Ipswich Town 1 Fortuna Dusseldorf 2

July 28, 2024August 1, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s late July already, summer has almost arrived, and so has the new football season. In the Eastern Counties Premier League, the likes of Brantham Athletic and Walsham le Willows are starting their league fixtures today, but I have decided to prolong the sense of anticipation for the ‘real’ stuff and am returning early to Portman Road to witness the friendly between the mighty Blues and Fortuna Dusseldorf, or “Our friends from Germany” as they have become known. I am looking forward to an afternoon of Kraftwerk and altbier.

Pre-season friendlies are strange beasts, and I don’t usually bother with them. Back in the 1970’s my youthful exuberance meant I was as eager to see a Will-hire Cup match against Cambridge United as I was to see any game, but I’m mostly out of exuberance nowadays and I begrudge paying the money just to watch the team train. I last saw Town play a pre-season friendly eight years ago when they met Union St Gilloise from Brussels, a club then in the Belgian second division but now regular Pro-League title challengers, although sadly they never quite manage to win it. The fact that St Gilloise are from Belgium and Fortuna from Germany is significant; I can’t resist seeing teams from abroad, even in friendlies. Maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days before that stupid referendum (emphasis on the ‘dum’) cut Britain adrift, or maybe I’m pining wistfully for those happy days when competitive European games were regular entries on Town’s fixture list, or maybe I’m just hoping to catch the lingering scent of strong beer, trams, fine wine, fast trains, chocolate and haute cuisine clinging to the replica shirts of visiting supporters.

As befits late July, it’s a fine, warm day with fluffy clouds heaped up under azure skies. My train (return ticket £9.60 with senior railcard) is on time, and as I step on board the chill of the air-conditioned carriage comes as a bit of a shock, as does the smell of the toilet. Reassuringly, the eletronic sign above the gangway tells me that this service for Ipswich will call at Ipswich. On the opposite side of the gangway to my seat a man with two young boys has a voice that sounds like a very sleepy version of the now deceased comic and Eastenders actor Mike Reid; “…know what I mean?” he says to the boys after he explains that he doesn’t think any football ticket should cost more than £50.00. I see all four polar bears at Jimmy’s farm as the train eases down the hill into Ipswich.

I am meeting Mick today, but by way of a change our rendezvous is at the Station Hotel, where Mick is already eating the sightly odd combination of a toasted cheese sandwich and chips with his friend Chris, whom he previously met off the train from Felixstowe. I join them with a pint of something called Platform Number 9 (£3.90) and we talk of summer signings, locally listed buildings, prostates, American politics, how some of the cheese in Chris’s toasted sandwich hasn’t melted and how I have had an air source heat pump installed this week and thanks to various pipes and ducts the back of my house now looks like the Pompidou Centre. Conversation continues with a further pint of Platform Number 9 for me and a Jameson whisky for Mick (£7.85 for the two), before Chris suggests we make a move for Portman Road, which is exactly what we do.

In Portman Road there are queues for the Cobbold Stand where our seats are sat waiting for our bottoms, but first I stop to acquire a programme (£2.50) from one of the blue booths that look as if they should also sell ice creams. The front cover of the programme gives Mick and I something to talk about in the snaking queue to the turnstile as we comment on the casual, hands in pockets stance of Ali Al-Hamadi, Conor Chaplin and Harry Clarke, and the somewhat macho “You looking at me?” expressions on their faces. Mick doesn’t recognise Ali Al-Hamadi or Harry Clarke and I can’t remember Clarke’s name at first either. “That full-back” I tell him, “you know, Colin Harper”.

After venting excess “Platform Number 9” we find our seats and almost immediately the game begins, as if they’d just been waiting for us to arrive. Fortuna get first go with the ball , or it could have been Town, I wasn’t really paying attention. Fortuna, in all red, are kicking the ball mostly in the direction of the telephone exchange, Barrack Corner and what used to be Anglesea Road hospital beyond, where in June of 1976 my father had a hernia operation. A couple of months later he and I would see Town beat Go Ahead Eagles Deventer one-nil in a pre-season friendly. Barely four minutes pass and Fortuna score, Schmidt. It’s an overly simple goal with a cross that reveals an absence of marking and ends with an unchallenged header. Oh well, it’s only a friendly.

“Come on Ipswich” shouts a shrill child behind us and Mick and I piece together the line-up of the Town team. The shirts show squad numbers, but the programme doesn’t provide the key to these and the Town players’ names are not on their shirts either. From what’s on the back of their shirts, all the Fortuna players appear to be called Dusseldorf. Not being ones to memorise the Town squad numbers, Mick and I are at a loss to identify Town’s number 14, but the bloke sat next to Mick that isn’t me helps us out, revealing that it is Jack Taylor; it threw us seeing him start a match. We eventually also manage to deduce that the new signings are number 22 Jacob Greaves, number 8 Liam Delap, number 2 Ben Johnson, and the goalkeeper is Arijanet Muric. After eight minutes Town fashion a first shot on goal, a weak effort by Delap.

Twenty minutes pass and my interest has mostly only been piqued by the building work on the West Stand, where swathes of seats are missing and it’s possible to see the decorative brickwork of the Corporation bus depot through the gap where there will eventually be more hospitality boxes. I note that our goalkeeper wears pink and that Jacob Greaves wears his hair in a small bun, a bit like former Pompey player Christian Burgess who coincidentally now plays for Union St Gilloise. I do like a centre-half with longer hair, it suggests to me a welcome element of flair in a position not usually known for it.

Liam Delap receives a strangely generous smattering of applause when caught offside and after twenty-five minutes Town win a corner, but then Fortuna are awarded a free-kick by referee Mr Smith and the man next to Mick that isn’t me starts waving his left arm about in anguish. “English, and he’s against us!” he shouts weirdly, as if its 1944 not 2024 and the referee is Lord Haw-Haw. I turn to Mick to tell him how surprised I am at how much some people seem to care so much about a friendly; but soon I’m thinking to myself that I’ve not sat in the Cobbold Stand since the Blue Action group has moved in and at half-way through the half the drums are beginning to get on my nerves. Perhaps with the players feeling the same as me, the twenty ninth minute is an unexpected drinks-break, and Mick checks his phone to see what the temperature is. Twenty-five degrees is evidently warm enough to crack open the Lucozade, or whatever isotonic elixir the modern Premier League player and his coach prefer.

Drinks supped and play resumed, Marcus Harness replaces Wes Burns and I admit to Mick that I hadn’t realised Wes was even playing. Harness’s introduction is an immediate success as his first cross is headed goalwards by Jack Taylor and Town have another corner, which George Edmundson heads at the Fortuna goalkeeper Florian Kastenmeier who interestingly shares his first name with Florian Schneider, one of the two founder members of 1970’s Dusseldorf-based ‘Krautrock’ band Kraftwerk. “Use your height Conor” shouts a man behind us before he laughs at his own ’joke’, hopefully out of embarrassment. Not totally absorbed by the match, I’ve noticed that a lot of surfaces around the ground are now painted matt black, including all the vomitoriums (vomitoria?) and I wonder if this is something required by the Premier League along with canapes and a shrubbery for Sky Sports presenters and a toilet reserved for Alan Shearer.

