Ipswich Town 4 Wycombe Wanderers 0

April 8, 2023April 8, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Four day working weeks are second only in my list of favourite working weeks to any weeks with fewer working days. But four day working weeks are definitely a good thing and so Easter week has therefore been a good week; and now, to add another layer of ‘good’, Town are playing at home to Buckinghamshire’s finest, Wycombe Wanderers, known as The Chairboys because of the town’s indiginous chair-making industry. I have however been dreaming again this week, this time about dating mysterious younger women; women who I do not recognise and who presumably are figments of my sub-conscious. These are pleasant dreams until I remember that I’ve been married for twenty-three years, although weirdly my wife doesn’t seem to mind, in the dreams at least; she probably just rolls her eyes.

I came to town early today to deliver a card congratulating two friends on their forthcoming wedding, which they are flying out to on Tuesday, because they are holding it in Las Vegas. Travelling 6,000 miles to get married is no way to save the planet, but at least I tried to off-set their profligacy by recycling old photographs to make their card. Having parked up my planet saving Citroen e-C4, I walk across Gippeswyk Park beneath blue skies decorated with cotton wool clouds. On Commercial Road a Range Rover speeds across the junction with the Princes Street bus lane and a youth calls out “Blue Army” through the open car window. Shouting youths aside, the streets are unusually quiet for a match day, until I reach Portman Road, where pre-match business is as usual and people hang about stuffing their faces with marshmallow bread and mechanically reclaimed meat products. The Wycombe team bus is parked opposite the Alf Ramsey Stand and on the back of the Cobbold Stand Bobby Robson appears to be squeezing his face through the top light of a window. I buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the blue kiosks; I check that I can pay by card and the young programme seller asks me how many programmes I want. I tell him I’m not exactly sure how much is in my account, so I’ll stick with just the one; fortunately, he laughs.

I leave Portman Road and walk on towards The Arb. By the underground spiral car park a man sits down on a bench to read the Daily Mirror and in the surface car park above another man swigs beer from a bottle, it reminds me of how in Montpellier fans have pre-match, ‘bring your own’ booze -ups in the park and ride car park next to the tram terminus. At The Arb there is no queue at the bar and I therefore waste no more of my life before ordering a pint of my ‘usual’, Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra 10% discount). I retire to the beer garden, which is busy with happy drinkers and diners enjoying the sun, I ask a couple of blokes if they mind if I ‘perch’ at the end of their table, they don’t. I read my programme and they talk to each other about holidays. One of them is thinking of going to Mexico, the other says that “Linda’s going to have the cat when we’re in Crete”.

It’s not two o’clock yet, but the would-be holidaymakers soon drain their glasses and leave for Portman Road, one of them says they can stop at the Arcade Tavern on the way if it’s too far. Mick won’t be joining me today because he’s on his way back from Antwerp; (he had wanted to go somewhere to celebrate his 70^th birthday to which he didn’t have to fly) but very soon I am not completely surprised when Gary sits down opposite me. We talk of mutual acquaintances, of quizzes Gary has recently participated in, of football in the Scilly Isles and how Gary saw Colchester United play Wycombe Wanderers in the FA Cup when Wycombe were still non-league; I tell him Wycombe’s old ground was called Loakes Park. Gary buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride, which is very kind of him. At about twenty-five to three we head for Portman Road, I think we’re the last to leave the pub.

Our conversation continues as we accumulate fellow fans all around us, all walking to the match. If everyone was singing in rounds it would be like that bit in West Side Story as the Sharks and the Jets gather for the rumble beneath the freeway flyover. Gary and I part at the corner of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way and as a parting shot I remember to tell him how there’s been a new ice cream van stopping in my street this week; slightly weirdly however it is painted grey and black, and also carries the words “All events catered for” above the drivers cab, and I speculate whether it gets booked for wakes after summer funerals.

Leaving Gary to find the Magnus West Stand, I head down Portman Road to the new turnstiles at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, which are in use for the first time today; except that I walk past the entrance to those turnstiles and carry on walking out into Princes Street, and then onto Chancery Road and into Russell Road, and opposite the Ipswich Borough Council offices is where I find the end of the queue. “Flippin’ ‘eck” I think to myself, in the style of the class-mates of Tucker in Grange Hill. This is all rather annoying and once again proves change to be a bad thing. The queue moves quickly however, although it doesn’t stop one shambling, scruffy looking man from loudly moaning about the situation as he waves his season ticket about and tells everyone “Forty years I’ve supported this club”. I happen to know that the man’s name is Dave. I wonder if he’s worried he might have to spend the next forty years queuing.

I’m soon walking past the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand again and am pleased to see that there are still turnstiles numbered 61 and 62, and whilst I am inevitably drawn towards these, I am instead ushered towards an open gate and a man with a bar code reader. I feel like I’ve made the kind of entrance into the stadium that Watch with Mother’s Mr Benn would have made. After re-cycling some of my two pints of Suffolk Pride, I take my seat between Fiona and the man from Stowmarket who is probably really from Stowupland; ever present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and Pat from Clacton are all here too. With so many people still outside I am surprised there are so many people in the ground. I’ve missed kick-off and the first three minutes of the match. It might be the first time I’ve missed the kick-off since Town played away to Northampton in the League Cup on a very wet night in October 1987, but it might not be because I think I also missed the kick-off at Nottingham Forest as recently as November 2002.

I quickly work out that Town are kicking towards the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and Wycombe Wanderers are wearing red shirts, shorts and socks with white trim and that as away kits go it’s one of the more boring ones, as if they put all their thought into their groovy two-tone blue home kit and had no imagination left. “Alright?” says the bloke behind me to what I think is his son. “Yeeeah!” is the expected, but weirdly elongated answer from the sprog. I’m soon amused by the Wycombe number seven who is left lying in the middle of the pitch as Town attack; the ball is passed and passed again, and again and again. Play only stops when Town are awarded a free-kick, when the prostrate player then miraculously gets up and manfully carries on. The game isn’t very exciting, and I wonder whether it was more fun in the queue and how long it is now. Town aren’t playing badly though, it’s just taking time to find the key to unlocking the Wycombe Wanderers defence. But there’s a palpable sense of people willing the team to win and it manifests itslef as a huge collective sigh of disappointment when what looks like it might be a crucial pass from Harry Clarke is intercepted by an opponent.

In the fifteenth minute Town score, there is a mighty roar from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but elsewhere we all saw the linesman raise his flag and we have retained our insouciance, although I am tempted to chant “You thought you had scored, you were wrong” because it doesn’t seem like the Wycombe supporters are going to bother, and they don’t. Five minutes later and a Wycombe player goes down as if hurt. As a track-suited angel provides succour it gives the opportunity for remedial touchline coaching for everyone else. All is quiet but for the beat of the drum in the Sir Bobby Stand, which is annoying Pat from Clacton; she doesn’t like loud noises.

