Plumstead

Ipswich Town 6 Charlton Athletic 0

/ martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

After working just four days last week, I have had the pleasure of working just three days this week and now, once again, it’s time for more football.  Can life get any better?

Once again I park up my planet saving Citroen eC4, but because I am a little late today I take a brisker walk than usual across a freshly mown Gippeswyk Park beneath blue skies and puffs of white cloud. A loan magpie hops across the grass and fellow walkers converge on the gate onto Ancaster Road. The Sir Bobby Robson Bridge follows Ranelagh Road and Ancaster Road just as expected and finally after Constantine Road and the Corporation tram depot I reach Sir Alf Ramsey Way and finally Portman Road. It’s safe to say I would have been surprised, not to say a little worried if it hadn’t been so.  Relieved, I buy a programme (£3.50) at one of the dinky blue booths.  In front of me two men discuss how many programmes they need and pay by card. The large man in the booth very carefully, almost too carefully perhaps,  counts out three programmes and hands them over,  and then it’s my turn. I also pay in the modern cashless manner but the touch screen doesn’t work and I have to type in my pin number.

Tucking my programme away in the inside pocket of my twenty year-old Ipswich Town branded fleece, I walk on to The Arb where Mick’s bike is chained to the railings outside the art gallery opposite.  It’s  not a shock therefore to find Mick stood at the bar when I burst through the door in the manner of Kramer in the TV comedy Seinfeld, except of course I only do that in my imagination. Mick kindly buys me a pint of a limited edition Belgian dark ale from the Moon Gazer brewery, it has a two word name, the second word is ‘Haas’, I don’t recall the first word, I have no idea how much it cost either.  We repair to the beer garden and have to sit in the ‘overflow’ that used to be a very small car park.  I suggest sitting in the shade, but Mick prefers that we sit in the sun, I tell him okay, but that I haven’t brought my sunblock; I notice a  woman smile as I say this, but I do have fair skin.  Once we are sat down Mick tells me of how he fell whilst lifting a large pot and has badly bruised his hip and of his recent trip to Antwerp.  We discuss how we both much prefer Gent (or is it Ghent?) to Bruges, about Mick’s former partner getting married in Las Vegas later today (we will both watch the ceremony on-line),  the pitiful and worrying state of American politics and I tell him about the mysterious grey and black ice cream van that plies its trade in the street where I live; Mick immediately ‘gets it’ that these are not ice cream van colours.

After last week’s long queues at the turnstiles to the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, we leave a little earlier than usual and feeling pessimistic as we reach Portman Road, I walk the long way round along Sir Alf Ramsey Way and Constantine Road and Russell Road  just in case there is a queue again, but happily there isn’t. The access to the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand is a guarded by a row of bouncers all dressed in black, I walk round the end of their line and towards turnstile 62.  Half way to the turnstile another bouncer raises a loud haler to his mouth, but as I’m the only person here he seems to think better of it and simply tells me to walk on to the far end, which oddly I was already doing.  At the turnstile I am given instructions on holding my season ticket card up to the reader and pushing my way through the turnstile when the screen says ‘Enter’. As the word ‘Enter’ appears I receive a small, encouraging shove from my instructor as if he may be thought I didn’t know that to move through the turnstile I would have to take a step forward.

Having drained off some of the ‘Belgian’ dark ale and washed my hands I enjoy the force of the new hand dryers before arriving on the lower tier of the stand where Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, young Elwood and ever-present Phil who never misses a game are all here; it’s a ‘full house’.  There are four minutes to go until kick-off; I am pleased that I haven’t arrived too early despite cutting short our time at The Arb, but can enthusiastically assist stadium announcer Stephen Foster read out the teams, bawling out each of the Town players’ surnames like French football crowds do.

A young boy called Hughie, or possibly Huey screams “Come On You Blues” into the smartly dressed Stephen Foster’s microphone and we all join in with a rendition of The Beatles’ Hey Jude.  As John, Paul, George and Ringo fade away the game begins, and Town and more specifically Conor Chaplin get first go with the ball and are sending it mostly in my direction, although hopefully a bit off to my right where the goal is. Town are of course in blue and white and today’s opposition Charlton Athletic are wearing white shirts and black shorts, a bit like a poor man’s Hereford United , but of course they should be wearing their proper red shirts because as every owner of a Subbuteo Table Soccer Continental Club Edition  knows, blue and red do not clash, even if you’re colour blind.