Three minutes of added on time are announced and I realise that from beneath the roof of the Cobbold Stand I cannot see the sky, it’s like looking out through a letterbox. When half-time arrives, I stay where I am for the duration unable to face the confined spaces beneath the venerable Cobbold Stand, although Mick bravely heads off to the lav.

Predictably, the re-start after half-time brings multiple personnel changes on the field of play and Delap, Edmundson, Greaves and Muric can catch the early bus home as they are replaced by Hirst, Burgess, Woolfenden and Walton. Fortuna win an early corner after a mistake by Woolfenden, who Mick remarks will need to improve to retain his place this season, and I agree with him. Then Marcus Harness equalises with a goal not dissimilar to Fortuna’s in that he is left alone on the right-hand side of the penalty area, but it’s a shot, not a header, at the end of a pass from Conor Chaplin.

After a rather dull first half, Town seem for a short while to have re-discovered themselves, and George Hirst breaks forward and plays in Jack Taylor to shoot high towards goal but have his shot saved. The thrills around the Fortuna goal don’t last however and soon it is the German Bundesliga team that are breaking forward with Ao Tanaka who, running on his toes and with a floppy mop of hair looks a bit like an oriental Trevor Putney. Tanaka misses, but within minutes Tim Rossmann is left with almost a quarter of the pitch to himself and he runs on to shoot past Walton with aplomb, and Fortuna lead 2-1. It’s nearly 3- 1 soon afterwards, again thanks to Tim Rossmann, but this time he misses the goal.

With the German lead restored, the game reverts to how it was in the first half and the Fortuna goalkeeper Kastenmeier has the time to stand and watch a seagull soar and swoop above the pitch and I wonder if he doesn’t get to see many seagulls at the Merkur-Spiel Arena in Dusseldorf. Dusseldorf is some way in land, but it is on the Rhine which I imagine seagulls follow up-stream. Annoyingly, I don’t remember if there were seagulls or not when I saw Town play at the Paul Janes Stadion in Dusseldorf back in pre-season,2015. Whatever the ornithological ins and outs of the Rhineland, nine years on and Fortuna are the better team today. On the touchline, Kieran McKenna retreats to the dugout to peer thoughtfully at a his lap top and rest his head on his chin in contemplation.

More substitutions ensue, but I‘ve lost interest to a large degree and the adverts announcing “University of Suffolk – apply now through clearing” and the sight of OGC Nice club crest catch my eye almost as much as the balding pate of Fortuna’s number 27, the obviously bleached blond hair of their number 18 and the enormity of their number 43 who, for a short while until Mr Smith tells him his fortune seems to ‘want a piece’ of Sam Morsy.

“Mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa, Sam Morsy mwa mwa mwa” says the stadium announcer incomprehensibly as the match draws to a close, and we guess Sam Morsy is man of the match, for what it’s worth. Mick and I share our mild disappointment at having forked out £35.00 between us to watch two teams train, and then our equally mild confusion that there is to be a penalty shoot-out despite the game not having ended in a draw. With Fortuna having lost the play-off match for promotion to Bundesliga 1 on penalties at the end of last season, it almost seems like mental cruelty to remind them of the experience so soon afterwards. On the other hand, there is every chance it will be more exciting than this afternoon’s match was, or at least it would be if anyone cared.

Both teams miss their first penalty and score their next four, and the next one , (or is it two?) after that. When Luke Woolfenden steps up to take the next penalty, I tell Mick that he will miss. Whilst Woolfy’s shot is on target it is nevertheless saved quite comfortably and if these are “sudden-death” penalties Fortuna have won for the second time this afternoon. But then Christian Walton gets to take a penalty, which he scores, and I have no idea what is going on, although looking at my watch I realise I’m going to miss my train, and I do.

Unbowed, or just stupid and somewhat mystified, as we head away from Portman Road Mick and I agree to speak soon to arrange buying tickets for the final friendly of pre-season versus OGC Nice (Olympic Gymnaste Club de Nice) of French Ligue 1. A pre-season friendly against French opposition ? We wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Ipswich Town 2 Huddersfield Town 0

May 5, 2024May 27, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

After a 10.7 kilometre ‘trip’ on a static exercise bike whilst listening to an assortment of tunes by The Jam, a shower, a shave and a hearty breakfast of sausage, poached eggs, tomatoes, toast, Welsh cakes, tea and coffee I suddenly find myself under azure skies waiting on a railway platform for a train to take me to Ipswich to see Ipswich Town play Huddersfield Town in the last match of the football league season. Courtesy of the ridiculous 12:30 kick-off, it’s not even half-past ten yet. “It’s not the end of the world” says a man to a child stood by the grey concrete bridge over the railway tracks, and something inside me hopes that’s the last time I hear that phrase today.

The train departs three minutes late. Inside the carriage, on the other side of the gangway to me a man stares out of the window grooving to the sounds coming through the headphones clamped over his ears. “The sticks man” he says to himself almost laughing and sounding like the school bus driver Otto in the Simpsons, and we pass by bucolic scenes of farmyards, duckponds and country cottages. I think to myself that he could, as Marge Simpson once said, be “…whacked out of his gourd”. But as I get up to change trains at the next stop he calls “Hey, your scarf man!” and I turn to find that my blue and white scarf had fallen on the floor. I thank him and he tells me it’s cool.

On my second station platform of the day, I meet Gary who looms, smiling, out of the throng of blue and white attired people also awaiting the next train to Ipswich. It’s been a very blue a white day so far. The train is packed full, but I get a seat for Gary and one for me by asking two well-spoken young men if they would mind moving their bags of golf clubs from the seats next to them and into the luggage rack above. They are very obliging and as they move their luggage one of them admits to supporting Leicester City; the other wears a garish striped blazer, like a kind of young Michael Portillo, but not as weird.

We look for polar bears as the train passes through Wherstead, but only see Arctic wolves. Arriving in Ipswich it takes some time to alight from the train, an activity further hindered by stupid people trying to get on it before everyone else has got off. Our passage to Portman Road is then slowed again by the ‘automatic’ ticket barriers which unhelpfully haven’t simply been left open to let everyone pass through speedily and safely. Eventually however, we find ourselves crossing Burrell Road and Princes Street bridge and Gary asks me if I’m going to get an ice cream; I tell him I am. Portman Road however, is packed with people, and there are long queues at the programme booths which, because I am an impatient person for whom standing in queues does not align with ‘living in the moment’, I decide not to join.

Today we are meeting Mick for a pre-match drink, but he still hasn’t returned to full fitness after the operation on his foot and so rather than trekking uphill to our preferred boozer, ‘the Arb,’ we are only making for the Fanzone, because it’s nearby. Having negotiated the muddled multitude of supporters milling about in the shadow of the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and waited in a short but nevertheless annoying queue, we enter the Fanzone and meet Mick who had arrived moments before us. With nothing else for three over-sixties to do in the Fanzone but queue for the bar, we queue for the bar having first walked in the opposite direction to discover the end of the queue, like nineteenth century explorers searching for the source of the Nile. The queue is slow moving today which is because it actually turns out to be two queues, which merge just before the entrance to the beer tent. By and by we reach the front of the queue and I generously buy a pint paper cup full of San Miguel Lager for Gary and pint paper cups full of fizzy Greene King East Coast IPA for myself and Mick, it costs me at least double what I would have spent on beer in a week back when Ipswich won the UEFA Cup. I had told Gary I would ask if there was a discount for Camra members, but out of deference to the pretty young woman who serves us, I don’t.