The half is already half over as Wycombe have a shot from outside the penalty area which flies over the Town cross bar, it came as a result of a set piece free-kick and that is Wycombe’s chief weapon, unlike the Spanish Inquisition who as men now in their sixties and seventies know, had numerous weapons in their armoury, none of which were set piece free-kicks. A sense of restlessness is beginning to gurgle through the Town support. “Come On Town” calls the bloke behind me and a chant of “Come on Ipswich “ is repeated with varying degrees of enthusiasm around the ground at least three times, possibly four. Harry Clarke has a shot, but it’s a relatively easy save for the Wycombe goalkeeper Max Stryjek. “Ooh, that bloody drum” says Pat from Clacton. There are a little over ten minutes until half time and Town win a corner as a Conor Chaplin shot is saved. The corner is hit low and is cleared, but three minutes later Town win another. “Come On You Blues” chant sections of the crowd, at least three times, and I blow the strange red and white reverberating plastic thing I found in the club shop of Racing Club de Lens in 2017. George Hirst heads the ball imperiously into the Wycombe net. Town lead 1-0. Relief and joy slosh about together in a heady cocktail.

Five minutes until half-time and Nathan Broadhead wins yet another corner. From the Sir Bobby Robson the strains of Joy Division’s ‘Love will tear us apart’ can be heard, although all I can make out of the lyrics is that something is “falling apart again”, I just hope it’s nothing structural. From Joy Division the choir soon flits to “When the Town go marching in” sung to an even more slow, turgid pace than usual as if the world was in slow motion, .which is almost the title of a single by New Order. The ball is in the Wycombe penalty area, it’s at the feet of Conor Chaplin, time stands still, no one moves, Conor Chaplin kicks the ball into the goal past a static Stryjek and Town lead 2-0. Joy abounds once more. After three minutes of added on time I join Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison down at the front for some conversation about haircuts, queuing, the often-dubious use of the words ‘ethical’ and ‘affordable’ and the scandal of how the food stall beneath the stand had sold out of sausage rolls even before kick-off. Ray kindly ‘pours out’ four mini-Easter eggs for me from a polythene bag, I eat two having carefully and studiously peeled off the delicate foil wrapping, because it feels horrible against the fillings in your teeth.

The football resumes at seven minutes past four with Wycombe Wanderers getting first go with the ball, although they soon lose it, and Town quickly have another corner. I give the two remaining Easter eggs that Ray gave me to Fiona and Pat from Clacton; Fiona’s egg is in a blue wrapper, Pat’s is in a green one, but she takes it anyway and pops it in her handbag for later. Seven minutes into the new half and referee Mr David Rock gets to air his yellow card for the first time as Wycombe’s Chris Forino needlessly hurtles into Wes Burns and sends him flying. “The Town are going up, the Town are going up” sing the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand with feeling as Wes Burns darts down the wing to put in a low cross, which is diverted into the side netting by a Wycombe boot.

It’s the fifty-seventh minute and the ball is controlled by George Hirst in the middle and played out to the right, Harry Clarke and Wes Burns are both through on goal, but Wes is travelling faster and facing head on to the goal, Harry defers to Wes who strikes the ball; one split second the ball leaves Wes’s boot, later that same split second it nestles in the back of the Wycombe goal net. “Pick the bones out of that” is the expression that springs to mind and Town lead 3-0. What had started as a difficult looking fixture against a team eager to get into the play-off places now looks like an end of season romp against mid-table duffers keen to get away on holiday.

“I’m looking forward to my baked potato, salad and prawns now” says Pat, confident the afternoon is going to end well and explaining that although today is a Friday, it’s like a Saturday. Pat’s enthusiasm must be infectious and for a moment it seems like the whole crowd start to sing “We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, He knows exactly what we need, Woolfy at the back, Ladapo in attack, And now we’re gonna win the fuckin’ league.” But I must be hallucinating, may be it was the Easter eggs. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing…” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand to the tune of ‘Mary’s boy child’, clearly totally confused as to which Christian festival is which.

I count seven seagulls on the cross-girder of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and Wycombe replace the prosaically named Nick Freeman with the more exotic sounding Tjay de Barr. News that neither Plymouth Argyle nor Sheffield Wednesday are winning prompts chants of “We are top of the league, we are top of the league” because we are, thanks to goal difference. A quarter of the match remains and it’s time for Town make a mass substitution, replacing over a third of the team in one fell swoop. As the changes are announced, the players draw the sort of personally directed applause they don’t get when they just leave the pitch with everyone else at the end of the match. Wes Burns, George Hirst, Nathan Broadhead and Conor Chaplin are the recipients of the ovations and the crowd sings “Ei, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go”. Stadium announcer Stephen Foster tells us that there are 28,511 souls in the stadium today with 643 of that number vainly supporting Wycombe when they could have been at home making chairs. Many of the crowd warmly applaud themselves for turning up.

Town win a corner courtesy of the clumsy looking Ryan Tafazolli, and Cameron Burgess heads over the cross-bar. Four minutes later and substitute Kyle Edwards gets the ball inside the Wycombe penalty box, but before he has the chance to control the ball he is barged over by Wycombe’s Scowen whose surname sounds as rough and unrefined as his challenge is. Appropriately, given that the referee is Mr Rock, it is a stone wall penalty. Freddie Ladapo steps up to score, shooting to the left as Stryjek stupidly but conveniently dives in the opposite direction. Town lead 4-0, it’s a rout, a sound thrashing, a gubbing and a stuffing.

The afternoon’s work is done; another substitution is made as the excellent Massimo Luongo is replaced by Dominic Ball, another corner is won, Wycombe make more substitutions of their own and Tafazoli receives the booking his savage play so richly deserves after he attempts to beat off Kayden Jackson with a thrusting forearm to the throat. At least five minutes of additional time is played out in which Wycombe succeed in extending Town’s run to nine consecutive clean sheets before the result is finally confirmed a bit before five o’clock.

To my right Fiona and Pat from Clacton quickly disappear back to their other lives and soon afterwards to my left the man sat there heads back to Stowmarket, or possibly Stowupland. Many linger to hail their conquering heroes. In all truth it’s not been the very best of games, but then again it has, and the excellent result has left me with the warm glow of satisfaction. Town have outplayed and outclassed a well organised team. I feel like celebrating , I wonder if the ice cream van will be round tomorrow.

Ipswich Town 1 Oldham Athletic 1

November 7, 2021August 1, 2022 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

One of the many wonderful things about supporting a football team that is in the third division is that the FA Cup begins at the beginning of November. None of this inexorable waiting about for Advent, Christmas and then New Year to come and go. No siree, the joy of knockout football comes early to the meek who do more than just inherit the Earth, they get to chase the glory that is knockout competition football. Of course, we have already missed out on six rounds of extra-preliminary, preliminary, and qualifying rounds, but we can’t have everything and being meek we wouldn’t want it.

