mAURITIUS

Ipswich Town 3 Plymouth Argyle 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

All of a sudden, summer turns to winter overnight, and it happens today, well tomorrow morning at 2 am to be precise, but as Brexit proved facts aren’t really important anymore.   Looking forward to another hour in bed or staying up late without really staying up late, I kiss my wife goodbye, step out of my front door and head for the railway station. The pale autumn sun shines down upon me.  As I cross the bridge over the railways tracks a man in pale grey trackie bottoms, pale grey sweatshirt and pale grey adidas baseball hat engages me in conversation about Ipswich Town’s remarkable start to the football season. Damn, he must have noticed my blue and white scarf, which I donned thinking the weather is cooler than it is.  I don’t really know what to say to him, I don’t talk about football if I can help it, but nothing surprises me in football anymore. After fifty-two years watching mostly  Ipswich Town, but with sizeable dollops of Colchester United, Brighton and Hove Albion and Wivenhoe Town, I’ve seen it all, haven’t I?

As I sit and wait for the train, which is a minute late, two ladybirds are also seemingly attracted by my blue and white scarf, but thankfully they don’t ask me any questions, they just settle on it until I blow them away and tell them their houses are on fire.   The train arrives, I get on and am unfortunate enough to sit where I can only see out of half a window, whilst on the other side of the gangway three men, a woman and two children discuss blood pressure, although to be honest the children don’t have an opinion, they just witter and gurgle as children do.  I move to a seat that is situated with a full window view. The carriage smells of whatever it’s been cleaned with and I’m feeling very warm indeed. Behind me a man says “Is it a glamorous building?”  The woman with him replies “Well, it’s nice”. I remove my jacket, scarf and jumper and reflect on what has gone right and what has gone wrong with my day so far.

The train arrives in Ipswich and I make swift progress down Princes St into Portman Road, where I purchase a programme (£3.50) at one of the blue booths that looks to me like they should also sell ice creams.  The programme today has a picture of the excellent Massimo Luongo on its cover, he is clenching his fists and thrusting forward his groin whilst lifting one foot off the ground as if he might be ostentatiously breaking wind. Middle-aged men and older sit on the rail fence to the nearby car park and eat packed lunches. It’s one of those days when people catch my eye and half smile as if they know me.  I check to see if the zip on my trousers is undone, it’s not, but it was on Thursday morning when I took in a parcel for my neighbour from the DHL delivery man.

In time I inevitably reach ‘The Arb’, which is very busy, and I join a queue at the bar.  An obese man with shiny pink lips and waxy complexion annoys me a little by “cutting the line”, as Americans say, and getting served before me.  Behind the bar the one female member of staff has brightly coloured hair, and for one fleeting, fanciful, enjoyable moment I imagine it’s TV’s favourite physical anthropologist professor Alice Roberts, but of course it’s not. When it’s my turn, I order a pint of Wolf Brewery Werewolf (£3.87 with Camra discount) before retiring to the beer garden where I look at my mobile phone and notice that Mick has tried to call me, twice.  I call him back and he explains that he is late because he has been called out to Felixstowe to collect a dead person. He’ll be with me later.  I have drunk my first pint of Werewolf and started a second when Mick arrives at about a quarter past two with his own pint of Werewolf.  We talk of the bottles of Lancelot organic beer I brought Mick back from Britanny, of Lorient and Brest and bowels, prescriptions and mutual friends. At about twenty to three we leave for Portman Road, exiting through the back gate.

Portman Road is clogged with queues for the Cobbold Stand and there are queues at the turnstiles for the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand too.  Happily, the queue at turnstile 62, my favourite turnstile because 1962 was when Ipswich won what is now called the Premier League, is a bit shorter than most.  I wave my season ticket vaguely in front of the screen-thing, unable to remember which bit makes it work.  The bloke behind me says it’s the bit on the left, or he may have said it’s the bit on the right, I can’t remember now and will do the same thing again when I come to the next game.  Either way, I pass through the turnstile and having vented some surplus Werewolf, join Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood, who are as ever already in their seats and applauding the teams as they process onto the pitch.  Pat from Clacton is absent today, she’s playing whist in Mauritius.  Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the names of the teams, but he is no Stephen Foster and hopelessly fails to synchronise himself with the scoreboard as it displays the names of the Town players, which he garbles leaving insufficient space between first and second names to facilitate the bellowing of the players surnames by the crowd as if we were French.