Brimming paper cups in hand, we arrange three collapsible chairs in a circle and discuss the health of Mick’s foot and what a “spazz” (Mick’s word not mine) Ipswich ‘s Tory MP, Tom Hunt is. At about a quarter past twelve a steward asks us whether our seats are in the West stand. Mick’s and Gary’s are, but mine isn’t and she advises that I prepare to leave the Fanzone as there will be queues at the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. I complain mildly to Gary and Mick about being hurried along in this way, but Mick admonishes me, telling me the steward is only trying to be helpful and also that he quite fancies her; as he does so he crushes his cardboard cup in his hand spurting residual beer froth onto the ground like spilt seed. For a moment time stands still.

Never one to argue with Mick when his dander’s up, I bid him and Gary farewell and make my way round to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand along Constatine Road past a man stood with an enormous flag at least twice the size of the tricolour in Eugene Delacroix’s masterful painting “Liberty leading the people”. The crowds have dispersed now, and I stop to buy a programme (£3.50) at the ice cream booth in the former Churchman’s factory and then Staples’ car park. I tell the attractive young programme seller that I am surprised there are any left given the queues earlier, and then ponder that Spring really does seem to be in the air. There are no queues at all at the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, contrary to popular belief, and having passed through turnstile 62, I’m soon greeting the broad smiles of Pat from Clacton and Fiona as I take my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.

Like it often is nowadays, Portman Road is noisy today and I struggle to hear stadium announcer Murphy read out all the names of the Town team, and as a result and to my eternal shame I don’t manage to be the consummate French football supporter as I fail to bawl ‘Tuanzebe’ at the right moment; Fiona laughs. Shouts of “Blue Army, Blue Army, Blue Army, Blue Army” follow the usual singing of the “na-na-nars” in The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” and the match begins with Conor Chaplin playing the ball back to Luke Woolfenden as Town get first go with the ball. As ever, Town sport their signature blue and white kit, but Huddersfield Town are in a necessary change kit of day-glo lime green, a kit that would not look out of place on a hot day on anyone mending the pot-holes in the roads of West Yorkshire.

“Leeds, Leeds are falling apart again” sing supporters of both teams in a touching display of unity and schadenfreude, and then Town fans launch into a song about Sam Morsy to the thirty-year-old tune of “She’s Electric” by Mancunian ‘Brit-Poppers’ Oasis; I particularly like the lyric “He’s fucking brilliant” which I think says all anyone needs to know about the Town captain. Eight minutes pass and clearly unaffected by my earlier faux-pas, Axel Tuanzebe delivers the first shot on goal which results in a comer to Town which begets another, before two minutes later a low Wes Burns cross results in yet another corner and a header wide before after yet another three minutes Town win another corner and two minutes after that Conor Chaplin shoots wide. There is no doubt, Town are on top.

Nineteen minutes are history now, joining the preceding billions of years in spent eternity and news arrives that Leeds United are losing, which if it became a result would mean Town could happily lose too and still be promoted. “Leeds, Leeds are falling apart again” sings the crowd to the tune of Mancunian miserabilists Joy Division’s forty-four year old hit “Love will tear us apart”. I briefly wonder to myself why back in 1980 we never re-worded the hits from the mid to late 1930’s such as ‘March winds and April showers’ or ‘I only have eyes for you’. Interrupting my reverie, Wes Burns shoots hopelessly over the angle of post and bar before the dirge version of “When the Town going marching in “ drifts slowly from the stands as if relegation rather than promotion was the likely outcome of the afternoon.

The half is more than half over and Conor Chaplin puts Wes Burns through on goal; agonisingly he rolls his shot wide of the target, but like a man with three goes at a single dart finish, that shot was just a marker and three minutes later, receiving a pass from Conor Chaplin,Wes makes amends ramming the ball between post and goalkeeper. “E-I, E-I, E-I, E-I-O” chants the home crowd, and Huddersfield substitute their No 8 for No 21. Six minutes later and Conor Chaplin falls to the turf inside the penalty area. Several supporters bay for a penalty. “You bald cunt” shouts a bloke somewhere behind me, presumably at referee Simon Hooper, but no one really knows.

Five minutes until half time and I sing “Allez les bleus, Allez les bleus “ a couple of times on my own, which I like to think inspires Omari Hutchison to shoot wide, and then the Huddersfield goalkeeper fumbles the ball but catches it at the second attempt. “At least we haven’t got to go to the play-offs” says Pat from Clacton, clearly feeling confident. “I think we’re alright” she continues “We can have a nice holiday now”. Three minutes of additional time are announced by announcer Murphy using his important announcement voice, and Massimo Luongo shoots over the crossbar before Huddersfield have their very first shot of the game, as number 44 Rhys Healey shoots wide. With the half-time whistle, I travel to the front of the stand to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison. Ray talks about not believing in a god or gods, I’m not sure why, but I tell him that at least if you worship the sun, or the trees, you can be sure they exist even if popular song says they don’t listen to you.

The second half begins at twenty-six minutes to two and I notice that the Huddersfield goalkeeper is called Maxwell, and I think to myself that if he’s got a silver hammer, we should get a few penalties. Looking up, I see the clouds have changed shape, with towering cumulus being replaced by just a smear across the sky. Three minutes into the half and Omari Hutchinson runs at goal, he is forced to run across the face of goal but he’s too quick for the Huddersfield defence and makes space to shoot; the shot is too hard for the Huddersfield goalkeeper and Town lead 2-0. That’s Ipswich promoted, surely. “Stand up, if you’re going up” is chanted from the stands, and people stand up. What more proof is needed?

For twenty minutes it’s like being present at a concert of Town supporters’ greatest hits of the 2023-24 season. “Are you watching Norwich scum?”, “Carrow Road is falling down”, “One Marcus Stewart.” punctuate corners and a shot over the bar from Leif Davis. The usual double or triple substitutions on the hour aren’t really needed today, so are delayed until the seventy-third minute and serve only to draw ovations for a season’s efforts from the departing players. Announcer Murphy announces today’s attendance as 29,011 and even the seat next to me is occupied, by an extremely tall youth who neither says nor sings anything. “Small Town in Norwich, You’re just a small town in Norwich” chant the Huddersfield fans bizarrely, or at least those who’ve never seen a map of Britain do. But “The Town are going up, The Town are going up” is the carefree response to the intended sleight.

Huddersfield don’t seem capable of threatening Town’s two-goal lead, let alone overhauling it, although their No21 gets Alex Matos himself booked for a foul on Jeremy Sarmiento, perhaps in an attempt to at least show willing. But their supporters know the truth and happily and pleasingly sing “We’re on our way, To Division One, We’re on our way” . With the game entering the final ten minutes, stewards and police begin to surround the pitch and a helicopter circles above. Surely they can’t be hoping to prevent a pitch invasion, and I begin to wonder if Rishi Sunak is going to have us all machine-gunned as punishment for Thursday’s Council election results; he does after all hope to place Britain alongside Russia and Belarus as one of just three countries in Europe not signed up to the European Convention on Human Rights. After the game, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) will tell me he would have felt happier if the helicopter had been being tailed by an Apache from nearby Wattisham.