Today, the transparent plastic tub that serves as the 21^st century’s replacement for the Football Association’s velvet bag has paired Ipswich Town with fourth division Oldham Athletic. This is a pairing to rival some of the worst failures ever, like a race between a Ford Edsel and a Sinclair C5, or a competition between the Enron bank and ITV digital. Ipswich Town and Oldham Athletic, I have been told, are the least successful clubs in English professional football in the past twenty years, being the only two who have either not been promoted or not made it to any sort of match at the new Wembley Stadium. The good thing is that this has saved us supporters a considerable amount of money on grossly over-priced tickets, match day programmes and catering, for which we should be grateful.

It’s a blustery, cloudy day and fallen leaves scuttle along the footpath as I make my way through Gippeswyk Park; the autumnal scene reminds me of some of the opening sequences of the film The Exorcist. Portman Road is very quiet, stewards in huge fluorescent orange coats, and sniffer dogs easily out number supporters outside the away fans’ entrance. The display on the windows at the back of the Cobbold Stand tell of former FA Cup glories and the day in March 1975 when a record crowd of 38,010 filled Portman Road to see the sixth-round tie versus Leeds United. I look at my watch, it’s a quarter to two; I had already been inside the ground nearly twenty minutes by now on that day forty-six and a half years ago. I buy a programme for a knockdown price (£2.00), and confirm to myself that I prefer this 32 page programme to the usual 68 page one, even though it costs more per page; I live in hope of an eight or twelve page edition for less than a pound.

At the Arboretum pub (currently known as the Arbour House), I choose a pint of Nethergate Augustinian Amber Ale (£3.80). The bar is unusually full, so my pint and I decant to the safety of the beer garden, which is reassuringly more like a backyard with tables and chairs. I text Mick to tell him “Je suis dans le jardin”. It’s not long before he joins me with a pint of beer and a cup of dry roasted peanuts. We talk of Ipswich Town, of property development and pension funds, catching the TGV to Marseille, the buildings of Le Corbusier, the colour theory of Wassily Kandinsky and the Bauhaus, and electric cars. A little after twenty-five to three we leave for Portman Road, bidding the barmaid goodbye as Mick places our empty glasses and the cup that no longer contains peanuts on the bar.

Our tickets today (£10 for me, £5 for Mick plus £1.50 each unavoidable donation to some parasitic organisation called Seatgeek) are for Block Y of what is now known as the Magnus Group Stand, but used to be the plain old West Stand, named simply after the compass point rather than a commercial concern called West that had paid for the privilege. Flight upon flight of stairs take us to the dimly lit upper tier of the stand where we edge past a line of sour-faced males of indeterminate age, but over fifty, to our seats. My guess is there won’t be much banging of drums, lighting of flares or even vocal encouragement from these people, who look more like Jesuit priests than football supporters.

Although Remembrance Sunday isn’t until next week, and there will be a minute’s silence before the game versus Oxford United next Saturday, bizarrely we have another pre-match minute’s silence today. Stadium announcer Stephen Foster tells us it is because we are in the ‘Remembrance period’ but it feels like football just likes minutes silences. As ever the silence is strangely followed by applause, and then the game begins. For the first forty-five minutes Town will be mostly trying to send the ball in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand (previously known as Churchman’s end) where in the lower tier I can make out ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton. Later, Mick will ask me if “the lady from Essex” still comes to the games, and I will point her out to him, locating her using gangways and rows of seats like co-ordinates in a game of Battleships. Mick spots her and Pat from Clacton is sunk. Oldham Athletic are wearing a fetching ensemble of orange shirts and black shorts with orange socks; it’s a kit that stirs memories of Town’s fifth round tie away at Bristol Rovers in the snow of February 1978; or it would if, as is the modern fashion, Oldham’s shirts didn’t look like they’d had something spilled down the front of them.

Town start the game well with Oldham’s interestingly named Dylan Fage conceding a corner within the first minute before the oddly named Macauley Bonne heads a cross directly at goalkeeper Jayson Leutwiler. Within eight minutes Town lead as the oddly named Macauley Bonne’s cross sees Wes Burns do an impression of the shopkeeper in Mr Benn as suddenly, as if by magic he appears to score from very close range. This is just the start we need; we will now surely go on to win by three or four goals to nil because Oldham Athletic are third from bottom of the fourth division and Town won 4-1 at Wycombe Wanderers on Tuesday, what more convincing evidence predicting our inevitable victory could there be? Indeed, Town continue to look the better team as the oddly named Macauley Bonne and Wes Burns both have shots blocked, but then the shots become fewer to be replaced by scores of passes back and forwards across the pitch.

Bersant Celina tries a little flick pass with the outside of his right foot, which doesn’t succeed. “You’ve got to earn the right to do that sort of thing” announces the joyless sounding man beside me to the World, presumably unaware that he is talking rubbish; you just need to get it right. Oldham break forward and are a pass away from a shot on goal on a couple of occasions. “We’re leaving the door open” continues the joyless man, seemingly happy to be miserable.

Despite the 1-0 lead, the Portman Road crowd, which will later be announced as consisting of 437 Oldham supporters within a paltry total of 8,845, is quiet. Where are the other 29,165 who were here in 1975? A good number are probably no longer alive, I guess. “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” chant the Oldham supporters in the Cobbold stand with predictable coarseness. I feel like telling them that’s because some of us are dead. Despite high hopes the FA Cup seems to have lost a little of its sparkle and it’s only twenty -five past three. I realise that over the Cobbold Stand and across the roof tops beyond I can see the top of the Buttermarket shopping centre. It’s the twenty seventh minute and Oldham’s number nine, the optimistic sounding Hallam Hope heads the ball just wide of the Town goal.

Seven more unremarkable minutes pass and the sometimes not very controlled Sam Morsy is booked by referee Mr Hair, who it is to be hoped will one day referee in the Bundesliga. Stupidly, having dropped to the ground under a challenge, Morsy grabs hold of the ball as if to award himself a free-kick. Rightfully, Herr Hair books him for hand ball and the pointlessness of the incident mirrors the drifting aimlessness of the Town performance and its quiet backdrop; this isn’t what Cup football is meant to be like.

After a couple of further failed goal attempts from Oldham, with four minutes left until half-time they score. Latics’ number ten, Davis Keillor-Dunn, who sounds like he could have been friends with Lytton Strachey and Virginia Woolf, sends a fine shot into the corner of the Town goal from about 20 metres after Toto Nsiala initially fails to deal with a ball that had been booted forward. “How shit must you be we’re drawing 1-1” sing the Oldham supporters to the tune of Sloop John B, coincidentally showing the majestic timelessness of the Beach Boys’ 1966 album, Pet Sounds.

