man from Stowmarket, Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his young son Elwood are all already here, although it’s Pat’s first game in a while as she’s been in Mauritius to attend a wedding. Ever-present Phil and I attempt to bawl out our players’ surnames in the French style as stadium announcer Murphy reads out the line-up, but as ever Murphy is in far too much of a hurry and has finished before the players’ faces have stopped appearing on the large screen; he really is useless, bring back Steven ‘Foz’ Foster I say.

After a minute’s silence and the last post and occupation of the centre circle by various personnel from the armed forces, things never seen or heard at football matches until comparatively recently, the game begins, with Ipswich in traditional blue shirts and white shorts getting first go with the ball, and sending it mostly in my general direction. Swansea City are today wearing an un-necessary away kit of reddish shirts, shorts and socks. Unfortunately, the reddish colour of their kit reminds me of the young Welsh woman’s pants from 1981, so I try to imagine them all with just one leg each and no heads, to make them look like a team of Lyons Maid Raspberry Mivvis.

“I do, but I don’t” says the bloke behind me about I’ve no idea what, and after three minutes Town win the game’s first corner. A couple of rows in front of me a young man is topless and the waist band of his Calvin Klein pants is visible to all. Suddenly I can smell meat and gravy and assume that someone nearby has bought a pie; it’s either that or the Army personnel in the centre circle were from the catering corp. “Blue and White Army” chant the section of the crowd up in the corner of the Cobbold Stand before a wider congregation strikes up with a chorus of “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna, He knows exactly what we need…”. The Swansea goalkeeper, whose name, Carl Rushworth, would be ideal in a match with ‘rush goalies’ is all in orange, so looks like a Wall’s Solero Exotic. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, By far the greatest team the world has ever seen” chant some of the crowd and there’s every chance I sang the very same at the Vetch Field back in 1981.

Seven minutes are almost up and rather disappointingly Swansea City score, a dinked cross from inside the penalty area being nodded into the corner of the goal by their number four, a bloke called Jay Fulton. “Who are ya?” chant the Swansea fans having presumably forgotten where they are and being too idle to look at their match programmes or tickets. “One-nil to the sheep shaggers” they continue, in more revelatory mood, and suddenly I don’t feel quite so bad about having once accidentally glimpsed a young Welsh woman’s pants in a public bar.

Town win another corner. “Come On You Blues” I shout and from a low cross, a shot goes curling over the cross bar. “Der, der, der, Football in a library” chant the Swansea fans imaginatively, getting in as much gloating as possible whilst they still can. Omari Hutchinson shoots straight at Rushworth and for the third time in the last few minutes a Town player is flagged offside, raising doubts about the parentage of the linesman with the chequered flag.

Town are giving Swansea a hard time, but all of a sudden the world is restored to its axis in truly spectacular fashion as Jack Taylor strikes a magnificent 20-odd metre shot against the inside of Rushworth’s left-hand post and the ball hurtles and spins into the back of the net. Quel but! (What a goal!) as they didn’t get to shout in Montpellier last night. From my position in the cheap seats, I have a thrilling head-on view of the ball as it speeds towards the goal. All the best goals strike the wood work as they go in; that final split-second diversion adding a thump of confirmation to the event, like having your passport stamped or hearing the pop of a Champagne cork. As Fiona observes, today’s goal is the polar opposite of Taylor’s goal at Rotherham earlier in the week, which spun in off his leg from close range, almost without his knowing it.

Ipswich Town are now almost unstoppable. Conor Chaplin shoots over the bar and Omari Hutchinson has a shot saved despite having seemingly dribbled around Rushworth. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand getting all festive and nostalgic at the same time, and just five minutes after Taylor’s goal, George Hirst heads the ball down and Conor Chaplin spins on his right foot and hooks the ball inside the near post with his left from a few metres out. The Town lead two-one. Presumably, the Swansea fans up in the Cobbold stand now answer their earlier question “Oh, it’s you lot” .

Town now just need some more goals to confirm their superiority, but instead there is a bit of a melee with players either squaring up to, pushing away or pulling apart their team-mates and opponents, perhaps depending on how zen they are feeling today. Conor Chaplin and Swansea’s Liam Cullen are booked by referee Mr Sunny Singh Gill, presumably as the instigators. In the stands there is almost the burst of a song, but then it all goes quiet, with even the away fans feeling too crushed by the turn around in scoreline to sing “Two-one, and you still don’t sing”. If there was a corner of the ground occupied by fans of a musical and literary bent, now would be the time for them to sing “ We all agree, Britten is better than Thomas”.