As the edge of the pitch fills up with people in day-glo jackets, it starts to become difficult to distinguish the Huddersfield players from our would-be murderers, but reassuringly there will be only three minutes of additional time and I think with promotion now assured, our lives may yet be saved. With the final whistle Ipswich Town are indeed promoted, having secured second place in the league, six points clear of the team in third, Leeds United, who have apparenrtly fallen apart again, but may yet be able to put themselves back together in the play-offs if they can beat Norwich City, who finish twenty-three points behind Ipswich. As my friend Pete will remind me later this evening as he congratulates me, from now on Town will be in the “best league in the world”, a world within a world of Sky hype, obscene amounts of money, gambling responsibly and no three o’clock kick-offs on a Saturday – or very few. As happy as I am that Town are successful after years of misery, and as much as a surfeit of beer, Cremant and red wine will result in my falling asleep early in the second half of Stade Brestois v FC Nantes as I watch it on the telly, I still can’t help but think of the words of Mick McCarthy “Be careful what you wish for.”

It is possible this will be my last blog for a while that features Ipswich.

Further reading: The man who hated football by Will Buckley

Word of the week: Ambivalent

Ipswich Town 1 Middlesbrough 1

April 14, 2024April 16, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Today, for the first time in six years, Ipswich Town will play Middlesbrough at Portman Road. It’s bright, sunny and warm and the pale blue sky is wreathed in thin, high cloud. As I walk to the railway station a woman in an open-top car motors past me, the Rolling Stones’ (Can’t get me no) Satisfaction playing on her car radio. Momentarily, I feel like I’m in a film from the swinging Sixties, but happily Julie Christie never had tattoos like the woman driving the car. I realise I’m not in Billy Liar or Blow Up, I’m in Essex. The train for Ipswich departs one minute later than advertised. There were a goodly number of Ipswich Town fans on the station platform when I arrived there and even a couple of Middlesbrough ones, but now In the seat in front of me sits a pouty girl with pre-Raphaelite hair. When I hear her speak, she’s American, from the east coast I reckon, so more Patti Smith than Lizzie Siddal. In the seats behind me a father and his young son natter about which stations the trains to Norwich stop at. As the train descends Wherstead Hill I see a Polar bear; I know Middlesbrough is way up North, but that’s ridiculous.

Ipswich looks good in the sunshine and in the garden of the Station Hotel our visitors from Middlebrough must be wondering what the big yellow, sparkly thing up in the sky is. The Middlesbrough team pass over the river in a shiny, six-wheeled, grey metal box. In Portman Road I pause to buy a programme (£3.50) and an ice cream, but as ever fail to ask for the ice cream. Today, after last seeing Town play back in February, against West Bromwich Albion, Mick is returning from injury (a foot operation) , but he’s not fully fit and cannot manage the walk from ’the Arb’ so is being dropped off near Portman Road, and our pre-match toast will take place in the Fanzone. I arrive some time before Mick, and having stood in an impressively fast moving queue for a pint of massively over-priced Greene King East Coast IPA (£5.95!), I talk to ever-present Phil who never misses a game, who is hanging about in the beer tent. A huge cheer goes up as Blackburn Rovers score against Leeds United. Phil and I talk of pre-season, of matches to go to next weekend, the sale of miniature versions of the statues of Sir Alf, Sir Bobby and Sir Kevin in the club shop, clubs to visit if staying in Hunstanton (King’s Lynn Town, Heacham and Swaffham Town), and how, should Ipswich get promoted, the victory parade ought to involve an open-top bus ride to the Port Authority building and then a boat trip down the River Orwell and back to the old Tolly Cobbold Brewery accompanied by a flotilla of small craft, packed to the gunnels with Town fans. Thanks to Athletic Bilbao for the idea, although of course they sailed down the estuary of Bilbao when they recently won the Copa del Rey, not the estuary of the Orwell.

Mick arrives about 2:15 and we join the still fast-moving queue for more over-priced, pasteurised beer, although the club must be congratulated on how efficiently it is dispensed. Leeds United lose. Beers in paper cups in hands we sit at a Yogi Bear style picnic table to catch up on the past two months. Time passes and people are leaving to get to their seats even as we sit down, and by and by we are the only people left sat here and it’s not even ten to three yet; we don’t usually leave ‘the Arb’ until gone twenty to three. A woman steward seems very keen to see us leave, telling us she doesn’t want us to miss kick-off; I hate being made to hurry up over meals and drinks, it wouldn’t happen in France. We should be allowed to miss kick-off if we want to, particularly with beer at £5.95 a pint.

Having bade Mick farewell, I make for the Sir Alf Ramsey stand via Constantine Road, past the offices of Ipswich Buses, proudly owned like our football ground by the people of Ipswich, and along Russell Road to turnstile 62. My appearance on the bottom tier of the stand coincides with that of the teams on the pitch and I exchange cheery hellos with Pat from Clacton, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who jokes that my just-completed team talk was clearly very serious this week. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here too with his son Elwood, but I knew that I already. Murphy announces the teams and at least Phil and I bawl out the Town players’ surnames as if this was the Stade Felix Boleart or Le Roazhon Park, before we all join in with a stirring rendition of ’Hey Jude’, which is only just fading away as Ipswich get first go with the ball, sending it towards me and my fellow ultras. Town are of course in blue and white, whilst the ‘Boro are in their signature kit of all red, although the white bit across their chests, synonymous with the shirts worn by likes of Platt, Cuff, Craggs, Brine, Spraggon, Boam and Foggon in 1974, is sadly reduced to a couple of tram lines either side of the name of a betting company.

Portman Road is noisy. “Blue and White Army” gives way to “We’ve got super Keiran McKenna” and they’re even clapping rhythmically or rattling their jewellery in the West Stand. Leeds lost, Leicester lost, this is the chance to worry about getting clear at the top of the table instead of just enjoying the game. Six minutes on, Town win a corner and Conor Chaplin smacks the ball over the cross bar from inside the six-yard box as he darts to the near post. “Come On Boro, Come On Boro” shout the Teessiders in the Cobbold stand, fearful of conceding an early goal, and possibly of the bright sunshine too.

Three minutes more and Jeremy Sarmiento shoots straight at Seny Dieng the ‘Boro goalkeeper. Pat from Clacton tells us that a week today she’ll be flying to America, but in the excitement I forget to tell her to give Donald Trump a good kick if she sees him. Back on the pitch I notice that Middlesbrough’s number twenty-seven is called Engel and I ponder on how, except in an episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, I can’t ever recall a player called Marx, or Engels come to that. “Alley, alley, alley- O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers, a bit like the schoolchildren in the 1961 film adaptation of Shelagh Delaney’s a Taste of Honey, starring Rita Tushingham and Dora Bryan.

“Oh when the Town go marching in, Oh when the Town go marching in” is next in the sequence of football family favourites from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, and behind me the bloke sat there decries the apparent unwillingness of Omari Hutchinson to run at the full-back, “He’s got the ability to fuckin’ do’ im”. Ali Al-Hamadi is barged over when in full flight and from somewhere off behind me and to my left a voice calls out “That’s a foul ref, you’re fuckin’ shit”. The tension is palpable, but Town are on top and surely, it’s just a matter of time before we start scoring.