With half-time fast approaching Kane Vincent-Young tugs an Oldham shirt to concede a free-kick. “Stupid boy” says a man who sounds even more joyless than the man next to me but nothing like Captain Mainwaring in Dad’s Army. I suggest to Mick that players should have their hands bound with tape to prevent them from pulling each other’s shirts; ever reasonable and practical Mick suggests they simply wear mittens. Following a corner to Oldham, the half ends and with the exception of one man, the occupants of Row J rise and then descend the stairs to use the toilets and the catering, or to just stand about.

As Mick and I wait for the queue to the toilet to shorten we talk of exorcism, the disappointment of the first half, the architectural splendour of the Corporation tram shed and power station in Constantine Road, and how my wife Paulene has a degree in theology. I decide I can wait until after the game for a pee and whilst Mick joins the queue and disappears into the toilet, I am impressed by the long hair of a man standing a few metres away from me, but die a little inside when I read in the programme that when he grows up one of today’s mascots wants to be a policeman. More happily, the other two mascots want to be a footballer and a superhero.

Back in our seats the second half begins with the unusual replacement of both Ipswich full-backs as Janoi Donacien and Steve Penney replace Kane Vincent-Young and Cameron Burgess. It’s a change that brings almost immediate results as a mittenless Janoi Donacien tugs an orange shirt and Herr Hair awards a penalty to Oldham. The otherwise impressive Dylan Bahamboula steps up for Oldham to see his penalty kick saved by Christian Walton and a sudden roar fills Portman Road which belies the small number of people present. For a few minutes the home crowd is energised and it physically feels as if we care as much we think do. Wes Burns dashes down the wing, urged on by the crowd, but the sudden excitement is evidently too much and he propels his cross way beyond the far post and away for a goal kick. “How much more waking up do we need?” asks the joyless soul next to me.

To an extent Town’s performance in the second half is better than that of the first. The full-backs now on the pitch are an improvement on those they replaced and Oldham produce fewer decent chances to score. When Connor Chaplin replaces the ineffective Kyle Edwards the link between Morsy and the front players is strengthened and another dimension is added to our attacking play, but somehow it’s still not enough. As I tell Mick, all our players look like they got home at four o’clock this morning.

As Town’s failure to score grows roots and blossoms, the Oldham supporters gain in confidence. “Come on Oldham, Come on Oldham” they chant, giving a clue to the home fans as to what they might be doing, but we don’t twig. The upshot with ten minutes to go is a reprise of that old favourite “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” and who can argue, it’s no longer 1975. Despite Oldham encouraging Town with a misplaced pass out of defence, we are unable to capitalise and the Oldham supporters are the only ones singing as they ask “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” Predictably no one dares break our vow of silence to answer their question.

As the game enters its final minutes Sone Aluko replaces our best player, Wes Burns, and Rekeem Harper replaces Lee Evans. Encouragingly Oldham replace their best player, Dylan Bahamboula with Harry Vaughan, but nothing works and five minutes of added on time only raises hopes, but does not fulfil them.

The final whistle is blown by Herr Hair and the crowd get up from their seats showing the same level of emotion that they might if they were all on a bus and it had just reached their stop, turning away from the pitch and averting their gaze like you would if trying to avoid eye contact with a drunk. It has been a very disappointing afternoon of FA Cup football, and has failed on every level to live up to what the competition is supposed to be about.

On the bright side, at least we are still in the draw for the Second Round and until we lose, the promise of glory still remains. It’s not every year we do as well as this.

Ipswich Town 1 Birmingham City 1

April 15, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today could be an auspicious occasion; today could be the day that Ipswich Town confirms its transition from the second division to the third division of English football. Towen ‘did their bit’ on Wednesday evening by losing at Brentford, but other clubs let them down by failing to win and make themselves un-catchable. Today however, anything but a win will mean Towen will play next season in the third tier and pretty much no one who isn’t at least seventy years old can remember that happening before. It’s nice that such a landmark can be achieved at Portman Road, in front of our own fans, and not on some ‘foreign field’ where mis-guided fools would only gloat.

I set off for the match in positive mood therefore, still believing in a miracle but also resigned to a fate that has been writ large on most walls since late October of 2018. It’s been a morning of sunshine and showers and cotton wool clouds are now heaped up in a pale blue sky, a corny metaphor for the darkness and light of life and football. The characteristic smell of settled dust on a damp pavement rises up with the warmth of the April sun. The railway station platform is busy with all types of people, Ipswich Town supporters, women in their early forties on a ‘girls’ outing, an unhappy looking hippy, teenagers taking selfies and a family of Birmingham City supporters. The train is on time. A poster catches my eye, “Delay, Repay, With Less Delay” it says, carefully avoiding to mention anything about ‘fewer delays’; it will prove prescient.

Arriving at Colchester, the train stops and the doors open. “What? Sorry, it’s cancelled?” shouts a guard down the platform giving unintended forewarning of what has happened. It transpires that a freight train has broken down further up the track; the train I arrived on disgorges its passengers and departs empty. Twenty minutes later the next train arrives and the same chain of events unfolds, although the guard doesn’t shout down the platform this time. If there’s a good thing about train delays it’s that people talk to one another, if only to share their annoyance and anxiety. People in club colours glance at other people in club colours. With both Ipswich and today’s opponents both wearing blue and white those glances are asking “Is he one of us?” A middle aged man with a monotone voice asks me how long it takes to drive to Ipswich. I guess he’s thinking of getting a taxi, or stealing a car. He’s a Birmingham fan who has travelled up from Torquay; he doesn’t go to home games, only away ones and it seems that he’s just as keen on visiting all ninety-two league grounds as following ‘The Blues’. I would speak to him more, but he’s a bit boring.

When the 13:48 to Ipswich arrives on platform two; it’s not cancelled and it departs twenty minutes later with the track ahead now clear. The voice of the lady train driver apologises for the delay and warns that a few more minutes are as yet likely to be added to the journey. “But we will arrive in Ipswich eventually, hopefully” she adds, with a final note of caution. Arriving in Ipswich at about twenty-five to three it is too late to go to St Jude’s Tavern and I have already texted Mick to cancel our planned triste; as he says in his reply “ …it would not be a social interlude, just necking a pint…”

Ipswich is busy, but weirdly the Station Hotel, which is reserved for away supporters, is empty. Outside a couple of bouncers relax and have a ciggy and talk to two of the unusually large number of police who are out on the streets today. I join the herd crossing the bridge opposite the station and heading for Portman Road. On a banner attached to a lamp post a blue cartoon Octopus called Digby urges everyone to love their streets and not drop litter; so I don’t. Birmingham accents assault my ears. “Excuse may” I hear one say politely as a prelude to asking where the away supporters end is. There’s nothing for me here so I move towards turnstile five where there is no queue. The glasses-wearing turnstile operator doesn’t look up as I hand him my season ticket card, he scans its bar code and hands it back to me. “Thank you” I say enthusiastically and with genuine gratitude, like I imagine Watch With Mother’s Mr Benn would, if he ever went to football match.