Town start the match in a blur of attacking play and win corner after corner after corner, all accompanied by chants of “Come On You Blues” from me and from ever-present Phil and even from some other people whose identity I don’t know.  Pat from Clacton admits to feeling nervous, but from the very start this seems like fun today. Up goes a shout  of “Handball” from what sounds like a good fifteen thousand voices as Nathan Broadhead dribbles through the Charlton defence.  “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” chant the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand in a mood of anticipatory celebration. It’s all Ipswich, but after four minutes Albie Morgan, who sounds like he could have played for Charlton in the 1920’s, dares to have a shot at the Ipswich goal which Christian Walton needs to catch. 

“Four-two and you fucked it up” chant the Charlton fans living in the past and reminiscing about last October when their team was becalmed in mid-table just like it is now.  Continuing to struggle to find anything positive to sing about their team, the south Londoners proceed to let us know to the tune of Sloop John B that “Ipswich is a shithole, I wanna go home.”  It must be tough coming to a town like Ipswich with its historic dock, medieval churches, river and adjacent SSSI’s, large parks and hundreds of listed buildings when you come from Plumstead or Sidcup, which of course are regularly compared with the likes of Barcelona, Paris and Rome as ‘best places to live’.

By way of punishment for dissing Ipswich , fate decrees that after just eight minutes the ball is played in from the left to Sam Morsy, who passes it forward to Conor Chaplin, who as ever, unerringly finds the goal net with a neat shot and Town lead 1-0.  A loud chant of “ E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go” rolls around the ground. Charlton supporters will not dare abuse Ipswich again, but although we do not yet know it, their punishment is not quite complete.  

As my blue and white scarf suddenly seems to try and make a break for it having become dangerously lop-sided across my shoulders in all the excitement, chants of “ Norwich City, we’re coming for you” ring out  followed by the inevitable out of season rendition of Harry Belafonte’s “ Mary’s Boy Child” which does something to almost make Wizzard’s 1973  wish that it could be Christmas every day come true.  Nearly fifteen minutes of the game are now in the past and I notice that not only is the Charlton goalkeeper wearing a kit of pale yellow but he is also wearing a mask, he looks like a somewhat weird super-hero, ‘Primrose Man’ perhaps.  Seagulls wheel above the pitch and settle on the cross-girder of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and then Town lead 2-0, Conor Chaplin being put through with space and time on his side to score comfortably.  “It’s that man again” announces Stephen Foster, obscurely referencing a BBC radio comedy show from 1940’s which starred Tommy Handley; no wonder BBC Radio Suffolk retired him.

There’s barely a cloud in the sky now and the afternoon has turned blue all over.  Twenty minutes have passed and it’s time someone went down injured so that the players can get some remedial coaching and a drink. The oddly named Macauley Bonne, who is today wearing the number eight shirt for  Charlton obliges and everyone else heads for the touchline.  When play resumes I notice the Charlton number four George Dobson, who has slicked back hair in the style of someone who would probably  remember Tommy Handley. Odd.

The match is heading into its second third and Town’s initial impetus and energy has dissipated a bit and the ball is less frequently being propelled at the Charlton goal.  The situation has changed so much that the oddly named Macauley Bonne forces a very smart and essential  save from Christian Walton with a header, and another former Town player, Scott Fraser has a shot which goes not very far past a post.  Charlton have gained in confidence but waste it in over-zealous tackles,  although when the 1940’s crooner Dobson goes through fetlocks of Conor Chaplin it amazingly rings no alarms with referee Mr Samuel Barrott who incredibly waves play-on as if physical assault was a natural part of the game.

When Charlton’s Michael Hector fouls George Hirst a few minutes later there are the inevitable ironic cheers, which are even more ironic because Hirst was actually grabbing hold of Hector around his back at the same time.  The Sir Bobby Robson stand lower tier are in ebullient mood and begin to chant “Stand up if you’re going up”, which is all very well for them because they never sit down, but it’s a bit of a chore for us over-sixties in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  A lad in the row in front has been relaying the latest scores from the exotic sounding Pirelli Stadium, Burton-On-Trent, where Sheffield Wednesday had been trailing by two goals to one. The lad turns around to tell us that the score is now 3-1 to Burton.  “No, stop it” says Pat from Clacton, still feeling anxious.

The final minute of the half brings another corner to Town and a final chance to sing “Come On You Blues” with the players in close proximity.  The chants fail to make a difference and with two minutes of added time Mr Barrott books Luke Woolfenden for handball when the ball bounces awkwardly up at him in the no-man’s land of the centre of the Town half. Mr Barrott is proving to be deserving of any jeers which find their way through the applause for the Town as everyone vacates the pitch for half-time.