Twenty minutes have gone forever into history and Vaclav Hladky’s clearance doesn’t go as far as it might, the ball is played out to the right and crossed back in and a Middlesbrough head rises above all others to send the ball into the far side of the goal and Town are trailing one-nil. We weren’t expecting that, but then again. So, running away clear at the top of the table isn’t going to be as easy as first hoped, or as it seemed an hour ago as we celebrated Leeds losing at home to Blackburn. On the touchline, the managers are trying hard to be inscrutable in black and grey shirts and slacks.

The goal is a fillip for Middlesbrough who share more of the game for a while, but then Leif Davis is free down the left and pulls the ball back, Omari Hutchinson shoots but the ball looks down on the cross bar as it sails above it. Town win a corner as a low cross is blocked by what the linesman says was a shoulder, but what looked to those around me like a whole outstretched arm. But from the corner kick a kind of justice is done. At the far post Massimo Luongo appears from the knot of players of both teams to welly the ball at the cross bar from close range; the ball hits the cross bar for a second time as it bounces back up from the goal line and then finally drops and gives itself up to the goal side of the line, and Town are no longer losing. How can Town not now go on to win? Although It is possibly the first time I have ever seen one shot hit the cross bar twice.

Town’s second goal is soon on the way as Jeremy Sarmiento is put through to steer his shot beyond Dieng, only for it too hit the post and contrarily deflect away from the goal when bouncing the opposite way would have been a far more popular decision by the inanimate, plastic coated leather sphere. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, they’re by far the greatest team the World has ever seen” we sing, telling the ball in no uncertain terms that its behaviour doesn’t bother us.

The last five minutes of the half arrive and Massimo Luongo places a shot into the arms of Dieng before Conor Chaplin floats a speculative forty-yard attempt wide and the Sir Bobby Robson standers get all festive with a rendition of “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” Then, just to remind us that they’re still here Middlesbrough send a couple of shots wide and earn a corner before the half is extended by two minutes and referee Mr Allison turns down another Town penalty appeal as Conor Chaplin falls beneath an enthusiastic challenge. I thought the Middlesbrough player got the ball, but Ray will soon tell me that he thought the player went through Chaplin to get to it.

With the half-time whistle, I talk to the man from Stowmarket as there is no one sat between us again, despite the match being sold out, and then go to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison. Harrison and I bump fists and Ray and I talk of the National Health Service and that penalty controversy. At seven minutes past four the football resumes and after just four minutes Massimo Luongo is the first player to see Mr Allison’s yellow card up close after he tugs on the shoulder of some bloke or other who’s playing for Middlesbrough.

The second half is still young as Omari Hutchinson goes on a magnificent run to within what looks like a few metres of the ‘Boro goal, only to win just a corner. Pat form Clacton gets out her “Altogether now” ITFC badge and I question whether it has anything to do with the Beatles’ song of the same name on the Yellow Submarine album. I don’t think it does. Back on the pitch, and Middlesbrough even up the bookings as number sixteen hauls down Jeremy Sarmiento, which was a bit of a waste of time because Jeremy is substituted for Nathan Broadhead two minutes later in the usual change, which today only also sees Keiffer Moore replace Ali Al-Hamidi. “Na-na, na-na, na-na, na-na, na, na, now, Keiffer, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Moore, Keiffer Keiffer Moore” sing the Sir Bobby standers by way of celebration, to the tune of KC and the Sunshine Band’s 1973 hit single ‘Give It Up’. The final twenty minutes are approaching, and Pat from Clacton is delving into her supply of lucky charms and pulls out a blue Dodo from Mauritius. The efficacy of the lucky Dodo has not yet been established, but today is its big chance to promote the worth of Dodos everywhere, if it isn’t too late.

Murphy the stadium announcer tells us that we are 28,771 today, with 1,324 from Teesside and then thanks us in the usual pre-programmed way “for our continued support”. Really Murph, it was nothing, you’re welcome. “Sing your hearts out for the lads” continue the Sir Bobby standers having heard that confirmation of just how many of us there could be singing, and then the ground goes quiet before the noise returns with some Oles. Twenty minutes of normal time remain, and possession of the ball is lost forcing Vaclav Hladky into making a save. “Blue and White Army! Blue and White Army!”. I can feel the tension coming up at me through the concrete of the stand.

“Attack him!” shouts the bloke behind me, still frustrated that Omari Hutchinson isn’t running at the full-back as much as he’d like. This feels like a play-off match, which can’t be good. Fourteen minutes left and Hutchinson shoots over the cross bar again, but also earns a corner again, and then another. Jack Taylor replaces Massimo Luongo who receives rich applause. Eleven minutes left and Nathan Broadhead shoots wide. Ten minutes left and Luke Woolfenden is caught out near the half-way line resulting eventually in a shot which Hladky saves superbly, diving low to his left to tip the ball away, and then a minute later he makes an even better save, hurling himself to his right to tip a powerful header over the cross bar.

On the cusp of full-time Conor Chaplin is replaced by Lewis Travis and Axel Tuanzebe by Dom Ball. There aren’t many people leaving the stadium like there would have been at one time; if this Town team has achieved one thing already this season it is that it has cured a lot of people of leaving before the end. Today however, proves not to be one of those days when the winning goal is the punch line, and five minutes of added on time merely ends with Mr Allison’s final whistle a signal for a muted celebration of another point. We can only hope for, not expect satisfaction, although I don’t think the Rolling Stones mentioned that in thier song.

Ipswich Town 0 Watford 0

April 11, 2024April 11, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

As the football season begins to draw to its close, I sometimes start to look ahead and see what few fixtures are left, conscious that all of this will soon be over and when it returns summer will be almost gone too. Since last weekend I have therefore occasionally thought of Watford,

As far as I can remember, I have only ever known three Watford FC supporters. The first one I knew for just a fortnight back in 1982, when I worked for the Department of Health and Social Security and was sent on a course to distant Stockton-On -Tees. He was what might commonly be called a bit of a ‘Jack the lad’ and he had driven up north in a small saloon car with go faster stripes and a tinted windscreen, which might even have had his name printed on a sun strip across the top. He was the sort of bloke who wore white socks and loafers and had a small moustache. I worked with and occasionally played five a-side football with the other two, both of whom I would describe as suburban; they both had neat hair and doubtless still have. That’s how I think of Watford, suburban.

I first saw Ipswich play Watford in a League Cup quarter final tie in January of 1982. It was the first time the two clubs had met since Boxing Day 1956, and a factor in this is that it had taken Watford from 1920 until 1969 to even get into the Second Division. The Observer’s book of Association Football describes how in 1969 Watford were promoted as Champions and simultaneously earned a reputation as a Cup team, by drawing at Old Trafford and then the following season beating Bolton, Stoke and Liverpool. “But…” says the pocket-sized book “…second division life was hard”, which I think is a veiled reference to two seasons in the bottom five followed by relegation in 1972. But that was over fifty years ago and a club that once fielded players called Roy Sinclair, Ray Lugg and Barry Endean is now home to Edo Kayembe, Mileta Rjovic and and Vakoun Bayo.