I speak with Dave the steward with whom I used to work and then make for my seat near ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and Pat from Clacton. Today Phil is featured in the programme because it is 25 years since he last missed a Town game. Greetings, handshakes and presentations over, the game begins in brilliant sunshine beneath azure skies with Ipswich in their blue and white shirts besmirched by the naff logo of an on-line gambling organisation, kicking the ball in my direction. Birmingham City are sporting a kit of bright yellow shirts and socks with blue shorts, they could be confused with Sweden, Newmarket Town or may be Sochaux-Montbéliard from French Ligue 2. I am reminded of the first time I ever saw Ipswich play away (2nd April, 1977 at Maine Road Manchester), we wore yellow and blue; all away kits seemed to be yellow and something in the 70’s, except the ones that weren’t.

The visiting Brummies in the Cobbold Stand are first to burst into song with a rendition of the maudlin Harry Lauder number ‘Keep right on to the end of the road’. “That used to be our song, here at Ipswich” Pat tells me sounding a bit miffed and implying that Birmingham had pinched it. According to the Birmingham City club website, it has been their anthem since 1956. As if taking offence at Pat’s accusation, the Birmingham fans’ tone changes and they start to sing ‘You’re going down, you’re going down, you’re going down’, which is at once both a little uncharitable and a case of ‘stating the bleedin’ obvious’. There is no mention that Birmingham City have cheated their way to staying up by spending more money than league rules allow; Birmingham have been deducted nine points although even if they were re-allocated to Town it probably wouldn’t save us.

On the pitch Birmingham are already looking better than Ipswich and just to make the point, with little more than five minutes played Birmingham’s Lukas Jutkiewicz scores from very close range as if Ipswich were playing without any defenders at all, something they have practised all season. I leap from my seat cheering, I’m not sure why, I think it was the excitement of the start of the game spilling over and perhaps a sense that I’m fed up with waiting to be in the third division. Ever-present Phil and Elwood look at me disappointedly.

A goal down, Ipswich don’t improve and Birmingham look quicker, stronger and more skilful. The old boy and girl behind me moan about Collin Quaner when he loses the ball and his boot “He int kicked anything yet, how the hell’s his shoe come off” says one of them nastily. Myles Kenlock shoots not far over the Birmingham cross bar but it’s a rare foray forward for Town. I pass the time wondering if Birmingham’s full-back Colin who crossed the ball for the goal is Brazilian like Fred, Oscar and Cris; in fact he’s French, his first name is Maxime and it turns out he was born in Ipswich’s twin town of Arras; he’s ‘one of our own’, sort of. Despite early enthusiasm, the atmosphere amongst Town fans has cooled and the sunshine has been lost to cloud and rain showers. “Is this a library?” sing the Brummies enjoying some Italian opera before showing their less artistically appreciative side and singing “You’re support is fucking shit”. Eventually Town win a corner, Myles Kenlock again, and then another but we don’t do enough to puncture the Brummie fans’ sense of superiority as they chant in praise of Mick McCarthy and then claim they are relegating us. Birmingham City fans indeed know all about relegation their team having achieved it eight times since 1979, double the number of Town’s seasons of utter and abject failure in the same period.

It’s been a poor half from Town with four of our players also being shown a yellow card by the referee, Mr Jeremy Simpson, whose skin is sadly not also yellow like that of his cartoon namesakes. Half-time arrives as a bit of a relief and Ray stops to chat on his way to use the facilities. He tells me that he will be seeing Rod Stewart here in the summer and hopes it’s more entertaining. It’s Ray’s wife Roz who is the Rod Stewart fan, not Ray, he is more ‘into’ Jethro Tull and Yes. I ask him if will be seeing Hawkwind at the Corn Exchange in November; probably not. With no pre-match beer to drain off I remain in the stands and eat a Panda brand liquorice bar whilst enjoying the ornamental fountain-like display from the pitch sprinklers. I flick through the programme and seek amusement in the names of the Birmingham City players. Che Adams is a good name I decide and speculate that Mr and Mrs Adams are Communist Party members and have another son called Vladimir Ilich. The game resumes at six minutes past four.

Almost immediately Ipswich score, Gwion Edwards volleying in a cross from Kayden Jackson who has replaced the ineffective ‘boy’ Dozzell. Birmingham have defended like Ipswich, it’s almost like the two teams have come out for the second half wearing each other’s kits and so it continues with Ipswich now the better team and looking more likely to score again, although of course they don’t. The Ipswich supporters re-discover their voice and sing “Allez-Allez-Allez” or “Ole, Ole, Ole” I’m not sure which; personally I prefer the Allez, Allez, Allez version. The sunshine returns illuminating the verdant pitch, billowing white clouds are heaped up in the bright blue sky above the stands creating a scene worthy of an Art Deco poster. This is probably the most beautiful afternoon of the season so far, even if it is cold. “One Bobby Robson, here’s only one Bobby Robson” sing the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand slightly confusingly given that he’s been dead almost ten years. There’s something almost Neolithic about this reverence for ancestors. There’s no mention of Sir Alf Ramsey, but then he’s been dead nearly twenty years.

Next to me Pat is pleading for Town to score, to win, in between trying to persuade me to travel to games on the Clacton supporters’ bus. Today’s crowd of 17,248 with 1, 582 from Birmingham and Torquay is announced and Pat checks who’s won the sweepstake on the bus; then she checks again, paranoid about getting it wrong. Mr Simpson books Toto N’Siala who has replaced James Collins and for Birmingham City Jacques Maghoma replaces Kerim Mrabti meaning that probably for the first time ever there are two Congolese players on the Portman Road pitch. With time running out Myles Kenlock and Gwion Edwards both have shots blocked and little Alan Judge has one saved. Town ought to score, but it’s as if fate won’t allow it and finally Ipswich’s least favourite Simpson’s character calls time on the game and Town’s residency in Division Two.

There are emotional scenes before everyone goes home, with the players being applauded from the field after a few have sat down on the pitch in the traditional unhappy looking pose associated with defeat in defining games. Relegation has been certain for months now, but the final confirmation is so final that my heart and the back of my throat still ache a little. Ho-hum. I never liked the Championship anyway, with all its wannabe Premier League teams. I’m happy to return to our roots.