The game begins with today’s opponents Plymouth Argyle getting first go with the ball, which they aim mostly in the direction of me, the river and railway station.  Town are inevitably in their signature kit of blue shirts and socks with white shorts.  At first, I think Plymouth are wearing white shirts and black shorts, but a less cursory glance reveals that their shorts are a deep grey, and their shirts are a very pale, washed-out pink.  I can’t decide if this is a tribute to prog rockers Caravan’s 1971 album ‘In the Land of Grey and Pink’ or if Plymouth had accidentally put their shirts in the wash with Exeter City’s.  There could of course be a sensible explanation like the kit being dedicated to breast cancer awareness month, and for readers who like ‘boob jokes’, the city of Plymouth is coincidentally twinned with Brest in France.

With tickets sold out, Portman Road is loud just from people talking, but there is singing too and Christmas soon arrives with a burst of “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” quickly followed by a rendition of “ We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, He knows exactly what we need…” and it’s just as well he does because the match is not seven minutes old and Plymouth’s Morgan Whittaker plants a curling shot into the top right hand corner of Vaclav Hladky’s goal and Town are trailing one-nil.  It’s a goal that inspires mass gloating from the Devonians up in the top tier of the Cobbold stand as the Argyle fans go inexplicably Spanish and start to sing “Championes, Championes, Ole, Ole, Ole” as if trying to convince us that they’re all linguists as well supporting the team that somehow pipped Town to the third division title a few months back.  My inner superstitious pessimist is unexpectedly awoken by the noise, and I start to think to myself “Oh no, it’s game thirteen and we’re going to lose”.  But I soon snap out of it and as Town respond with a corner, I repeatedly sing “Come on You Blues”, although solo.  “No noise from the Tractor Boys” chant the Argyle fans, which, as I tell Fiona, is harsh on me, but not untruthful otherwise.  Fully in character as vainglorious bastards, the Argyle fans proceed to sing “One-nil to the Champions”, and plagiarise the Pet Shop Boys in the process.

Town win a second corner and a third and Conor Chaplin has a shot blocked. A Plymouth man goes down and whilst he receives succour, everyone else has a drinks break and catches up on the coaching  they’ve forgotten since walking onto the pitch twenty minutes ago.  Meanwhile the away fans deliver a strangely muffled chant of “Small club in Norwich, you’re just a small club in Norwich” displaying a lack of wit normally only associated with supporters of small clubs genuinely in Norwich.  Plymouth make the first substitution of the afternoon as Ryan Hardie quits when his team is ahead to be replaced with Mustapha Bundu.  “Substitution for Leeds United” announces Murphy over the PA, crowning his inept performance so far this afternoon, before just announcing “Plymouth Argyle” with no accompanying word of apology or explanation for those who hadn’t heard his gaff.  Bring back Stephen Foster and his best man’s suit and poorly matched shoes I say.

Nearly a quarter of the match is gone for ever and the home crowd is beginning to sound and feel fractious, like toddlers who have been up too long and need a nap. “A bit sloppy there” says the bloke behind me as Plymouth busy themselves around the Town penalty area. “Unlucky” says the bloke continuing his commentary as Omari Hutchison makes a not very good cross.  Town win a fourth corner and a fifth.  “Come On You Blues” I chant again, and again, and miraculously the rest of the stadium join in.  “Fuckin’ ‘ell, he’s phenomenal today, he is” says the bloke behind me of Brandon Williams as the on loan full-back performs a ‘full-blooded tackle’.  “He’s on another level”.

Nearly a third of the way through the game and the first airing of referee Gavin Ward’s yellow card is in the direction of Plymouth’s Mikel Miller, whose name reminds me of probably the most famous racing greyhound of all time.  “Diana Nicholson, report to the nearest steward” announces Murphy putting on the sort of serious voice that might get used when talking about Jimmy Savile or Rolf Harris.  Town win another corner, our seventh? I think I might have lost count. The name of Massimo Luongo joins that of the famous racing greyhound in Mr Ward’s black book.  “You don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Sir Boby Robson stand predictably.   Town win an eighth corner and a Nathan Broadhead header over the cross bar elicits polite applause.  Town win a ninth corner before, with five minutes to go until half-time Plymouth win their first and the away support debuts their rendition of “Argyle, Argyle” a soulless dirge in which the syllables in the word Argyle are elongated to depressing lengths.  A minute late the blokes behind me head for the bar.

Two minutes remain before the tea break and Whittaker breaks forward for Argyle and falls to the ground as George Edmundson makes a lunging challenge from behind. Whittaker claims a penalty, well he would, wouldn’t he, but Mr Ward is watching a different match, the same one I’m watching, and whilst it looked like a penalty perhaps, I don’t think Edmundson touched Whittaker at all.  It’s soon forgotten as Town claim yet another corner and four minutes of added on time appear before us.  From the corner I can’t see what happens as it’s up the other end of the pitch and I’m in the cheap seats.  But then a roar goes up and it seems we’ve scored, I’ll take everyone’s word for it I tell Fiona.  Massimo Luongo is given the credit and half-time soon follows.