When I talk of Watford to my wife Paulene she recalls what, judging by the pained expression on her face, was one of the worst nights of her life, when in about 1977 she was taken to a nightclub called Bailey’s. It was full of Stag and Hen parties she recalls, and the headline act for the night was ‘comedian’ and children’s TV presenter (Runaround) Mike Reid, who picked on her because she wasn’t laughing. She’s not been laughing ever since, except when I fell in the garden pond a few summers ago.

It’s now a cool, drafty, grey evening. After fulfilling my filial duty and visiting my surviving aged parent, I am now as ever in ‘the Arb’, stood amongst a knot of people at the bar , some of whom seem to be trying to form a queue. When did people start queueing at bars in pubs? As I say to the bloke next to me “It’s a free for all”, policed only by the bartender’s uncanny and yet unerring ability to know who’s next. Eventually, with a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.78 with Camra discount) in hand, I repair to the beer garden and wait for a bowl of “Very French, French Fries” for which, now looking back, I think was ludicrously overcharged, because I paid about £13.00 for the chips and the beer. Perhaps it’s Karma for jumping the imaginary queue.

I sit and flick through the match programme (£3.50) that I bought earlier. I only paid £3.10 for the programme today because I had an impressive 40 pence worth of loyalty points amassed from previous purchases from the club shop, which I am now beginning to think of as being a bit like the Co-op. After drinking my pint and eating my chips I buy a second pint and listen to the conversation on the next table, where three old blokes denigrate the oeuvre of Taylor Swift, questioning whether her work will in fifty years’ time compare to that of The Eagles, Paul Simon and Elton John, all of whom are heard travelling through time via the speakers above our heads.

By and by I am the only person left in the garden who is going to the match, and so in order not to miss kick off I leave too. Portman Road and the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are busy with queues for the turnstiles and by the time I reach my seat the teams are already on the pitch and Murphy the stadium announcer is beginning to announce the teams as I say good evening to Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and check on the presence of ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood. Murphy completes his hat-trick by synchronising for the third match in succession his reading out of the Town team with their names appearing on the scoreboard, allowing at least Phil and myself to behave like Frenchmen and bawl out their surnames as he announces them.

Predictably, kick-off soon follows a stirring rendition of Hey Jude and Town, in traditional blue and white, get first go with the ball, sending it hopefully towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras. Watford meanwhile are in yellow shirts and black shorts, although their shirts appear to have been daubed with black paint across the front or dragged across a tray of soot. It’s one of those kits that exposes the folly of having a new kit every season because after not very long the good people of Puma, Hummel, Juma and Kelme clearly ran out of ideas and possibly motivation; and who wouldn’t, a polyester shirt is after all just a polyester shirt.

“Blue Army, Blue Army” chant the militaristic Sir Bobby Robson standers and I am struck by how few Watford supporters are here given that it’s only 150 kilometres away. “Wo-oh…” sing the Watfordians that are here, followed by something unintelligible before chanting what sounds like “Oh when the horns go marching in” . Above us the sky turns bluey grey as darkness descends. In front of us I notice the Watford goalkeeper has the name Bachmann across his shoulders and I wonder if in fifty-years’ time the live performances of Taylor Swift will be remembered like those of Bachman Turner Overdrive.

Ten minutes pass and Keiffer Moore heads a Kayden Jackson cross disappointingly high and wide. AT the far end of the ground “Ole, Ole, Ole” is the refrain after the bit that goes “We support the Ipswich, and that’s the way we like it…”. I don’t know the tune but don’t think it’s by Taylor Swift. Another five minutes pass and after the evening’s first particularly good outbreak of passing Town sadly earn no more than a throw in. From the top tier of the Cobbold Stand it sounds like the Watford fans are singing “Alternate Steve, Alternate Steve” which makes very little sense but sounds like a plausible nickname for that Watford fan I met in Stockton On Tees in 1982. My reverie is broken by a Nathan Broadhead shot which Bachmann must dive on to deny us the pleasure of a goal.

Nearly twenty minutes pass and Watford win the game’s first corner, but thereafter it is Town who begin to dominate. Omari Hutchinson makes a fabulous jinking run in to the penalty area before squaring the ball to a Watford defender and Kayden Jackson darts down the wing, crosses the ball and Keiffer Moore imperiously side foots it into an empty space on the un-netted side of Bachmann’s left goal post. “We forgot that you were ear” sing the Watford fans puzzlingly, but to the tune of Cwm Rhondda, which is nice if you’re Welsh. Watford’s number four Wesley Hoedt then kicks his own goalkeeper and referee Mr Barrot (like Carrot or Parrot but with a ‘B’) gives them a free-kick. I count eleven seagulls stood on the girder above the Sir Bobby Robson stand.

There are only ten minutes until half-time now and Nathan Broadhead turns neatly, glides towards goal and shoots, at Bachmann, but the way he moved across the turf was a beautiful sight. A minute later Broadhead shoots again. This time, his shot goes beyond a diving Bachmann and I begin to rise from my seat to celebrate the inevitable goal, but for a moment the laws of physics are seemingly suspended and the angle of incidence no longer equals the angle of reflection as the shot hits the inside of the goal post, but then curls out across the face of the goal instead of deflecting into the net as science and natural justice insists it should have.

The last five minutes of the half witness Sam Morsy shooting at Bachman and then a Harry Clarke cross is headed powerfully down into the net by Keiffer Moore but Bachmann’s reactions go into overdrive and he pushes the ball away hurriedly for a corner before ball and net can be united. Two minutes of added on time follow repeated chants of “Come On You Blues “ from me and ever-present Phil before the corner as like the chorus in a Greek play Pat from Clacton repeats her mantra of “two of us singing, there’s only two of use singing”. Drums beat in the far end of the Cobbold Stand and I’m struck by how smart Mr Barrot and his assistants look in their orange shirts with black shorts; if I were a Watford player I think I might see if he’d be willing to swap at the end of the game.

With the half-time break I chat to the man from Stowmarket before speaking briefly with Dave the steward, Ray, and his grandson Harrison. At nine minutes to nine the game resumes with prophetic chants of “Come on Watford, Come on Watford, Come on Watford” , and they do as they begin to dominate possession and run around like someone’s cracked open the anti-depressants and they’ve all been slipped a few ‘bennies’ with the half-time tea. On the hour almost, and Vaclav Hladky makes his first save of the night as a fierce snap shot hits him in the chest and goes off for a corner, and then they get another.

It feels like we’ve just been waiting for a respectable amount of time to elapse before making substitutions and so it proves as in the sixty-third minute Luongo, Chaplin and Sarmiento move in at the expense of Taylor, Jackson and Broadhead. “Jeremy Sarmiento, he’s magic you know” sing the Sir Bobby standers to a tune I don’t know, but which could be by Taylor Swift.

Twenty minutes remain of normal time remain. “Over and in” says Pat from Clacton quietly coaching the team before rooting through her purse for a lucky charm that will work some magic. She picks out Ganesh with his elephant head and four arms, who could be useful at corners, although he’d probably like to see a few Hindus in the team before he promises too much. There are currently no seagulls on the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Pat’s prospects of winning the ‘predict the score’ draw on the Clacton supporters bus seems slim, she’s drawn two-all. But as Fiona says, with Ipswich this season you never know. Murphy announces the attendance as being 28,589, but mysteriously doesn’t tell us how many are from Watford as if perhaps we wouldn’t believe him. He nevertheless thanks us for our ”continued support”, although I’m getting bored with him saying that every single week and think he should just tell us how really lovely it is to see us all again.