Ipswich Town 1 Rotherham United 0

January 13, 2019January 15, 2019 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

January is reputedly the most miserable and depressing of months and the closer to the middle of January it gets the more miserable and depressing it becomes. The third Monday in January has been designated ‘Blue Monday’; nothing to do with The Blues of Ipswich Town but rather something to do with the pleasure and happiness of Christmas having worn off completely and the realisation for people that they are now deep in debt; the weather has something to do with it too. Today is only 12th January however, I have no debt and my Christmas was not noticeably any more happy or pleasurable than any other couple of days off work, and although the weather is grey and overcast today, I have an afternoon at Portman Road to look forward to.
My erstwhile colleague and still current friend Roly is waiting for me at the railway station, he is drinking a cup of coffee which I imagine he imagines lends him an air of sophistication. Ignoring this, I tell him how I long for the weekends when I see Town play and how I feel a curious kinship with the many species of Mayfly that live for but a few short hours. It’s a twelve carriage train so we wander down the platform away from everyone else knowing that we won’t have so far to walk to the bridge over the tracks when the train arrive at Ipswich station; every second counts in the all too brief joy of a pre-match drink and then the match. Roly fritters away some of our precious time getting a fresh twenty pound note from a cash machine, but we are soon heading for St Jude’s Tavern where we are going to meet Mick. Portman Road is busy, the ticket enquiry office bleeds out into the road with a queue of late comers taking advantage of the special offer of tickets in any part of the ground for just £12. People with nothing better to do queue for the turnstiles to open. I buy a programme (£3) from one of the portable kiosks, which always make me think of a Tardis piloted by a Dr Who played by Mick Mills, transporting us back to the 1970’s. The programme seller is unsmiling and I wonder if he and his colleagues have been instructed to no longer invite customers to “Enjoy the match”; if programme buyers are anything like many of the nasty, ignorant and rude people who seem to inhabit social media I imagine such words of goodwill are generally met with verbal abuse. How I long to live in a civilised country like France where it is impossible to even make eye contact with club employees on a match day without them wishing you “bon match”.
In St Jude’s Tavern a group of three very young looking lads with Yorkshire accents buy two Coca-Colas and a pint of lager whilst I wait to purchase two pints of the Match Day Special (£2.50 a pint), which today is Cliff Quay Brewery Neptune’s Nip; Mick appears, like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn to bump my order up to three pints and the barman for some reason makes an un-necessary association between Neptune’s Nip and Poseidon’s penis. Roly, Mick and I sit at a table next to the young Yorkshiremen. We talk of Ipswich’s new signings and Mick is impressed at Roly’s knowledge, which he imparts with a weightiness of tone as if to say “…these are the facts, think otherwise if you wish, but I will not be held responsible.” I sit and listen and hope he gets to the bar soon because I need to drink as much as possible before the match to dull the pain. Roly buys the next round of Match Day Specials which is now Cliff Quay Brewery’s Tolly Roger (still £2.50 each). Whilst Roly is at the bar I get Mick to show me how he has so neatly tied his blue and white scarf around his neck. “It’s like a cravat” he tells me. I follow his instruction and achieve the desired look of Michael Palin in the episode of Ripping Yarns entitled ‘Golden Gordon’. The Yorkshire lads have left leaving two half glasses of Coca Cola and most of a pint of lager, very strange. I imagine they’ve gone to see if there is a rain gauge at the town hall. Before we leave I feel the solitary need to sink a further half pint of Cliff Quay Brewery Sir Roger’s Porter (£1.70), and then one of the retired gentlemen I drank with before the Millwall game on New Year’s Day comes over to say hello and remarks that I have some friends with me today. I tell him yes and that I therefore don’t need his company.
Glasses drained and returned to the bar, we negotiate the door and descend Portman Road, crossing Handford Road and joining the expanding throng of match-goers. At the turnstiles in Sir Alf Ramsey Way we walk past the end of the queues of the first block of gates to reach the second turnstile block where there are no queues; I smile to myself about how stupid people are who join the first queue they come to and surmise that they probably voted ‘leave’ too. The lady turnstile operator and I smile broadly to one another as I pass through and Mick reveals that she smiled at him too when Roly complains that his turnstile operator was miserable. He cannot understand it he tells us, explaining that he is so much younger and therefore more attractive than Mick and me.
Once inside the East of England Co-op stand bladders are emptied and we head for our seats. Because the tickets are a mere £12 each today I have traded up my usual seat with the groundlings of the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand and have taken up a place with Mick in the upper tier of the East of England Co-op Stand. The view of the game is better here, but it is also somehow a little too far removed from it, as if we are watching on TV and I sense that some of the people around me will be just waiting for a convenient break in play to go and put the kettle on. It wouldn’t occur to them to shout or chant in support of the team, they truly are just spectators and nothing more.

After group photos for the family album are posed in the centre circle, the game begins with Town kicking-off with their backs towards ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton, who I can see in their usual seats in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, or Churchman’s as us people who remember the ’good old days’ call it. Town sport their usual blue and white kit despoiled by an ugly advertisement for an organisation of on-line scammers. The usual team colours of today’s opponents Rotherham United are red and white, but eschewing the opportunity to recreate the classic blue and white versus red and white Subbuteo encounter, they wear an un-necessary change kit of yellow shirts with pale blue sleeves, and pale blue shorts and socks.

Sadly Rotherham’s kit is insipid and somewhat effete; it detracts from the spectacle and speaks nothing to me of Yorkshire grit and scrap reclamation for which Rotherham is rightly famed.
The match is fast and furious and lacks finesse but unusually Ipswich have the upper hand. There is an air of expectation as a bevy of debutants (or debutantes if you prefer to see this match as a sort of ‘coming out’ ball) before the home crowd. The transfer window is open and a wind of change is blowing through Portman Road as Paul Lambert gets to choose his own players rather than just make do entirely with what he has inherited from that false Messiah, Paul Hurst.

Outstanding in the Ipswich defence is an enormous bald-headed man by the name of James Collins; he is thirty-five years old but looks fifty, he is a colossus and carries the Ipswich rear guard on his back like Atlas, though not literally of course. If for some bizarre reason I were to make a TV adaptation of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, I would cast James Collins as Jean Valjean, not Dominic West.
With only twelve minutes gone referee Mr James Linington brandishes his yellow card in the direction of Rotherham’s Zak Vyner, a man whose name is distinguished by having more than its fair share of letters from the back end of the alphabet and is worth a decent score in the brand of imaginary Scrabble in which only footballers names and not proper words are currency. It’s one of the few popular actions Mr Linington makes all afternoon, although I do approve of his choice of all-black kit; it’s what referees should wear.
A half an hour passes and Freddie Sears scampers down the left; he gets beyond the Rotherham defence and crosses the ball low to the near post. No one has control and the ball looks like it is trying to escape, but it only runs as far as new signing Will Keane, who despite the unpleasant associations of his surname and a hairstyle more becoming of the Eastern Counties League strikes a low shot into the goal. The crowd rises as one and all but the 729 Rotherham United fans in the corner of the Cobbold Stand enter a state of joyful delirium. Town lead 1-0.
It’s half-time and the toilet beckons; as I enter the ‘smallest room’ in the stadium I hear Roly giving his friend Andrew from Bury St Edmunds the benefit of his analysis of the first half; he sounds very earnest, like a bearded, Caucasian Garth Crooks; I stand next to him at the urinal and open-zippered tell him I disagree with his analysis, although in truth I hadn’t heard what he had said. I wash my hands and am amused by the words ‘Danger Electricity’ which appear on the top of the hand dryer “ Ah, the old enemy , electricity” says Roly convincingly.
The game begins again and the two blokes behind me discuss refurbishing a kitchen; “ Seriously, if you do it, I can get you a 10% discount at B&Q.” says one “ Does that include stuff already on offer?” says the other, looking a gift horse in the mouth. But I shouldn’t be surprised, these two haven’t a clue who any of the Town players are and are clearly here because the tickets are cheap. Out of the kitchen and back on the pitch the match has changed. Ipswich no longer dominate, quite the opposite in fact. They are incapable of retaining the ball for more than a few seconds and have seemingly abandoned all attempts to pass it to one another. Rotherham produce wave after wave of ineffectual attacks which are repelled by a mighty rear guard action from the Blues. This is good on one level but immensely frustrating, worrying and disappointing on another. We are making Rotherham look like Paris St Germain; lose this and they’ll be wanting to take the Eiffel Tower down for scrap.
Despite Town’s apparent ineptness, brought on in my opinion by a shortage of proper midfield players, the crowd of 20,893 remain firmly behind the team. The lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, galvanised by the Blue Action supporters group and some welcome support from a bunch of fans of Fortuna Dusseldorf, Town’s unofficial ‘twinned club’ are proving inspiring, and every now and then even people in the East of England Co-op Stand are moved to clap their hands rhythmically. The floodlights are on as darkness envelopes the town and we benefit from the atmosphere of a night match, but Town still struggle to do anything but defend. On the touchline Paul Lambert the Town manager is very active, prowling up and down the technical area and swinging his arms directorially. I suggest to Mick that he’s probably just trying to keep warm because as ever he is in black slacks and a v-necked Marks & Spencer jumper and not wearing a coat, but Mick tells me in an authentic sounding Scottish accent that this is T-shirt weather.