As ever, I spend half-time speaking with Ray and his grandson Harrison.  Ray thinks the oddly named Macauley Bonne is a decent enough player; I’m less enthusiastic, but Ray does concede that in the first half of last season the ball did just tend to fall for him. Bluey the mascot is wandering about near us and I encourage Ray to have his photograph taken with the strangely proportioned, luminously white  equine bi-ped, but disappointingly he’s not keen.

The football resumes at five past four and Wes Burns is soon receiving treatment but happily recovers whilst Charlton fans sing something undecipherable about a ‘shit Ed Sheeran’. It’s a controversial view in this world of all-pervading pap-pop, but I didn’t know there was any other sort.  I imagine, however, that they were probably serenading a Town fan with ginger hair in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, because that is how football fan ‘humour’ works.

Town win a corner, even Cameron Burgess has a shot but although he has wandered up from what is kind of ‘left-back’, his shot says he’s no Mick Mills.  Mr Barrott gets to be Achilles as he books Hector who has hectored Massimo Luongo too much, and then the substitutions begin with Stephen Foster seemingly introducing Charlton’s Steven Sessegnon as Steven Sessessignon, which is easily done.  The oddly named Macauley Bonne is replaced to applause from the home crowd.  Half an hour remains and Town should make the result certain as Conor Chaplain sets up George Hirst, but he sweeps the ball beyond the far post despite having a vast expanse of open goal to aim at .

Pat from Clacton is still a bag of nerves and a third goal would prove handy as Jesurun Rak-Sakyi escapes the attention of Leif Davis and runs into the penalty area  before falling to the ground and busting a couple of break dance moves as he bounces back up to protest that he should have been awarded a penalty.  A new edginess has entered the game and there is soon a fracas with pushing and shoving amongst a whole gang of players; the upshot is that Charlton’s Dobson is booked, possibly for trying to flick Brylcreem at people.  Janoi Donacien replaces Harry Clarke, Mr Barrott adds to his collection of names with Charlton’s Ryan Innis, who is nowhere near as good value as Neil Innes was.  A minute later the long awaited third goal arrives as Conor Chaplin claims a hat-trick after tucking away a pass from Nathan Broadhead after Massimo Luongo had dinked in a subtle cross to the far post.

The game is now won and the usual mass substitutions follow. As soon as these are complete Town score a fourth with Sam Morsy winning a tackle, striding forward and playing a wide pass to Freddie Ladapo who scores with probably his first touch of the ball.  Town win another corner and I say to Fiona that we haven’t scored five goals in a game this season. Stephen Foster announces the attendance as 29,011 with an ‘away contingent’ of 1113.  “Oh when the Town go marching in” sings the crowd a little more joyfully than usual and for a moment the volume is enough for the sound to echo around the stands.   

The eighty-fourth minute brings a fifth goal as Freddie Ladapo cuts the ball to one side and lashes it into the top left hand corner of Charlton’s goal and as the back pages of newspapers sometimes said, Town ‘Go knap’.  Football supporters are nothing if not greedy for goals and I think of past thrashings of hapless visitors when Town would score a hatful and the crowd would chant for more.  “We want six” I think to myself, but I don’t shout out my thought fearful that anyone nearby could be afflicted with a ‘Carry On’ or 1970’s sense of humour and snigger “We want sex” and I don’t, not in front of all these people. Two minutes later and Freddie is through on goal again and seeking a hat-trick, but Innis sacrifices the final few minutes of his participation in the game as he knocks Freddie over and faces the not necessarily inevitable sight of Mr Barrott’s red card; happily Mr Barrott adds to our entertainment for the afternoon; five goals and a player sent off, it could only be bettered if the opposition were Norwich City.   The free-kick sails above the Charlton cross bar and four minutes of additional time appear over the horizon.   Four  minutes isn’t long, but it’s enough to let Kayden Jackson run and pull-back a low cross, for Kyle Edwards to send it against the far post and for Leif Davis to thrash the rebounding ball into the roof of the Charlton net.

After the sixth goal there’s no time for anything else other than the sound of Mr Barrott’s whistle to end the game.  It’s been an awful lot of fun, we’ve truly had Charlton on the run. It’s been an afternoon full of oooohs and aaaahs and cheers and chants and it’s been bloody marvellous.  I think it has laid the ghost of that 4-4 draw at The Valley in October, Charlton certainly weren’t going to come back for a draw in time added on today.  