The final twenty minutes don’t see Town really come close to scoring, despite Ganesh, and Watford win a couple of corners as I wonder about Mr Q, which is the sponsor’s name on the front of the Watford shirts. I think of Mr Plow (Plough in English), in series four of The Simpsons and Mr Potato Head in Toy Story, but hope Mr Q is a second hand car dealer or industrial cleaner somewhere on a Watford industrial estate; he sounds like one. Then George Edmundson is kicked on the ankle and has to be replaced by Luke Woolfenden and our chances of bringing on a late attacking substitute who would be bound to score are dashed. Despite two corners, chants of “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” , and four minutes of added time Town fail to score at home for just the second time this season and for the first time in 2024. But just to remind us how lucky we really are a freakish punt at goal from the half way line has to be batted away by a desperately back-peddling Vaclav Hladky in the dying seconds. There were days when that would have gone in.

Just like when we played Grimsby on an April night in 1992 on the way to winning the Second Division Championship, the game has finished goalless. It’s not what we wanted, but at least it’ll stop me thinking about Watford.

Ipswich Town 3 Southampton 2

April 3, 2024August 19, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I woke up this morning and without moving my leaden carcass squinted at the bedside clock. It was nine minutes past seven. I rolled over and soon descended back into a drowsy, drifting sleep. After what I thought was about twenty minutes I awoke and looked at the clock again. It was seven minutes past eight and l lay there thinking I should get up, whilst also becoming depressed at the thought that this is Easter Monday and I will have to go back to work tomorrow. I guess that with still a whole day of the four-day Easter break in front of me and a trip to Portman Road too, such thoughts must mark me down as a pessimist. I don’t think so though, I think I just don’t like having to work for a living.

Outside it is sunny, but it’s also breezy, so everything in the garden is moving and jiggling about, like I’m watching a Roobarb and Custard cartoon. My internal dialogue adopts the breathless voice of the late Richard Briers and I think of a young Felicity Kendal before wondering what people from the time before television thought of in idle moments. I get up, shower, eat breakfast, drink coffee and probably make my wife Paulene suspicious by performing a range of domestic tasks including ‘hoovering’ and ironing, before we enjoy a comforting late lunch of bangers and mash.

As a I step outside to walk to the railway station, it is spitting with rain; Paulene was watching men in lycra cycling around San Sebastien on the telly as I bade her farewell, and she gave me strict instructions that Ipswich Town must win today because they are playing Southampton and Paulene is a Pompey person, a former joint owner no less, before the rest of them sold out to Walt Disney. The train is on time but it’s an uneventful train journey, there aren’t many other passengers on board, although a young blonde woman asks me to look after her bag when she goes to the loo. I tell her “Don’t be long, I’m getting off in Ipswich.” But she’s back in her seat even before we glide on past one of the Wherstead Polar Bears, who appears to be hiding from the small handful of people who have paid to see him, or her.

In Ipswich, I exit the train and cross the railway tracks by the old footbridge because it has fewer steps than the new one. The streets are busy with policemen in baseball hats and day-glo gilets standing in pairs and watching. As ever, I stop in Portman Road to buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the ice cream booths, the vendor looks very young and is possibly very careless too as the screens on both her mobile phone and card reader terminal thing are cracked. “Did you drop them both?” I ask her, but don’t catch the reply; I’m beginning to worry about my hearing.

Approaching ‘the Arb’ however, I can hear the distinctive burble of pub conversation and the chink of glasses. Inside, ‘the Arb’ is heaving with people gathered around the bar, although most of them aren’t buying the drinks, but just waiting for them as if worried that theirs will be forgotten or slyly stolen. Next time I buy three drinks or more at once, I’m going to ask for a tray and reduce congestion at the bar; I urge everyone to do the same. But today it is academic as I am on my own; Mick still convalesces from the operation on his foot, whilst Gary has travelled by car with his brother. After acquiring a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.78 with Camra discount) I retire to the beer garden where there are no unoccupied tables except for one which would seem to be designed for standing at, so that’s what I do as I flick through my programme. Nearby, at a metal table a Mick Channon era Southampton shirt stretches across a beer belly and has me thinking about the first time I saw Ipswich play Southampton. It was during the three-day week, on a Saturday evening in February 1974 and Ipswich won 7-0. Southampton would go on to be relegated from what people now call the Premier League, along with Manchester United, and Norwich. The Seventies weren’t all bad.

Not getting a seat and having to queue at the bar felt like conceding early goals, but I’m back in the game with a second pint of Suffolk Pride, for which I don’t have to queue, and a seat at a Yogi-Bear style picnic table as the Johnny-Come Lately’s to Portman Road, who possibly weren’t alive in 1974, leave early for kick-off and a chance to be on the telly. By ten past five I’m on my own as a Town fan in the pub garden, or in the pub itself for that matter, so feeling lonely I drain my glass and head for Portman Road too.

I arrive at turnstile 62 early and have to queue, but I’m seemingly in the company of people who are unusually proficient in the wielding of bar codes and after a succession of green lights I’m soon bidding good evening to Pat from Clacton, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), as I settle in a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood. The teams parade onto the pitch and I feel the warmth of the pyrotechnics on my face, a mildly spectacular if not poetic expression of professional football’s double-standards. Murphy the stadium announcer does his stuff and for a second game in succession reads out the Town players’ names as they appear on the scoreboard, and we all pretend to be in France as we bawl out their surnames together. By ‘all’ I mean ever-present Phil and me. It’s taken him a while, (eighteen matches excluding the one he missed) but to mis-quote Rex Harrison (Henry Higgins) in the film My Fair Lady, like Eliza Doolittle “By George he’s got it!” I should really write to congratulate him.

At twenty-eight minutes to six the match begins very noisily. It’s Southampton that get first go with the ball, aiming it roughly in the direction of the telephone exchange and London Road Baptist church whilst wearing an un-Southampton-like kit of what looks like red and pink halved shirts with black shorts, “Are they in red and pink?” says a text from my wife, who I am guessing is no longer watching blokes in lycra on bicycles. In fact, the pink turns out to be an optical illusion created by very thin red and white stripes. Town of course are in their signature blue and white.

The visiting supporters are in good voice, probably as loud as any away fans this season as they launch into “When the Saints go marching in”, although I still prefer Louis Armstrong’s version from 1938. “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go” sing supporters of both teams being equally optimistic, but with eight minutes gone Southampton are selfishly keeping the ball to themselves to the extent that I momentarily lose interest and count the number of seagulls on the girder that holds up the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand; there are eight of them. A minute later and the Southampton fans start to sing “Your support is fucking shit” but strangely their chant gets drowned out by the noise as Leif Davis sweeps the ball wide of the goal for the game’s first missed chance.