With ten minutes of the first half left Omari Hutchinson breaks down the right, but his low cross is just an overly long stud’s length away from being diverted into the goal by Nathan Broadhead. A couple of minutes later the blokes behind me clear off to the bar, whilst Mr Singh seems to take far too long to allow Conor Chaplin back onto the field after receiving treatment, perhaps he has been influenced by Suella Braverman and sees receiving treatment as a ‘lifestyle choice’.

In the final ‘normal’ minute of the half Sam Morsy gives George Hirst the chance to score, but Hirst’s shot is saved and as we progress into four minutes of additional time Jack Taylor surges into the box and might or might not be tripped and Portman Road reverberates to the sound of the question “Who’s the wanker in the black? Encouragingly, I don’t hear any references to Gunga Din, Gandhi or corner shops, although Mr Singh is roundly booed as he leaves the pitch.

The half-time break brings a chat with the man from Stowmarket who Pat from Clacton later discovers is called Paul. I syphon off some spent Suffolk Pride and enjoy the almost theatrical display by the pitch sprinklers before the football resumes at ten past four and Town set about getting the goals that they should have and almost did, but ultimately didn’t score in the first half. Immediately things are different as the seat next to me, which was empty in the first half, is occupied by a woman with obviously dyed hair, who might be the mother of one or more of the blokes sat behind me. Ipswich quickly win a corner after some argument, and predictably once the kick is taken a free-kick is then awarded to Swansea.

Mr Singh further endears himself to the crowd as Leif Davis is cynically shoved into the advert hoardings as he tries to run past a Swansea defender, but no yellow card is shown. Seven minutes into the half however all is forgiven, for a while any way, as Mr Singh awards Town a penalty. No one sat near me has any idea why, but we’re not too bothered, particularly when George Hirst steps up to score and Town lead three-one. There is a feeling of contentment around me and it seems like we will be happy if the score stays like this, although further Town goals will not be turned away.

The action on field follows the pattern of a team closing the game down and Swansea enjoy more possession but to little effect. There are however occasional moments of anxiety. Swansea break forward, but Leif Davis calmly first looks for the offside flag, and then realising it isn’t coming makes a perfectly timed sliding tackle inside the penalty area. Five minutes on and the first substitutions are made for Town as Marcus Harness and Wes Burns replace Omari Hutchinson and Nathan Broadhead. Pat from Clacton shares with us how much she loves Marcus Harness’s ‘lovely blue eyes’ and can’t hold back from telling her that even I had noticed those too. Harness immediately intercepts a Swansea pass and draws appreciative applause.

There are twenty-five minutes of normal time remaining as Town win a corner and the sky darkens behind the floodlights as one of the first early winter evenings descends and I can feel the chill of the air as I breathe in. “Carrow Road is falling down” chant Town fans in the furthest top corner of the Cobbold stand, but where I’m sat no one can understand what else they’re singing or whether it’s witty, abusive or stupid. Four minutes later and Mr Singh stops his charm offensive as he sends off Swansea’s Liam Cullen, we think following a second yellow card after a foul on Leif Davis. “Cheerio, Cheerio, Cheerio” sing the Town fans sympathetically.

Surely the three points are now safe with only ten men to play against, and the optimism in the stands is expressed in chants of “Ole Ole Ole” from those Town fans who just won’t let the memories of holidays on the Costas fade away. Would that Keiran McKenna, as wonderful as he is, was as colourful, as he stands in the technical area in his dull grey trousers and black car coat. If promotion to the First Division is achieved, I’m hopeful that the budget will then stretch to a stylist for Kieran. Town win another corner and the attendance is announced by Murphy as 28,929 with 634 from Swansea, although to be fair to the Welsh it is a very long way from Ipswich; four-hundred and forty-three kilometres in fact. “Thank you once more for your incredible support” says Murphy, stretching the definition of incredible.

The final ten minutes of normal time see Marcus Harness booked by Mr Singh; the bloke behind me asks “ Is he dead?” of the player Harness fouled. Town win a corner and Mr Singh walks patiently over to the dug outs to raise his yellow card towards someone on the Swansea bench. Freddie Ladapo replaces George Hirst. Swansea win a rare corner and we are told that there will be a minimum of nine minutes of additional time, which in percentage terms when added to the four in the first half is greater than the Camra discount on beer at ’the Arb’.