Ipswich Town 0 Charlton Athletic 2

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Despite my father growing up in Gosport , the only football match I recall him mentioning going to as a boy was when his uncle George, who lived in Plumstead, took him to see Charlton Athletic at The Valley.  This would have been at some time in the late 1930’s when Charlton were one of England’s top teams and having been promoted in consecutive seasons under Jimmy Seed from the Third Division South to the First Division, the ‘addicks finished runners-up, fourth and then third in the three seasons before the outbreak of the Second World War.  Charlton had the largest club ground in the country at the time and in February 1938 a record 75,031 people piled in to watch an FA Cup tie versus Blackburn Rovers, it is reckoned that even then the ground wasn’t full.   If it was that match that my father’s uncle George took him too, and it might have been, it’s little wonder he remembered it.

Now, over eighty years on and nobody can go to the football anymore and the stadiums sit empty as we watch the games on the telly.  Not going to football is better than dying a horrible death from Covid-19 of course, so I’m not complaining, but footie on the telly is losing its appeal and logging into the ifollow each week is becoming a chore.  At least I think that’s the problem, but it might just be that my team Ipswich Town keep losing and against the background noise of social media and the silence of the empty stadium football is no longer as enjoyable as it was back in the good old days of Paul Hurst, Mick McCarthy, Paul Jewell, Roy Keane, John Duncan and Bobby Ferguson.

Although in melancholy mood, I nevertheless log in to my lap-top and the ifollow and make the connection just in time to hear the tail end of a report from Carrow Road on Radio Suffolk, which ends with the words ‘mind the gap’.  I understand these words are meant as a reference to Norwich City being in a higher division than Ipswich Town,  but I find it rather endearing that people from Norwich should find travelling on the London Underground so memorable that they have taken to repeating a station announcement in this way.  I settle into my Ikea Poang chair and as the pictures of Portman Road appear on my tv screen I take the opportunity to drink in sight of the pitch, seeking solace in a bottle of Titanic Plum Porter (two for £3 from Waitrose).

The mellifluous voice of Brenner Woolley introduces Mick Mills who waxes long, but not necessarily lyrically about the failure of Paul Lambert to prevent relegation in 2019 or to achieve promotion in 2020.  The failures of last season seem to be being repeated again; and not achieving promotion again, says Mick, is “what worries local people”.    Micks mention of ‘local people’ immediately has me thinking not of the Football League but of the League of Gentleman, and my mind’s eye puts  Mick in a floral headscarf, thick-framed glasses and poorly applied lipstick repeating ‘local people’ in a high-pitched voice .

The lining up of the players for the start of the game and a minute’s applause for the recently deceased Diego Maradona curtail the disturbing image in my head.  Maradona had, says Brenner “… a pure love of the ball and it loved him back”.  Brenner’s attempt to get all poetic is appropriate given Maradona’s brilliance,  but I can’t help thinking that affording emotions to inanimate objects is just a bit weird.  Nevertheless, when it is eventually Brenner’s turn to shuffle out of his mortal commentary box I like to think that someone somewhere will be moved to say that Brenner loved his microphone and it loved him back, and that the same was true of Mick Mills.

Clearly inspired by the tribute to Maradona, Brenner is quick to get into footballspeak with the phrase “early doors from Pratley” as Charlton’s Darren Pratley does something or other early in the game.  On the pitch David Cornell, with his first touch of the ball in his first league appearance for Town, slips and sends his goal-kick out for a throw-in.  For the first five minutes Brenner can’t mention a Charlton Athletic player’s name without also telling us all the teams he’s ever played for.   It’s as if he has researched all this information and he’ll be damned if he’s not going to use it, and as quickly as possible.    The ball has been booted upfield by both teams several times in the opening minutes and Mick tells us this makes the game quite entertaining.  I’m not convinced, and gain more pleasure from Brenner’s reference to “the pony-tailed Woolfenden”, although in truth, whilst in favour of long-haired footballers, I am not that impressed by the ponytail itself, but give it time.

The weirdly named Keanan Bennetts falls to the ground in the penalty area and Brenner tells us that “ two or three players put their blue-sleeved arms up there”.  Mick however gives those blue-sleeved arms’ owners short-shrift and sounds somewhat disgusted that they should have appealed for what was clearly not a penalty.  ‘Good old Mick,’ I think to myself, ‘you tell these youngsters’.    Mick is having a good early afternoon and after Brenner tells us that Charlton have two ‘makeshift’ centre-halves in Darren Pratley and Chris Gunter, Mick explains his hopes for Town because James Norwood is a “very knowledgeable striker”.  This probably means however that Norwood will be mostly looking to win free-kicks rather than appearing in a future episode of ‘Only Connect’.    In a rich vein of form Mick goes on to explain why he and Brenner say that Town are playing a 4-3-3 formation, even though  Town manager Paul Lambert has denied this and refers to more complicated permutations such as 4-1-2-2-1.  “We’re trying to paint a picture” says Mick, although sadly he omits to mention painting by numbers, Abstract Expressionism or Kayden Jackson Pollock; it’s an opportunity missed by the Town legend.