Four minutes later and the ball is briefly becalmed in midfield before Sam Morsy plays it wide to Leif Davis, who takes one touch before it hits the back of the Southampton goal net. From my seat, almost directly in line with Davis’s shot, I feel as though I must have momentarily blinked; one second the ball was at his feet, then it hit the net. I guess the Southampton goalkeeper feels much the same way, but just a little less cheerfully so, although he had an even better view than I did; except for the hitting the net bit, that is.

I will admit the early goal was unexpected; I had been prepared to wait a while against one of the teams capable of packing out their goal mouth with parachutes stuffed full of cash. I sit back to enjoy the spectacle and unfortunately so do the Town players as a low cross from in front of the Cobbold Stand is tapped home from close range and Southampton equalise with what can only be described as indecent haste. There seems to be some debate as to the validity of the goal in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, where the conclusion is quickly reached through the medium of song that “Linesman, linesman, you’re a cunt”. The miracle of television however, will later confirm that it was a valid goal, although it won’t mention the status of the linesman.

Things soon get worse as a Southampton player falls over and the referee Mr Michael Salisbury heaps the blame on Sam Morsy, whom he books. “Sing when you’re winning” chant the Southampton fans, which is a bit odd given that Town were barely winning for long enough for anyone to clear their throats, let alone start singing. They proceed to follow it up by letting Conor Chaplin know that like the linesman earlier, they think his GP is actually a gynaecologist, and all because long ago he played for Pompey.

The first half is now half over as one bloke in pink passes to another, who runs half the length of the pitch and passes to another who strokes the ball beyond Vaclav Hladky and Town are losing. “Top o’ the league, you’re avin’ a laugh” sing the Southampton fans to the tune of Tom Hark before turning the knife with chants of “Football in a library, doo, doo, doo”. We are no match for their untamed wit, but I gain some solace from a Southampton free-kick hopelessly launched into touch as the occupants of the Cobbold stand shield their eyes from the slowly setting sun.

Southampton are keeping the ball to themselves still, and they’re still winning, and a Conor Chaplin shot goes straight to the visiting goalkeeper before the clock turns six and it’s time for a drinks break as Keiffer Moore is attended to for what looks like a bad back. Within five minutes Ali Al-Hamadi has replaced him. Kayden Jackson gets to chase a ball into the penalty area, but stupidly opts to fall over and look around expectantly for a penalty, when if he’d carried on somebody might really have kicked him. “We need to start waking up” says the bloke behind me as a low cross travels the full width of the Town goalmouth.

After seven minutes of added on time, a Southampton corner and fulsome roars of “Come On You Reds” . It’s half-time and, as I tell Dave the steward , we can but hope for a better second half. I predict we will win 5-2 because that’s what we did in February of 1982, and when it’s not doing something different, history repeats itself. I speak to Ray, his son Michael and his grandson Harrison and offer them Marks & Spencer mint choccy speckled eggs because it’s Easter. Ray doesn’t seem as cheerful as usual and bemoans that Axel Tuanzebe is really a centre-half playing at full-back, and although he can be a bit unreliable at times he’d rather see Harry Clarke.

Back in my seat, I share some speckled eggs with Fiona and Pat from Clacton and at twenty to seven the football resumes. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” sing the Sir Bobby Standers to no particular tune that I know of, as Mr Salisbury picks up where he left off and doesn’t award Town a free-kick. Southampton win a corner. “Come on You Reds” we hear. Southampton win a free-kick. Vaclav Hladky makes a fine flying save. Southampton win a corner. “Come On You Reds” again. Not fifteen minutes of the half have gone and I look up at the scoreboard, it still reads 2-1 to Southampton, but it feels like we’re losing by more. Southampton win another corner.

The game is two-thirds over and it’s the traditional time for mass substitutions. Kayden Jackson, Axel Tuanzebe and Massimo Luongo are replaced by Nathan Broadhead, Harry Clarke and Jack Taylor. Murphy announces this evening’s attendance as 29,393 with 1,969 from the place my wife calls Scumton. “Here for the Scummers, You’re only here for the Scummers” chant the Scummers to the traditional Hampshire tune of Guantanamera, and some people applaud. I can’t work out if they’re applauding themselves, each other, Murphy, the singing or just life itself.

Six minutes later and it looks like Ali Al-Hamadi must score, but his shot strikes a goal post, although from where I’m sitting it looks like he’s shot horribly wide as the ball rebounds back at an angle. “Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army, Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson Standers, and then possibly again, but I’m not counting. The substitutions have made a difference and just to prove it Jack Taylor plays a first time pass to Nathan Broadhead who from just inside the Southampton penalty area turns and scores, shooting beyond goalkeeper Bazunu, who interestingly also used to play for Pompey, just like Conor Chaplin, who Fiona and I both decide must, for the sake of the Southampton fans, now score the winning goal.

Southampton are no longer dominating possession, and Town only have to win a throw-in for the home crowd to roar them on. “Come On Ipswich! Come On Ipswich!”. The stands are moving with waving, punching arms and fists and wide-open, shouting mouths, and probably some spittle too. Pat from Clacton tells Fiona and me she’s been ill during the week; I ask her if she brought the lurgi back from Norfolk where she was playing whist in Great Yarmouth the week before. She won £95.00, she tells us.

“Oh when the Town go marching in” bawl the far end of the ground gloatingly, as if only the supporters of the team in the ascendency are allowed to sing black spirituals. Ali Al-Hamadi runs at goal and Conor Chaplin shoots wide with fifteen minutes left of normal time before Southampton substitute Che Adams, whose parents I like to think were, and hopefully still are, both Marxists, with Sam Edozie. Five minutes later and Southampton make a double substitution bringing on the lanky and totally bald Will Smallbone, who sounds like a character from a novel by Charles Dickens (born in Pompey) and looks like the popular perception of what an alien looks like, which is a remarkable coincidence because the other Southampton substitute is called Rothwell, which is how people who lisp pronounce Roswell.

Five minutes of normal time remain and as ever Leif Davis runs down the left, but this time he will be through on goal if defender James Bree doesn’t foul him and get sent off. Bree makes the long walk of shame to the dressing room last as long as he can, doing his best not to look ashamed or remorseful and as Nathan Broadhead lines up to eventually shoot the ‘Bree-kick’ into the defensive wall, I count fifteen seagulls on the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand; squawks have spread .

After Conor Chaplin is substituted for Jeremy Sarmiento, who of course is on loan from Brighton (the Seagulls), in the final minute of normal time I put my notepad and pencil away in my coat pocket knowing that if Town score now I might throw them up in the air and never find them again. Seven minutes of added time is more than enough for Town to score again and somehow I think they will, perhaps because it seems they always do, and it seems like everyone else feels the same.

The final minute of added on time inevitably arrives on time and equally inevitably Sam Morsy finds Leif Davis on the left. Davis plays the ball into Jeremy Sarmiento, who ‘skilfully’ meets it with his left foot as he stumbles forward, falls, and stabs it with his right into the corner of the goal as he gets up again. The roar from the crowd is the biggest I’ve heard at Portman Road since Jim Magilton slalomed through the Bolton defence to score in the play-off semi-final twenty-four years ago. Men, women, children are hugging each other in scenes of reckless abandon, not the sort of thing that happens in puritan Suffolk at all. Like in a dream there’s barely time for the game to re-start before it ends, and yet again Town have won.

One day I might wake up and not find myself in another dream, but I hope not.