Ipswich Town 3 Swansea City 0

March 1, 2026March 1, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It has been four weeks since I last travelled to Portman Road to watch Ipswich Town. Strangely forgetting about the away matches in between, I had started to wonder if the football season hadn’t already ended or somehow been cancelled amid claims from Reform UK Limited that the English Football League had been taken over by followers of Islam.

In keeping with my expectations of the end of February and life in general it’s been a drizzly, grey Saturday morning. But now as I step out for the railway station, leaving my Pompey supporting wife Paulene to watch her team head for defeat on the telly to visiting Hull City, the rain has stopped and I become aware of rooks building nests high up in the trees and buds beginning to flower. As I stand on the station platform a single blue tit chirrups every now and then. The train is on time and whilst it’s not full, the carriage I sit in is full enough to mean I can’t get far enough away from a loud group of men and boys. “We’d better eat this food then” says one of the men who has a particularly penetrating, rasping voice. My nostrils are assaulted by a terrible smell; God only knows what’s in their sandwiches, I don’t want to.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and we talk of Trump’s bombing of Iran, his blockading of Cuba, his Board of “Peace” and how Gianni Infantino will react to one of the host nations of the World Cup finals effectively declaring war on another before the competition has even begun. Hopefully, we can look forward to the USA being thrown out, like Russia; but awarding of another medal is probably more likely. So engrossed are we in our politically charged conversation that we almost forget to look for polar bears as the train passes through Wherstead, and when we do, we don’t see any.

Unusually, upon leaving the railway station we take the less convoluted Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street route to the Arb’, but this is because we are talking to Carole and her husband who are heading for something to eat in the town centre. Arriving at the Arb, we can barely get in the door, so crammed is our favourite hostelry with men queuing at the bar. Eventually however, and after Mick joins us, I obtain two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (one for me, one for Mick) and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary (£14 something with Camra discount) and we repair to the beer garden where there is now a heavy drizzle, although it soon stops. We talk further of Trump, Mick’s perfect hearing, the Housing Act in relation to private renting and tenant’s rights, today’s team, films Mick has recently seen at the cinema, the 1960’s and 1980’s BBC films/plays ‘Wargames’ and ‘Threads’ about nuclear attacks, and how Gary knows someone who always wants people to try some of her food when eating out. Mick returns to the bar to buy more Lager and Suffolk Pride for Gary and me, and a whisky for himself. At about twenty to three we set off for Portman Road, inevitably being the last Town supporters to leave the building.

There are no queues for the turnstiles at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand when I arrive and I stretch out my arms as I approach the bearded, middle-aged man who is going to see if I’m concealing any weapons or scrap metal about my person. “Scarecrow” he says. “Where?” I answer, looking around. It’s only when writing this now, that I realise he probably means I look like a scarecrow with my arms outstretched. I’m cleared for take-off (I was actually playing aeroplanes) and pulling the straw out from the sleeves of my coat I make for the hallowed turnstile 62, the stainless steel urinals, and then my seat in the lower tier of the stand, where naturally ever-present Phil who never misses a game, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and his grandson are already awaiting kick-off. Only ever-present Phil’s son Elwood is missing today, but I am here in time to join in with the announcement of the Town team. “He hasn’t announced the team yet” says Pat from Clacton almost as excitedly as the excitable young stadium announcer, who proceeds to tell us the Town team and I do my best to bawl their surnames as if I was awaiting the coup d’envoi at Stade Bonal in Montbeliard or Stade de la Mosson in Montpellier. After seemingly doubling up in pain as he shouts “Blue Army” into his microphone three times, the excitable young stadium announcer finally entreats us to “Be loud, be proud” as if we’re about to start protesting for gay rights.

Eventually, after a burst of communal singing of ‘Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown’ and another of ‘Hey Jude’ the game begins, and it’s Town who get first go with the ball via the boot of Marcelino Nunez. Town, in signature blue and white are aiming for the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras. Swansea City meanwhile look demure, all in white like an innocent Leeds United or oddly Cambrian Real Madrid, although there doesn’t seem to be a single Welshman or Spaniard among them.