I am thinking that added on time is just something to be endured, until the right-hand side of the Town defence gets a puncture and Jamahl Lowe rather embarrassingly skips past Luke Woolfenden and around the excellent Vaclav Hladky to make the score three-two from very close range. Pat from Clacton is suddenly nervous, and Hladky makes a late challenge for the title of Man of the Match, even though it has already been awarded to Jack Taylor. But Town survive and victory is ours yet again, and it’s been yet another rollicking match; Kieran Mckenna and his team continuing to make up for fifteen years of mediocrity and worse, in fifteen months.

It’s gone five o’clock as Pat from Clacton and Fiona hurry away to buses and trains, but I stay for a short while to applaud, although the game has finished so late that I can’t linger long either, as my train leaves at nineteen minutes past. When I eventually head into the cold, damp evening I wonder if this afternoon’s match will live in my memory like my trip to Swansea of forty years ago, I hope so.

Ipswich Town 4 Preston North End 2

October 8, 2023October 8, 2023 / martinpbrooks / 5 Comments

I first saw Preston North End, or “P’nee” as my wife Paulene likes to call them, back in April 1986, shortly before a part of my world fell down and Ipswich Town were relegated from what is now the Premier League for the first time since before I started school, but a while after the Lady Chatterly ban and the Beatles first LP. The Preston North End I saw back then were rivals of Colchester United, but not equals, the U’s thrashed them by four goals to nil. Since then, I have seen nineteen matches featuring the once but no longer invincible Preston North End, first ever Premier League champions in 1888 and double winners to boot, but of those nineteen games they’ve only won two. As an Ipswich Town fan, it is with an optimistic frame of mind therefore, that having bade farewell to Paulene and kissed her goodbye, I step out of my front door and head for my local railway station and the afternoon of delights that await me in that not far off Ipswich. It is warm, but I carry a light coat because when I sat in the shade in my garden this morning drinking a coffee I thought I detected a cool breeze.

The railway station is busy with would be travellers, the majority wearing Ipswich Town branded shirts, although three young women drenched in perfume and stood at the foot of the bridge are surely displaying far too much cleavage and sparkly bare flesh to be going to the match. The train arrives on time, and I find a pair of seats next to a window on the sunny side of the carriage. The carriage is a noisy place full of chatter and people watching videos on mobile phones. At the first stop the three young women alight and a man boards, he sports a tattoo of a diamond on his neck, he has the demeanour of someone who is probably a ‘diamond geezer’. He nods furtively at a pair of vacant seats and says to a friend that they could sit there, but he’s got to go to the loo first; they both walk on and never return. The display above the gangway tells me that the carriage doesn’t contain a toilet, but I can still smell one.

Arriving in Ipswich, I quickly cross the tracks and leave the railway station, pausing only to find my e-ticket on my mobile phone, which I flash at the ticket collector. I head on to Portman Road. This morning, I found some coins in my bedside table and had thought to use them to buy a programme, but as I queue at one of the blue programme booths from which I think the club should also serve ice creams, I learn that even these no longer take cash. I could pay by card, but that hadn’t been my plan, so I don’t bother and walk on. Fate, however, is a curious thing and on the corner of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey an Ipswich Borough councillor and former fanzine editor is selling copies of what is billed as the last edition of the Turnstile Blue fanzine. “For old times sake” I say as I hand over one of my pound coins to him before continuing on to ‘The Arb’, where the doors are wide open and naturally, I walk in.

Having purchased a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with 10% Camra discount), I make for the beer garden and share a table with a young man and a woman having first asked if it is okay to do so, it is. At the next table a man talks a lot and wears an Ipswich Town polo shirt featuring the Powergen logo, a reminder perhaps of the many Town fans now returning to Portman Road after twenty odd years of absence. Today, I am drinking alone because having contacted Mick he called me back to say that he was meeting a friend from London whom he hadn’t seen in a while. I understand, and pass my time reading Turnstile Blue, Ipswich’s most earnest fanzine, which today contains a particularly amusing piece about vloggers and an excellent article about Scott Duncan, the last manager Ipswich Town ‘poached’ from Manchester United before Kieran McKenna. Sadly, as the last issue it is perhaps one of the best. The Suffolk Pride is particularly good today and I am soon forced to buy another, and I ask the young man and woman at my table to keep an eye on my coat, fanzine and glasses whilst I’m at the bar. Upon my return, with a fresh pint in my hand, I am happy to see my possessions where I left them. “I see my stuff’s still here, thanks” I say to the man and woman. “Yeah, a couple of people tried to get it, but I kept them off” says the man, pleasingly getting the joke.