In the thirteenth minute Luke Chambers wins Town’s first corner through the unexpected means of a shot with the outside of his right foot.  Three minutes later and Brenner says “Town the better side at the moment” and he’s not wrong, although it’s not long before Charlton are passing the ball within the left hand side of Town’s penalty area; it’s a situation “very similar to how McGuinness gave away a penalty ….here……before”  says Mick sounding as if he is struggling to remember that it only happened last Saturday against Shrewsbury.  In the twenty-first minute Charlton score having made easy progress through the left side of Town’s defence once again.

Brenner tells us that Brett McGavin wins a free-kick because of a “high-shoe” from Andrew Shinnie, who we have to hope scores lots of goals with his lower leg.  Dozzell sends a lofted pass “over the top” but “ there’s too much on that from Andre “ says Brenner with cosy familiarity as the ball sails out of play.  From upstairs I hear a shout ,“Oooooooh”.  My wife is in the bedroom with Pompey, King’s Lynn Town and the FA Cup on BBC iplayer.  Not expecting to miss anything much at Portman Road I nip up the stairs in time to witness a replay of some Pompey player or other sweeping the ball into the top corner of the King’s Lynn net from a few metres outside the penalty area. “Is he allowed to do that?” I ask.  Apparently he is.  Pompey will go on to win 6-1, which makes my wife happy and me too  because it’s good to see teams from Norfolk lose.

I return to Portman Road in time to see James Norwood fall to the ground clutching his hamstring.  “That’s gutting for the lad” says Brenner going into footballspeak overdrive and thereby sounding like a public schoolboy straining for ‘street cred’.  “What is the matter with this club? asks Mick more pointedly,  querying why we have a whole team’s worth of players out through injury.   Mick believes someone seriously needs to carry out some research into why we have so many injured players.  Once the game restarts little Alan Judge comes close to scoring but for a fine flying save from Ben Amos in the Charlton goal , and then Judge becomes the only player of the afternoon to be booked.

Asked to sum up the first half by Brenner, Mick says “ It’s been indifferent really”.  Asked his opinion of Charlton, Mick says they have players who have “…been around a long time. They can play. They’re okay”.   What this glowing eulogy says about Town I can’t make out.   After a cup of tea and a Nature Valley chocolate protein bar the second half begins.

Ipswich win a corner, they don’t score. Eleven minutes pass and my eyes are feeling heavy. “We do have to think about changing direction again” says Mick as if Town had struggled with the change of ends at half time.  It’s the 59th minute.  In the 65th minute I open my eyes to see Town’s converted electric milk float ferrying Charlton’s Paul Smyth off the pitch. I’ve been asleep.  The wonderfully named Omar Bogle replaces Smyth and Town’s players don’t notice, allowing him to remain unmarked beyond the far post so that he can easily divert either a cross or a poorly aimed shot from Darren Pratley into the Town net. Charlton lead 2-0.

The remaining twenty-two minutes do little for me, although I do not fall asleep again and am kept entertained by the name of the next Charlton Athletic substitute, Ben Purrington, who replaces Chukwuemek Aneke.  I can’t decide whether  Purrington is having a great game or whether it’ s just that I find his surname so unlikely,  but the word Purrington is now all I can hear from Brenner’s commentary.  Mr Purrington, it sounds like the name someone might give to their pet cat. “Prodded away by an alert Purrington” says Brenner, sounding as if he is enjoying the substitutes surname as much as I am.

Mr Purrington ?

The final ten minutes of normal time arrive.  Little Alan Judge shoots at goal but his shot is straight at Amos the goalkeeper; if he’d shot like that at Amos the old testament prophet,  he would probably have saved it too.   “Charlton up to fourth, and third if they can get another goal” says Brenner optimistically.  Town win their second corner of the half.  Seven minutes of added on time are to be played, some of  it perhaps because the milk-float that carried off Smyth “ran into traffic”, a phrase I don’t remember Brenner using today.  “What do you think Mick Mills?” asks Brenner with a weary sigh.  “We lost to Hull and we deserved to lose this one as well” is Mick’s honest and accurate assessment.

With the game over I watch the players leave the pitch before the ifollow broadcast ends abruptly, a bit like my enjoyment of today’s game, although that didn’t last as long.  Whatever, I’ll be back for the next game.