Within ten seconds Town have a corner and at least three of us are chanting “Come On You Blues” for all we’re worth but it comes to nought and I’m merely left to contemplate returning ex-Town player Cameron Burgess’s fashionable but terrible new haircut, a sort of ‘pudding basin’ but using a sprint-cyclist’s helmet not a basin. My disappointment is thankfully short-lived however as no more than two minutes later Leif Davis proceeds down the left, his low cross is not even a third -cleared and the ball runs to Anis Mehmeti, who rather beautifully arcs the ball into the top far corner of the Swansea goal. Town lead one-nil. We’ve scored early yet again, and I think I detect a feeling of inner peace.

Eight minutes have now passed and up in the Cobbold Stand those visiting from the lovely, ugly town of Swansea begin to sing of “football in a library” to show solidarity with almost every other set of fans who have ever visited Portman Road. “I was reading this morning on Twitter…” says the bloke beside me about something or other, and I feel an urge to tell him not to read things on what used to be called Twitter if he can help it. On the pitch, Swansea City are having possession of the ball more than Ipswich but don’t seem to be capable of doing anything meaningful with it. “Hot Sausage Company” announce the electronic displays on the Sir Bobby Robson stand. “One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Welsh in the Cobbold Stand to the tune of Village People’s 1979 hit record “Go West”, which is perhaps ironic because you can’t get much further west than Swansea, unless you’re in Haverfordwest of course.

Thirteen minutes have departed and the match is a little dull. I notice that the Swansea goalkeeper has the surname Vigouroux, which is almost the French word for vigorous (vigoureux), but he’s from Chile. Swansea’s number seven meanwhile is called Melker Widell and I amuse myself by hoping that the other players call him Jimmy in spite of his being Swedish and surely not pronouncing Widell to rhyme with riddle. Seven minutes later life takes a turn for the better as Town win a second corner. “Come On You Blues” chant the only five people in the stand who understand that supporters are supposed to encourage their team. Life fails to improve any more.

The visiting Swansea fans then chant “Sit down if you love Norwich” in what perhaps passes as an attempt at humour on the banks of the River Tawe, but more likely they’re delirious after their long journey. Above us grey cloud drifts across a sullen sky. The half is half over and Irishman Ethan Galbraith shoots over the Town cross bar from outside the Town penalty area. A minute later and Pat from Clacton exclaims that both teams are wearing white shorts; she didn’t think that was allowed. I almost tell her that both teams in my Subbuteo Continental Club Edition that I got for Christmas in 1970 had white shorts, but I’m not sure it’s strictly relevant.

Town win their third corner in the twenty-ninth minute. Unbowed by the ennui of the rest of the occupants of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand the same four or five of us chant “Come On You Blues” with abandon and then do it all over again as Town win their fourth corner three minutes later. Our efforts are rewarded by an Ivan Azon header over the cross bar before Pat from Clacton tells us that she’s looking forward to her forthcoming whist playing weekend in Great Yarmouth. “You go there twice a year, don’t you Pat?” I ask her, thinking it doesn’t seem a year ago that she last went to Great Yarmouth”. “Yes” says Pat, “Don’t you remember? Last time I came back with flippin’ Covid” she continues.

Another seven minutes retreat into history and Anis Mehmeti is booked for fouling Ivorian Malick Yalcouye. Two minutes later however Leif Davis is again running down the left. A short pass finds Ivan Azon and he take a touch and very slightly curls the ball inside the far post beyond the vigorous but inadequate dive of the Swansea goalkeeper. Town lead 2-0. “Ole, Ole, Ole,” chant the home crowd channelling what surely amounts to a racial stereotype. “Hot Sausage Company” read the illuminated advert hoardings once again and I see that they cater for ‘events’ and weddings which must be a gift to any best man bent on giving a smutty, innuendo laden speech.

After a minute of time is stolen from all our futures to make up for other people wasting it by not playing continuous football, half-time is called. To fill the gap, I talk to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) about the game and a forthcoming operation on his left eye before Ray appears, back from his cruise in the Caribbean. Ray tells me that his son Michael and grandson Harrison are not here today because they have gone to see Morrisey at Wembley Arena. I should have asked “What difference does it make?” but it wouldn’t really have made much sense, and I didn’t think of it anyway.