Mr Lambert and his 'Marks and Spencer' jumper

Mr Limington the referee awards a catalogue of free-kicks to Rotherham, most, seemingly because a Town player has simply stood too close to one from Rotherham or has given him a funny look. The crowd tell Mr Limington he doesn’t know what he’s doing although I would prefer that they had asked “Who’s the bastard in the black?” Flynn Downes replaces German debutant Collin Quaner for Town as Paul Lambert reacts to that need for a stronger midfield and the bloke behind me with the kitchen asks “Who’s that?” “ Number twenty-one” says the bloke with connections at B&Q.
Finally, after five minutes of added time and a couple of narrow escapes for Town, Mr Limington gets something right and blows the full-time whistle unleashing rapturous scenes. The Sir Bobby Robson Stand finds a bigger voice than at any time during the match and hails the winners. It is a famous victory, as any victory is in this season mostly of defeats. But whilst the win is much needed and keeps hope alive, what this match has really shown is that people still care enough to come to a game, discounted prices or not, and Suffolk is still behind its team. Whether Town escape relegation or not, if managed properly this could be the start of a renaissance for Town and a re-connection with its fan base; I bloody well hope so.

Brentford 1 Ipswich Town 0

April 9, 2018April 10, 2018 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

My train is seven minutes late, which means that changing at Stratford to catch the 12:12 Jubilee Line service to Waterloo will require speed and alacrity. This is a shame and adds to my existing disappointment from when I bought my train ticket and the cheerless young woman at the station first tried to charge me a couple of quid more than the price I’d been quoted on the National Rail website. It turns out that there are two fares for the same journey, but apparently I didn’t want a ‘day return’ (£23.50) I wanted a ‘day travelcard’(£20.65 with a Goldcard). In reality I just wanted to go to Brentford and back as cheaply as possible, not caring what the ticket is called. Two companies, two prices it seems. The joyless woman’s excuse for not quoting me the lower price is that she doesn’t know where Brentford is. What idiot decided it was a good idea to split up a national rail network into separate private companies anyway?
When the train arrives it is busy and one of the few vacant seats is next to a grandmother, her daughter and two young grandchildren, not a choice of seat I would usually make. One of the children announces the names of all the stations, the other is fractious and often close to tears. The adults make more noise than she does however as they shush her and try to divert her attention from whatever upsets her. More passengers get on at Chelmsford, I feel the warm breath of a woolly looking dog on my hand as it is led down the aisle, my look of surprise makes the woman opposite me laugh. Another woman provides interest with her golden finger and toe nails, they’re a work of art worthy of Gustav Klimt.
The journey is tortuous; making the connection at Stratford I have to wait half an hour for the next connection from Waterloo. But Waterloo Station provides entertainment, I stand beneath its famous clock and a dishevelled, smelly man who holds a red lead at the end of which is a small, contented looking black cat, talks, but no one listens. From Waterloo to Brentford takes another half an hour, but provides glimpses of the gothic Palace of Westminster, the neo-classical Tate Gallery and Art Deco Battersea power station; later the train crosses the River Thames at Barnes Bridge, so it’s a lot of sight-seeing fun. Brentford station is dull, like the weather, but just outside a way finder sign announces ‘New map coming soon’ as if it’s been decided to replace the old map of Brentford with one of somewhere more exotic like Montmartre. The buses in this part of London are run by RATP, the company that runs Paris metro; another two-fingers to bloody Brexit.
Griffin Park is a proper football ground, surrounded by neat streets of terraced houses, like the one in which Mr Benn of Watch with Mother fame lived; I half expect to see him emerge from one, waving stiffly and sporting a red and white striped scarf and disproportionately large rosette. Walking down Clifden Road from the station all four metal floodlight pylons hove into view; it’s a sight to gladden the heart of any football supporter. I buy a programme (£3.50) and jokingly complain to the seller about extortionate metropolitan prices. Someone sells Chilli Con Carne from beneath a gazebo in their front garden. The Griffin pub is on a corner near the away supporters’ entrance and it and the terrace of bay-windowed houses opposite are built of the warm, yellow stock brick that defines so much of London. Football supporters spill out from the pub and into the streets which crawl with fans of both clubs. There is a good feel about this place. Despite its Twickenham postcode, nominally Brentford is a London club, but its supporters don’t have the obnoxious conceit of most London fans. I stroll up Braemar Road past the main entrance to the ground, beyond which is the club shop; it looks like a 1920’s suburban bungalow with its red and white painted gable. Naturally I take a look inside; if Chelsea has a ‘megastore’, this is more of a corner shop.
At the end of Braemar Road chalkboards on the wall of the Princess Royal pub welcome fans of both clubs before and after the game. Walking past the New Inn on the next corner of the ground I am welcomed and ushered in, but perhaps rudely I don’t stay because the beer is Greene King. I carry on down New Road and pass the Royal Oak pub and can still see the Griffin Park floodlights above the roof top along with a passing jet airliner, one of the hundreds that roar over about every two minutes during the day as they leave or arrive at Heathrow.
I return to The Griffin because it serves the local Fullers beers and despite the heaving throng at the bar I get served quite quickly with a 500 ml plastic cup of Fuller’s London Pride (£4.10); the name of the beer and its presentation sadly don’t really match up, but it says a lot about modern Britain. I go outside and lean on someone’s front wall to watch the pre-match activity unfold before me as I consume my beer. Before heading into the stadium I use the toilet inside the pub. There is an orderly and good-spirited queue at the three urinals. Somebody jokes as he pees that this will probably be the highlight of his afternoon, whilst someone else queues with a pint of lager in hand, as if he might just tip it straight into the urinal and cut out the middle man.
