Ipswich Town 0 Charlton Athletic 3

October 22, 2025October 23, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

The waking hours that fill most of the time before a mid-week evening fixture are a bit odd. I’m ‘at work’, albeit at home but my thoughts are mostly of knocking-off and travelling to Ippy, of pre-match pints and the match itself as I wish the day away waiting for the main event, the floodlight beams and the darkened streets.

It’s been a miserable day of showers and grey, threatening clouds and just as I walk out of my front door a heavy squall sends me back indoors looking for an umbrella. The train is on time however, and even though kick-off is not for nearly another three hours blue shirts bearing the mysterious word ‘Halo’ are out in force. Gary is soon sitting next to me having negotiated the assault course of the narrow aisle between the carriage seats. We see a polar bear through the deepening gloom outside as we settle into our familiar pre-match world.

In Ipswich the streets are wet and shiny as the traffic swishes up Civic Drive and what I still think of as a corporation bus lurches round the roundabout by the spiral car park, all glowing interior, rain-dappled windows and blurry faces heading home for tea. Low, setting sunlight shines onto the plate glass windows of the abandoned Crown Court building as Ipswich slips towards darkness. I remark to Gary how beautiful it all is, but I’m not sure he’s as moved as I am. At ‘the Arb’, homely electric light spills out into High Street, a welcoming beacon for the pre-match drinker. I buy a pint of Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella lager for Gary (£10.21 with Camra discount) and we choose what we are going to eat before heading out the back to the beer garden, where we get out from under the spits of rain in the long rustic shelter that backs onto the road

By the time Mick arrives Gary and I are about to tuck into pulled pork and Haloumi chips respectively, and we talk of boycotting the World Cup in the USA, Mick’s work and who saw Ipswich lose at Middlesbrough on the telly last Friday. Because he bought me my Haloumi chips, I buy Gary another pint of Estrella, and a Monkey Shoulder whisky for Mick and more Suffolk Pride for myself, before Gary then buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride and another Monkey Shoulder for Mick, and I tell him I fancy mooching around Europe for a bit when I retire. All the time our conversation has to compete to be heard above that of the half dozen blokes at the table at the other end of the shelter. I can’t quite decide if they’re loud or if the tin roof makes for unhelpful acoustics.

As ever, we are the last to leave for Portman Road, probably because we are the coolest over-sixties in the pub, me in my dark overcoat, Mick looking like a mature student revolutionary and Gary in his tan puffa jacket, like a lost ski instructor. We join the gathering crowds as we cross Civic Drive again and part ways beneath the dead gaze of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue. The queues for Sir Alf’s stand are long again tonight, possibly because there are now rows of barriers funnelling us towards trestle tables and then the turnstiles, although I eventually make my entrance via the side entrance as Mr Benn might have done had the shopkeeper given him a blue a white scarf and a bobble hat one day. It’s strange how often I think of Mr Benn.

By the time I emerge onto Sir Alf’s lower tier the teams are on the pitch, I have missed the antics of the excitable young stadium announcer, his suit and his Basil Fawlty style contortions, and everyone is shaping up for the kick-off. The man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here of course, but sadly Pat from Clacton is not; she’s in Clacton where, following her week playing whist in Great Yarmouth she has contracted Covid. I learned this through social media where it’s possibly the only thing I have ever believed to be true.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball tonight, kicking it towards me and my fellow ultras and wearing our signature blue and white, whilst our opponents Charlton Athletic sport sensible, plain red shirts and white shorts, a sight which has me reminiscing about my Continental Club Edition Subbuteo set and its anonymous and strangely posed red and blue teams. Town quickly win a couple of corners and I’m singing ‘Come On You Blues’ before I get a chance to work out who are ‘the Blues’ tonight; it takes me a while because it seems like another team and it’s going to be nearly half-time before I work out that number 29 is Akpom, and realise Philogene our top scorer isn’t even in the starting line-up.

In the Cobbold stand, the Charlton fans are singing “ I want to go home, Ipswich is a shit-hole, I want to go home” and whilst I will admit I am ignorant of the attractions of beautiful downtown Plumstead, I surmise that they couldn’t have seen the fading sunlight on the plate glass windows of the old Crown Court or that glowing corporation bus. Meanwhile, I notice that the Charlton number six has the unusual surname of Coventry, which I mention to Fiona but we quickly decide there aren’t any potential quips and anything about being sent to Coventry wouldn’t really work.

Ipswich are dominating possession but in a somewhat dull manner devoid of decent shots and it’s no surprise when the Charlton supporters make the traditional “Is this a library?” enquiry and Fiona suggests it probably isn’t a library because as Ipswich fans we can’t read or write, only drive tractors. Such is fan “culture”. Non-plussed by everything, my eye is caught by the electronic advertisements on the Sir Bobby Robson stand which are thanking “today’s programme sponsor Cambridge Windows” before the words “Doors” and “Conservatories” flash up in neon blue and I wonder if this isn’t subliminal advertising. “Your support is fucking shit” chant the Charltonites and I like to think they mean Cambridge Windows’support, because if the programme is sponsored why does it cost four quid?