The football resumes at three minutes past four with ‘Jimmy’ Widell kicking off for Swansea, who continue to have lots of possession of the ball, but rarely do they threaten the Town goal with it. After ten minutes Swansea make two substitutions, bringing on Franco and Ronald, who sound like a comedy double act evoking memories of the fascist Spanish dictator, the former governor of California and president of the USA, and Ronald McDonald. The bloke next to me wonders about what substitutions Town will make and I tell him that we’ll find out in two and a half minutes time because invariably Keiran McKenna makes his substitutions after sixty minutes. Like the trains (reputedly) in Mussolini’s Italy, McKenna is on time and Jack Taylor and Jack Clarke replace Nunez and Neil and the excitable young stadium announcer barks out the oncoming players names in a manner which I would like to hear used in a doctor’s or dentist’s waiting room.

The second half is a relaxed affair. More substitutions follow for both teams but Town seem happy to allow Swansea to have the ball as much as they want as long as they don’t do anything with it except pass it about. Cheekily perhaps, Swansea momentarily forget the agreement and Christian Walton has to make a diving save on one occasion, but such is Town’s dominance, even without the ball, that the possible appearance of the masturbating monkey good luck charm from Pat from Clacton’s handbag never even gets a mention. Barely twenty minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our incredible support ( he must mean the five of us who shouted “Come On You Blues” at corners)and tells us that overall we number 27,594.

Just four minutes later, victory is confirmed in the easily calculated currency of goals as Anis Mehmeti robs some slack Swansea-ite of the ball, runs to the by-line and delivers a low cross which George Hirst meets at the near post and diverts at an oblique angle inside the far post. It’s a fine, stylish finish from Hurst which belies the appearance of his haircut, which is not really any better than that of Cameron Burgess. Town lead three-nil and in celebration, “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” is the chant from the oddly festive Sir Bobby Robson standers sung to the tune of ‘Mary’s Boy Child’, a 1956 Christmas hit for Harry Belafonte.

A final Town substitution is made and four minutes of added-on time are added-on during which time the Sir Bobby Robson standers drearily sing “When the Town go marching in” and Anis Mehmeti is announced as ‘man of the match’ in the opinion of some sponsor or other and indeed he has played well. With the final whistle, Pat and Fiona are swiftly away to get to their bus and train but I linger to applaud the teams and kill a bit of time because my train isn’t for another twenty-five minutes. It’s been a comfortable win for Town, one of calm, studied authority decorated with moments of decisive skill. Swansea for their part have played nicely, but ultimately went gently into the good night, not that Dylan Thomas cares because he plays for Walsall.

Haverhill Borough 0 Felixstowe & Walton United 3

November 14, 2017December 7, 2018 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Haverhill and Felixstowe are on opposite sides of the county of Suffolk, Felixstowe being in the far east, on the coast, Haverhill in the far west, almost in Cambridgeshire and as close as anywhere in Suffolk gets to a motorway, the M11. Unless you live within walking distance, getting to Haverhill is only possible by road, the town having been deprived of its railway by Dr Beeching in the late 1960’s; a really stupid decision given that in the same decade Haverhill was chosen as one of a number of small towns which would expand with ‘overspill’ population from London. Cambridge is where trains comes closest and then it’s a number 13 bus to Haverhill. The town now has a population of some 28,000 compared to the 5,500 who lived here before it was expanded; it could do with its own railway station, it’s one of the largest towns without one.
My journey by car to Haverhill, whilst not a good thing for the environment is pleasurable enough as I drive along the winding roads of north Essex, darkened by drying smears of damp from earlier in the day. A watery sun appears beneath and between dark clouds and brilliant yellows and golds from leaves that still cling to grey trees illuminate the roadside. Thatched and half-timbered buildings line the way, there’s a village green, a closed pub called the Sugar Loaves, two football teams observe a minute’s silence as I pass by; this is rural England on a Saturday afternoon in autumn.
Driving out of the wonderfully named village of Sturmer I reach the edge of Haverhill, with its industrial estates and business park and row upon row of bland estate housing. At its edge it’s a bleak looking place, a mini new town, out of keeping with its rustic, geographical location. But the grey cloud has cleared and the sky is now blue, I follow the orbital road around the north of the town carefully negotiating the rubber, traffic calming speed bumps. Just past a large school, or academy as it is now pretentiously known is the town sports centre and New Croft, the San Siro of west Suffolk shared by both Haverhill Rovers and Haverhill Borough football clubs as the Stadio Giuseppe Meazza is shared by Inter Milan and AC Milan. But this being England the two Haverhill’s don’t actually play on the same pitch, Rovers play on a grass one on one side of the sports centre and Borough play on a ‘plastic’ 3G pitch at 90 degrees to it.
Parking within staggering distance of the turnstile I stop to admire the club crest which features a spinning wheel, there is also a notice announcing rather ungenerously that there is no free entry after half-time. Disappointed by such stinginess I approach the turnstile. “Oi, there’s another one” a man says to the turnstile operator who is about to desert his post. He’s referring to me, bloody cheek. “Another one”!