At about twenty to three I depart for Portman Road moments after the last of my fellow drinkingTown fans, who I then overtake outside the museum. There are queues in Portman Road and behind the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand with less than ten minutes to go until kick-off, an indication that the electronic entry system is still much slower than the old human being based one. I join the comparatively short queue for turnstile 62 behind former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter and usurped stadium announcer Stephen Foster. Inside the stand, after a quick stop to drain off superfluous Suffolk Pride, I make it to my seat as the teams appear in the corner of the pitch. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood, Pat from Clacton, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket who is probably actually from Stowupland, are all here already as I would expect. Pat from Clacton kindly tells me that they’ve missed me whilst I’ve been away in France. I join ever-present Phil in shouting out the Town players’ surnames as the stadium announcer reads them out. Phil will reveal to me at half time that he had had a word with today’s announcer, who is standing in for the usual Murphy who is indisposed, to tell him not to run the players first names into their surnames; I think he has taken heed.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball which they mostly send in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson stand; they wear the traditional blue and white. Preston sport a kit which some might describe as an insipid all pale yellow, with a navy blue oblong below their navels, but I prefer to think of it as being primrose in colour. The game begins at pace with lots of industrious running about from both teams and slick passing of the ball. Town’s Brandon Williams is soon clattered by a Preston player and then before the referee gets a chance to blow his whistle he is clattered again; Williams is simply moving too quickly for anyone to keep up with him. “You dirty northern bastards” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand and I join in, thinking how much I dislike short vowels, soot, mushy peas and talk of ginnels and Northern powerhouses.

Pat tells me she’s going to miss the next two games. I quickly ask if that’s because she’ll be on her annual whist playing holiday in Great Yarmouth. But no, she tells me, she’s going to Mauritius. “To play whist?” I ask, but no she’s going to her niece’s wedding. Along with Fiona we agree it’s a long way to go to get married, or to play whist. I tell them I just had a day off work when I got married. Eleven minutes have gone and Wes Burns has a shot blocked almost as soon as it leaves his boot. “Yellows, Yellows” chant the P’nee fans, unable to admit they’re actually playing in primrose, which considering their club’s nickname is “The Lilywhites” is a little surprising.

Town are dominating possession, but Preston are keeping us at bay. “Set up defensively well” says the bloke behind me sounding oddly serious considering the order in which he has placed the words in his sentence. The seventeenth minute, Town have a corner, Leif Davis takes it. He strikes the ball low. “What?” I’m about to say, thinking that’s not a very good corner, when Conor Chaplin half volleys the ball just inside the post from about 12metres out, and Town lead 1-0, it’s a cracking goal. “We’ve got super Kieran McKenna, he knows exactly what we need” chants pretty much everyone, in my imagination anyway. The Preston fans sing something too, and are in good voice, but I can’t understand their accents. The woman sat between me and the man from Stowmarket wears a Town shirt but is very quiet, and didn’t leap up excitedly when we scored.

Nearly half of the half has disappeared forever, except on recorded highlights. Nathan Broadhead narrowly misses the goal with an audacious lob from long distance and Brandon Williams surges off down the touchline only to be clattered again spectacularly, and the perpetrator is booked by referee Mr David Webb. A drinks break and an early substitution for P’nee follow and then an up and under drops nastily outside the Town penalty area, the ball studiously avoids Ipswich feet but presents itself to Mads Frojaer-Jensen who un-sportingly boots it into the Ipswich goal and Preston have as many goals as the Town do.

It proves to be a set-back for Town, but that’s all. Two minutes later we think we have scored but we haven’t and shortly after that Mr Webb books a third Preston player, but Nathan Broadhead sends the resultant free-kick shamefully high and wide. Town are sure to score sooner or later and with ten minutes until half-time Brandon Williams wins the ball off a Preston player, stands up straight and just runs from within the Town half at the Preston goal; he’s a marvellous sight as he charges away with his socks not reaching half way up his calves and his arms punching the air; he reaches the edge of the Preston penalty area and sends the ball towards the far post where it bounces off and into the goal and Town’s lead is restored. It’s a fabulous goal.