Town win another couple of corners and I chant “Come On You Blues”, but as usual to no avail although the bloke beside me concludes “They’re there for the taking “ meaning Charlton, and I tend to agree that they look pretty useless, I just can’t understand why their goalkeeper hasn’t had to make a save yet. The half is half over when there is a break in play as Town ‘keeper Alex Palmer is mysteriously stranded about thirty yards from his goal and receiving treatment, whilst the other twenty-one players all congregate by the dugouts for drinks, chit-chat and possibly nibbles and the exchange of phone numbers. The upshot is that Palmer retires hurt and Christian Walton takes his place.

When play resumes ,Town continue to accumulate corner kicks and with no football to cheer from their own team the Charlton fans resort to chanting “Ed Sheeran is a wanker”, and who wouldn’t? Ipswich accumulate a still larger stack of corner kicks as the first third of the match passes into forgettable history but experiencing a flashback from the ‘high’ of the last home game against Norwich, Town fans reprise The Cranberries’ “Zombie” singing “Nunez, he’s in your head” even though there are no Norwich fans here to fall victim to our untamed wit. The Norwich baiting continues with chants of “He’s only a poor little budgie” as the Sir Bobby Robson standers dredge up the euphoria of the last game to compensate for the lack of euphoria from this one. It’s a ploy that almost works however as Akpom strikes a fierce shot against the Charlton cross bar, although then soon afterwards weak defending by Leif Davis results in Christian Walton having to make a fine save from Olaofe who is left free to run at goal.

The half concludes with four minutes of added time, Nunez shooting wide and firing a free-kick over the bar, Town getting a final corner of the half, Charlton’s Docherty being the first player to be booked and Charlton getting two corners of their own, which are enthusiastically greeted by sonorous chants of “Come on you Reds” and also a header wide of the goal.

With the break for half-time, after venting spent Suffolk Pride I join Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand where Ray and I express mild dissatisfaction that Town are not several goals up against what appears to be the worst visiting team to rock up at Portman Road since our time in the third division. More optimistically, Harrison predicts a final score of 4-0 and I predict 3-0, although with unintended foresight I don’t say who to, or even to whom.

The match resumes at nine minutes to nine and within seven minutes Charlton score as the childishly named Sonny Carey easily runs at and past Dara O’Shea and shoots under Christian Walton. A man somewhere behind me becomes very sweary and the Charlton fans get so carried away that they start singing about being on their way to something called the Premier League. Two minutes later it’s almost 2-0 to Charlton from a corner and a minute later it is as Christian Walton dives low to spring the ball up in the air for an unmarked player with the possibly misspelt name of Gillesphey to head it unchallenged into the gaping goal. Charlton’s supporters are suddenly very loud indeed, and I begin to wonder if Keiran McKenna’s half time talk hadn’t included the ritual slaughter of a black cat.

Hopes are raised as a Leif Davis shot, or may be a cross, hits the Charlton net, but these hopes are then dashed on the lineman’s raised flag. Substitutions naturally follow with thirty minutes to go as they nearly always do, but tonight they need to be game changers. In a way they are as two minutes later Charlton score a third, another header into a gaping net after Davis defends weakly again and Walton dives at the near post and no one marks Miles Leaburn who can’t believe his luck from the middle of the goal. Some people leave and the Charlton fans ask “Can we play you every week?”. With perfect timing the illuminated adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson stand read “If you see something that doesn’t look right…”

I sing “We’ll have to win 4-3” to the baleful tune of Rogers and Hart’s song form 1934 “Blue Moon” and as if to show willing Town continue to have the majority of possession and win even more corners. As I tell the bloke next to me however, we look no more dangerous from our corners than we do from Charlton goal kicks. Akpom shoots wide for Town and more substitutions follow, but nothing changes except for the Charlton songs which move on to Tom Hark with the curious words “See the Charlton, then fuck off home” and it’s hard to tell if this is an existential commentary on their lives, ours, or everyone’s, and if so, why?

Ipswich of course win the moral victory as Charlton have another player booked and then another and we also win the corner count and the curious satisfaction of knowing that tonight’s attendance of 28,006 is too large to fit into Charlton’s stadium at The Valley. But sadly, the actual victory, what we showed up to see go the way of Ipswich, is Charlton’s, and I haven’t even had the consolation of knowing what Pat from Clacton had for her tea. “Is there a fire drill?” enquire the Charlton fans as the Town fans head en masse for the exits, and it’s good to know that even if their team has won the match quite comfortably, they remain pitifully unoriginal in their attempts at humour. The four minutes of added on time will prove hopelessly insufficient for Town, but at least I will easily be able to catch the 9:53 train, which in these days of concern about our mental well being will help me ‘move on’, so it’s not all bad.

Of course it hasn’t helped me ‘move on’ , not for long anyway , and after one gloomy day there will follow another. But that’s autumn as one’s early season hopes and expectations wither and fall like leaves from the trees. I’m sure we’ll win on Saturday mind. Up the Town!