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Channelling the spirit of Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner I tell him, I’m not just another one (or a number); I don’t think he believes me. Entry costs £6.00 which is pretty standard for the Eastern Counties Premier League and the attractive looking, but ultimately slightly dull programme costs a further £1.00. Boldly, the front cover features a colourised photo of what looks like quite a nasty two-footed tackle by a bearded Haverhill player. Just inside the turnstile to the left is the tea hut; it’s neat and new and its black weather boarding gives the appearance of a traditional ‘shed’, the type of structure that all non-league grounds should have. Its open door is welcoming and I venture inside and invest in £2.50’s worth of bacon roll and £1.20’s worth of tea, served to me by a pleasant young woman who is appreciative of the change I offer her in payment. As I turn to leave I recognise a group of Ipswich Town supporters sat at a table drinking tea; they are at a loose end because International matches have resulted in a blank weekend for the Town and they have chosen Haverhill to get their weekly football fix.
I eat my bacon roll and drink my tea outside, trying to absorb the pre-match atmosphere; but there isn’t any. There are a lot of Felixstowe supporters here today, probably because their team, who are known as the ‘Seasiders’ are top of the league, some 13 points ahead of the team in second place having won eighteen of the nineteen games they have played. But the Felixstowe fans aren’t a rowdy bunch, although they add a splash of colour with their red and white scarves. I use the toilet facilities, which are round the corner by Haverhill Rovers’ pitch. Returning into the green cage that surrounds the 3G artificial pitch I detect that my hands and fingers smell as if the soap dispensers in the toilet were filled with washing up liquid; odd.

It’s almost time for the match to start and a bloke with a radio microphone announces that there will be a minute’s silence before kick-off and he then reads out the teams,

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shirt numbers and surnames only. Being Haverhill, the announcer has a London accent and therefore a lot of vowel sounds are absent, but amusingly (for me anyway) it sounds as a result as if the Haverhill number 11 is called Bottom; he is actually called Botten. The Felixstowe left-back is called Stefano Mallardo and I don’t know why, but some strange word association forms in my head and I imagine a man called Arturo Mullardo, who had he been real might have been Benito Mussolini’s favourite comedian.
Respectful silence observed to a background of shouts from a match taking place on a neighbouring pitch, Felixstowe kick off booting towards that academy and the Haverhill Rovers pitch. Felixstowe wear red and white strips with red shorts and from the front their shirts look like Signal toothpaste; Haverhill wear a faded looking all blue kit which has a nasty sheen to it and on the basis of their kit I do not think they will win this afternoon. Less than five minutes into the match and a Haverhill player swings a leg to hoof the ball clear of the penalty area. Nobody laughs, but hilariously he misses the ball completely and instead poleaxes a Felixstowe player stood where the ball should have been. There is not much doubt it is a penalty, although it did look bizarrely accidental, and as a result Felixstowe quickly take the lead as Francis sends the penalty kick past Borough ‘keeper Smith. The Felixstowe supporters, many of whom have gathered on a small terrace which looks like an opened-up metal shoe box, cheer merrily.
Haverhill respond quite well to falling behind so soon and possess the ball all around the Felixstowe penalty area but don’t manage a shot. The Borough goalkeeper makes lots of encouraging noises and urges ‘more urgency’ for some reason; with over 80 minutes still to play I think he’s panicking. Has he never heard the phrase “Slowly, slowly, catchee monkey” I wonder. That’s English football for you though, with its “Get it in the mixer” mentality.
I am intrigued as to why Felixstowe are so far ahead at the top of the league table and search for something special amongst their team. It’s true that they are nearly all quite tall and they look more imposing than the Haverhill team, but their respective kits have something to do with that. Felixstowe certainly have fewer fat players and Borough are notable for having two or three quite portly fellows in their team. I attribute this to diet with Felixstowe probably eating more fish being coastal and Haverhill just eating pie and mash because they are displaced Londoners. One way in which non-league football has the edge over po-faced professionalism is in the variety of shapes and sizes of the players and the fact that a bloke who looks like he has just stepped out of the crowd can be the butt of terrace jokes but then deliver a defence splitting pass or make a perfectly timed sliding tackle. Haverhill’s left-back is such a player as he explains to the wide-man in front of him something about ‘getting there’ and a bloke in the Felixstowe crowd asks “Getting where? The buffet?” How we laugh.
The game has settled down into a combative affair; disappointingly Felixstowe are not spectacular, they don’t tear Haverhill apart with joyous, flowing football but they are the better team and most of the action takes place in the Haverhill half of the plastic “3G” pitch on which clouds of tiny rubber balls are puffed up with every kick and bounce of