With the break I talk to the man from Stowmarket, and he tells me how his son-in-law is a Norwich City supporter and how he went to a Norwich match with him and was lucky enough to see Norwich lose 6-1 at home to Manchester City.  Having syphoned off more spent Werewolf and stared blankly up at the half-time scores on the TV in the concourse below the stand I talk to Dave the steward.  We agree that we can’t quite decide what Town need to do to win the match other than score some more goals.

The football resumes at, I think, six minutes past four and Vaclav Hladky is soon saving at the feet of Plymouth’s Finn Aziz, whilst the blue skies above begin to turn more grey with gathering cloud. But then Town win yet another corner and it seems there has been a change in tactics with the ball being dropped behind the Plymouth defence as well as passed through and around it, but I could be wrong. A meagre fifth of the half has trotted off into he mists of time when Leif Davis sends a through ball for George Hirst and his accompanying marker to chase. Hirst wins and curls the ball beautifully beyond the despairing dive of the Plymouth ‘keeper and perfectly inside the far post.  Although I’m in the cheap seats, I doubt my view of the goal could be bettered on this occasion.  It’s a goal to prove that going two one up having been a goal down is worth the initial suffering, and the sense of relief is palpable. “Ei-Ei-Eio, Up the Football League We Go” chants the Sir Bobby Robson Stand cheerfully to prove the point.

The home crowd had been quiet and a bit miserable for most of the first half, but we really do only sing when we’re winning. Plymouth win a second corner, but Town win a twelfth or thirteenth; I’m no longer counting.  Omari Hutchison has a shot deflected wide when I was convinced the ball was in the net and Conor Chaplin heads over the Plymouth cross bar. Mr Ward the referee does something which inspires the lad who sits in front of me to say “The referee’s a talking point”, previously I’ve mostly heard referees described as bastards.  

Three-quarters of the match is now historical fact and I turn to Fiona to tell her it’s about now when Pat from Clacton usually tells us what she’s having for tea.  I ask Fiona what she’s having; she’s having fish and chips.  I tell her I’m having left over curry.  On the pitch, Town make substitutions and Mr Ward produces a rash of yellow cards, mostly directed at Town players, just to confirm his status as a talking point. Conor Chaplin and Omari Hutchison continuously almost link up well down the right, but frustratingly never quite manage it until Kayden Jackson replaces Hutchison with less than fifteen minutes left of normal time.  After the substitution, Hladky makes a superb flying save following a meagre third Plymouth corner, and Murphy announces this afternoon’s attendance as 29,028; “Thank you for your continued support” he says obsequiously, sounding like Uriah Heep would have if Charles Dickens had made him a stadium announcer at the weekends.

Into the last ten minutes and Hladky makes another stupendous save, perhaps the most stupendous yet; this time from a close range shot by Joe Edwards.  So perfect is Hladky’s performance in the second half that I am beginning to fear he might have sold his soul to the devil during the half-time break. “That’s better than a goal, that is” says the bloke behind me, getting a bit carried away. 

Four minutes of normal time remain and Town are looking leggy whilst Plymouth still look fresh; Town are hanging on but somehow retain an attacking threat because of the nature of our players, we simply have a team designed to create and score goals, apart from Vaclav Hladky that is. Sam Morsy sends Leif Davis down the left, he crosses the ball to Marcus Harness who shoots from perhaps ten metres out, but his shot strikes a defender, only for the ball to rebound to him and allow him a second chance, which he takes.  These things didn’t used to happen, but now they do, and Town lead 3-1.

There will be at least six minutes of added on time.  Hardly a minute of that time expires and Plymouth score again, a low cross knocked in from close range after Hladky apparently renounces Satan, and we’re back where we were.  Plymouth won all the points they needed to pip Town to the third division title and more in the closing minutes of games last season, but not today, and Town succeed in closing the game down by passing the ball amongst themselves and thereby draining the hope and possibly the will to live from the Argyle players.  Mr Ward is keen to remain a talking point and adds a bit more time onto the six minutes but it doesn’t matter and Town win again.

With the final whistle Fiona departs and so does the man from Stowmarket, but I stay a few minutes to applaud, whilst others seem keen to jeer the Plymouth players, I’m not sure why.  It has been a very close game, but Town have won yet again, and without having to rely on penalties or offside goals, or flukes.  Summer and now British summer time might have gone,  but since Kieran Mckenna arrived it’s been perpetual Springtime in Ipswich.

Ipswich Town 4 Preston North End 2

/ 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.