Today I am meeting Tim who I have known since 1965 and who is travelling up from Weymouth with a friend of his. The news is that due to engineering works Tim has had to travel via Westbury (Wiltshire) and due to an incident on a level crossing in Cornwall his train is delayed. He will arrive at Paddington not much before 3 o’clock and will have to get a taxi from there, missing the kick-off. I have his ticket. It’s a bit of a pickle, but I am hoping that I can leave the tickets for collection so that I don’t have to hang around outside and miss anything of the match myself. I speak with the steward at the away supporters entrance who is stood by a red flag which announces “Here to help”. Assuming it’s not the flag that’s the helpful one I ask the steward nearby if it would be possible to leave the tickets for collection; he refers me to the Stand Manager, a lady just a few metres away, who is extremely helpful and immediately says it will be no problem at all and I should leave the tickets with the steward who I just spoke to and let Tim know his ID number, number 277. I am deeply thankful and impressed by their straightforward efficiency; seems like it’s 1-0 to Brentford already.
In the small Brook Road stand, known by home fans as the ‘Wendy House’, most Ipswich supporters are gathered in the centre of the terrace directly behind the goal, I find a mostly pleasant, uncrowded spot towards the New Road stand. The only drawback is a youth stood staring at the Brentford fans making a masturbatory gesture; if only he knew how silly he looks. The roof is low, which gives the small terrace a good atmosphere and there is some singing from the Ipswich supporters as the teams appear amidst a posse of photographers and assorted hangers-on including the club mascots. Brentford, known as the Bees, have two mascots named Buzzbee and Buzzette, not surprisingly both are bees, but Buzzette looks worryingly like a Golliwog.
After a minute’s applause for former England international Ray Wilkins who died this week, Ipswich kick off the game wearing all blue although their usual white shorts would not have clashed with Brentford’s red and white striped shirts and black shorts. It’s a colourful scene against the back drop of the plain stands and lush green turf. Brentford are kicking towards the Brook Road stand. Town defend the Ealig Road end with its impressive backdrop of grey Brutalist tower blocks off in the distance. The early exchanges are symptomatic of the usual rubbish served up in what is nowadays known as The Championship, as players whose levels of fitness and strength far exceed their levels of skill cancel each other out and the ball flies between them like a pin ball. Ipswich’s Jordan Spence is the first player to be booked by referee Mr Robert Jones and it is only a quarter past three.
Tim and his friend arrive about five minutes later, but the game doesn’t improve; why should it? Two blokes beside me seem to be discussing whether someone’s hair is permed or not. An Airbus 380 flies over. There is little vocal support for the team from the Ipswich fans but plenty of singing of “Mick McCarthy, Get out of our club” to the usual tune of Sloop John B. Haven’t they heard? He’s going at the end of the season. It doesn’t seem likely that he will suddenly bugger off in the first half of a match, does it? These people need to get over this and just get behind the team. But many Ipswich fans love to accentuate the negative.
As a Brentford ball beyond the Ipswich defence reaches the penalty area Town ‘keeper Bartosz Bialkowski and Town captain Luke Chambers collide and it looks like Chambers has ’done his shoulder’ as a result. Chambers is replaced by substitute Myles Kenlock; in terms of spectacle the collision is the highlight of the first half although it inevitably prolongs proceedings. It’s been an even first half with both teams as bad as one another, so it seems that it’s not only Mick McCarthy’s football that is, in the words of the song, ‘shit’.
The second half is much the same as the first, although Brentford improve and are having much more of the ball with Ipswich rarely venturing towards their own fans; but who can blame them. The negativity in the Brook Road stand turns up a notch with a new song. At first I think they’re singing “We’re the arseholes, we’re the arseholes, we’re the arseholes over here” but then it becomes clear that the words is numbskulls, not arseholes, a reference to Mick McCarthy labelling some supporters numbskulls in a recent interview. Numbskulls is a word that seems to resonate with these supporters for some reason, as if they have found their true identity and along with chants of “We hate Mick McCarthy” they sing “Mick McCarthy’s blue and white numbskulls”. But their negativity isn’t confined to Mick McCarthy as they also very unjustly dust off Sloop John B once again to sing “I wanna go home, I wanna go home, Brentford’s a shithole, I wanna go home” . Only a numbskull could label a football ground with a pub on each corner a “shithole”.
A bald-headed bloke stood next to me, who has been joining in with the numbskull chants remarks that it looks like being a goalless draw “Yeah, if we’re lucky” I reply, tuning in to the pervading negativity. We’re not lucky. To our left in the New Road stand, a simple pitched roof structure with a line of thirteen bright red metal stanchions that line the pitchside, there are about twenty middle aged blokes all in identical grey flat caps, all sat together in a couple of rows. At about twenty to five most of them get up and file out through the back of the stand. Shortly afterwards Town’s Jonas Knudsen naively bumps Brentford’s Sergi Canos who falls to the ground. Referee Roberts who seconds earlier ignored a similar incident in which Town’s Luke Hyam appeared to be pushed over, awards Brentford a penalty. As a huge Ginsters pasty rolls into view on the pitchside electronic advertisement hoardings, Brentford’s French former St Etienne forward Neal Maupay steps up to score, sending the ball gently into the right hand side of the goal as Bartosz Bialakowski dives obligingly to the left.
With Ipswich losing, the Town ‘supporters’ that bother to sing now give free reign to their unpleasant feelings and unleash Sloop John B yet again to proffer the standard complaint that Mick McCarthy’s football belongs in the toilet. No criticism of Knudsen is made, obviously Mick coaches him to give away penalties when he can. As the game rattles along towards its conclusion Ipswich finally get forward a little more and muscular Martyn Waghorn gets through a couple of times. Kenlock the substitute is in turn substituted as the need for more effective attacking players builds, and Town play with two wingers. The sun is now shining and on the bench, well off it really, because he always stands up, Mick has taken off his coat as if to confirm that he’s not going anywhere soon and to stick it to the numbskulls.
A final flurry from Town isn’t enough and despite four minutes of added on time the game is lost. We make a swift exit to the railway station. It hasn’t been a good game, the result doesn’t help and the Ipswich supporters and their obsession with moaning at Mick McCarthy has made it worse. But Brentford has been grand, it’s a lovely ground to visit, so I don’t begrudge them the win even though the penalty that secured it owed more to the referee than any foul. I shall keep my programme and match ticket to help me remember Griffin Park, just like Mr Benn would have.