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the ball. There are clouds in the sky above too, slightly unusual ones and more beautiful than the game. Haverhill’s number four is the first player to be booked by referee Mr Cutmore and there are a number of discussions between referee and players as decisions are questioned and foul play admonished. Some discussions appear quite intimate as referee and players stand very close to one another.
At about twenty five to four Felixstowe score another goal, a corner sees the ball drop in front of Davies and he can’t miss from about four yards out; Haverhill’s players complain that the Seasiders’ goal keeper had bundled one of their players over; Mr Cutmore listens politely but dismisses their pleas without hesitation.
Another ten minutes of physicality pass and it’s half-time. I have edged my way towards the tea hut as the first half ebbs away and am one of the first to get another £1.20’s worth of tea. The air is heavy with smell of chip-frying in the hut so I head back outside where my tea cools nicely as evening begins to envelop the New Croft. I take a look about;

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there are lots of notices attached to the cage that surrounds the 3G pitch; smoking and chewing gum are banned within the confines of the “3G Stadium”, presumably not because of concerns about public health or unsightly, open-mouthed mastication but because of what cigarettes and gum might do to the plastic and rubber. With its plastic pitch, metal stands and fences and little wheels beneath the goals the stadium seems very artificial and temporary, as if after the game it will be folded up and put away in a cupboard inside the sports centre. I smile at a banner that proclaims that the Co-op funeral service proudly sponsors walking football; if I was a walking footballer I think I’d be worried and would be wary of men in black stood on the touchline. The Co-op must think they’re onto a good thing; middle aged blokes on a diet of pie and mash still playing sport, even slowly.
The return of Mr Cutmore and his entourage jolts me from my reverie. I drain my paper cup and the game begins again, and Haverhill have more of the ball than before, but no more shots on goal than in the first half. Several times Haverhill break away down the left flank, but nothing more than that, and when they do shoot it troubles the high metal fencing more than the Felixstowe goalkeeper. I take up a seat at the back of the metal stand a bit further along from the shoe box. The floodlights are on and reflect off the bald pate of the man sat in front of me, fortunately the lenses in my glass are ‘reactalight’. Unusually all the spectator accommodation is on just one side of the ground and it’s not possible to walk all around the pitch, which is a bit disappointing as I can’t stand behind the dugout and listen to the managers cursing and swearing at their players, the linesmen and the referee. Bad language is an essential part of the game despite the Eastern Counties league’s entreaties in the programme to “Keep it down for the kids”. Substitutions take place. On the opposite side of the pitch the linesman is busy. His shock of orange hair is quite stunning and matches the autumn colours of the leaves on the trees behind him; as the light fades he almost glows beneath the beams of the floodlights. The other linesman is a slight figure with a thin beard, he looks like he’s feeling the cold and guiltily slips a hand into the pocket of his shorts when play is at the other end of the pitch.
The second half is a bit boring. The football isn’t very good. It’s clear Felixstowe have this game won and its only half past four. A Haverhill supporter snipes that the Felixstowe players are from Ipswich, as if being from somewhere 10 miles away is a terrible crime in a local league for local people. A Seasider retorts spikily that the players are from Felixstowe, like the supporters, perhaps implying that most of the population of Haverhill is really from London, but I could be reading too much into that.
Sensing my boredom perhaps, the Seasiders push forward again and a cross from the left results in a shot which is blocked and then from close to the edge of the penalty area the ball is half-volleyed into the corner of the Haverhill goal by the fictional sounding substitute, Kye Ruel. The goal removes all doubt about the final result and ten to five soon arrives when Mr Cutmore blows his whistle to call time. Those from Haverhill leave quietly, whilst the Felixstowe fans wait to applaud their team. I am soon in my car and negotiating rubber speed bumps.