Preston seek parity again and Osmajic shoots wide following a confusingly unorthodox free-kick routine, and Mr Webb inspires the home crowd to chant “You don’t know what you’re doing” as Conor Chaplin is penalised for falling backwards. Five minutes of added on time follow and Town win a corner which is cleared only for the ball to be crossed back to the far post, headed across the goal and then headed back again by a selfless George Hirst for Nathan Broadhead to knock over the goal line from minimal range. It’s another fine goal, and following the still recent disappointment of the Preston goal, it brings a certain sense of relief that Town are now two goals ahead. The Sir Bobby Robson stand sing a Depeche Mode song from forty-two years ago and that tuneless chant about being on our way to the Premier League and not knowing how we’re going to get there; the woman next to me remains seated and just claps one hand against a knee, hers, not mine. I turn to her and trying to convey incredulous curiosity say “You’re very calm”; she just smiles demurely. Perhaps she doesn’t speak English or can’t understand my accent.

With the half-time whistle I decant more Suffolk Pride, speak with a steward with whom I used to work called Dave, and then visit Harrison down at the front of the stand, although his grandfather Ray is sat elsewhere today. Harrison asks how was the Robyn Hitchcock concert at St Stephen’s Church three weeks ago, and I tell him it was brilliant, because it was. I return to my seat in time to see the names of people on the scoreboard who are attending their first game at Portman Road today; one of whom is called Huckleberry, and I think of the blue cartoon dog from the early 1960’s who Wikipedia tells us was the first TV animation to win an Emmy.

The match resumes at eight minutes past four and the blokes behind me are late returning from the bar. Preston are sharper this half, and are keeping the ball most of the time, it’s as if the Town players had mistakenly thought having a nap at half time would be a good idea and they haven’t properly woken up. Preston win a free-kick, the ball is only half cleared and Benjamin Whiteman strikes the ball in off the far post for a second Preston goal, and all while I’d been hoping for a fourth Town goal. “Making it a bit more exciting though, innit” says the bloke behind me before carrying on to say “Them scoring might not be a bad thing… well it is… but it ain’t”. Fiona and I exchange glances and smirk. “Yeah but, no but” I think to myself.

Preston continue to have the better of the half but whilst neat and methodical lack the vision, flair and inspiration of Ipswich, so they don’t score again. Nevertheless, Kieran McKenna presumably thinks change is required and the attacking trio of Chaplin, Burns and Broadhead take a rest in favour of Harness, Jackson and Hutchinson, but not necessarily in that order. The crowd is quieter than it has been all game and it feels like may be we’ll just have to see this one out. Today’s attendance is announced as being 29,018 with 826 of that number being sat up the corner in the Cobbold stand supporting the away team, which is a respectable number because it’s a mighty long way down a dusty trail from Preston. People applaud themselves for their existence here this afternoon.

The game continues without reaching the heights of the first half and with fiteen minutes of normal time remaining, final substitutions are made by Kieran McKenna, with George Hirst and Massimo Luongo retiring in favour of Freddie Ladapo and Jack Taylor. Three minutes later the game is won as Jack Taylor breaks forward on the left, feeds the ball to Omari Hutchinson and he squares it to a lonely Kayden Jackson who quickly gains over 28,000 friends as he strokes the ball into the Preston goal beyond the despairing, purple clad Freddie Woodman. Everyone is up on their feet with the exception of the woman sat next to me who slaps her knee gently as if tapping along to a popular song by the likes of Petula Clark or Ed Sheeran. “I-pswich Town, I-pswich Town FC, They’re by far the greatest team the world has ever seen” sing lots of other people.

Time closes in on the final whistle and Town’s victory seems assured. “You’ve seen the Ipswich, now fuck off home” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand unpleasantly and uncharitably in an outbreak of nastiness reminiscent of Suella Braverman. But still Town come close to a fifth goal as a Jack Taylor shot is parried away by Woodman who also saves a Freddie Ladapo attempt. Preston have a shot too; “Fucking donkey” says the bloke behind me as Preston’s Ben Woodburn shoots impressively wide. It’s time to celebrate another win “Brandon Williams, he’s a Blue, He hates Norwich” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand exultantly. Four minutes of added on time are added on, and the game ends. Ipswich win again.

If I kept a diary I would record another Saturday afternoon well spent, drinking good beer and watching excellent football beneath warm October skies in which the sun now sits so low that I need autumn sunglasses, my only grouse perhaps would be that I didn’t need that light coat after all.