FC Lorient 3 AS Monaco 1

October 1, 2025October 3, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

At the risk of becoming extremely boring, my wife Paulene and I have now holidayed in Carnac in Brittany for four years running. There are probably several even more boring reasons for this, one of the less boring however, because it is made up, is that I like to think of myself as being in touch with my Neolithic ancestors on a sort of yearly pilgrimage to see the Neolithic standing stones, cairns and tumuli that abound in Brittany and particularly Carnac, which this year has become a UNESCO World Heritage site as a result. Another more truthful reason is that it’s only a 40-odd kilometre trip up the E60 and along the N165 to the Stade du Moustoir to see FC Lorient play and FC Lorient’s mascot is a hake.

Our holiday is now sadly drawing to a close this year and today is the penultimate day before we must drive home in our planet saving Citroen e-C4. But today, FC Lorient play AS Monaco in Ligue 1, the French version of the Premier League but with a less self-important title. The match kicks off at 5 pm and we park up at the underground Place d’Armes car park about four hours beforehand to give time to explore a little of Lorient and at about 3pm see the Lorient team arrive at the Stade du Moustoir amidst bagpipe playing, banner waving and handshakes from Merlux and Mini-Merlux the FC Lorient mascots, (merlu is the French word for a hake).

I imagine that to a lot of people Lorient is a dull sort of a place. Ninety-five percent of it was completely flattened by allied bombing in World War Two and therefore it consists almost entirely of buildings erected in the second half of the twentieth century. But that’s why I like it; it’s not quaint or olde worlde and harking back to some forgotten or imaginary past, architecturally it’s modern and functional and was built with the optimism of the post-war years, the years before some people started to forget what Fascism did and how it started. Our walk through Lorient is guided by a leaflet we were given in the Office du Tourisme which describes some of the buildings and the art and history of the town.

Around three o’clock we interrupt our walk to be at the Stade du Moustoir for the arrival of the Lorient team off the team bus in their Breton-style, stripey, pre-match shirts. I make the obligatory visit to the club shop and buy a postcard of the stadium, and whilst Paulene then enters the Tribune d’honneur to find our seats, I make a detour up the road to find Les Halles de Merville, the town market hall, which is featured in the leaflet from the Office du Tourisme and is described as a “concrete and metal ring built in 1964”; it looks like a flying saucer that is no longer flying, perhaps because it is weighed down with fruit, veg, meat and fish. On my way back from Les Halles I cross the path of a bunch of FC Lorient supporting youths who are making their way to the Stade du Moustoir whilst chanting, banging drums and waving flares. A few bemused bystanders look on, as do two gendarmes in a dark blue Renault, but these young ultras are largely left to their own devices, as if being on a ‘demo’ is a sort of rite of passage.

Back at the Stade du Moustoir, I make my way past the security where a man perhaps as old as me pats me down and wishes me ‘bon match’ and another then scans the bar code on my ticket with what looks like a toy ray gun and then says the same. Our seats are once again in the fabulous Tribune d’honneur, a small, seated, stand of vaulted, shuttered concrete dating from 1959 with metal struts to ensure the cantilever roof remains cantilevered. After locating my seat, I set off to find Breizh Cola for Paulene and beer for myself and to check that it is still possible to walk all the way around the stadium and back to my seat; it is, and this is because the away supporters access their seats over a bridge. As before, different food counters are serving different types of food and feeling a little hungry at the thought of this I buy a Croque Monsieur (8 euros 50) from the ‘Parisienne’ counter, thinking that when Paulene reads this it will be the first she knows of it. I don’t buy Paulene any food because her intolerances to wheat, dairy, and rapeseed oil make it highly unlikely there is anything on offer that she will be able to eat. Sated with ham, bechamel sauce, melted cheese, toasted bread and a couple of squirts of mustard I return to Paulene with just a re-usable 40cl plastic cup of Breizh Cola (pronounced Brez, not Breej I learn from the young bloke who serves me before he wishes me ‘good match’) and a re-usable 40 cl plastic cup of Breton-brewed Lancelot IPA (10 euros 50 for the two).

An hour, a half an hour and ten minutes before kick-off (coupe d’envoi in French) a foghorn (corne de brume in French) sounds, a bit like the bell at the end of the interval in the theatre, but appropriately for coastal Lorient, a bit more nautical, and louder. It adds to the pre-match build-up, which eventually reaches a climax with the Breton anthem on bagpipes with karaoke style words in the Breton language on the big screen in the corner of the stadium, then a second Lorient hymn is played and the bloke next to Paulene joins in, which isn’t a good thing because as Paulene says, his voice sounds out of tune when he’s only speaking, “Allez Les Merlus” chant the crowd as the teams process on to the pitch, youths wave banners, and a series of not particularly impressive Roman Candle style pyrotechnics ejaculate onto the grass,

Once everything cleared away it is Lorient who get first go with the ball, which they are mainly passing in the direction of the club shop, hotel de ville, docks and Office du Tourisme. Monaco meanwhile point themselves towards the far-off towns of Quimper and Brest. This season Lorient sport progressive looking shirts of orange and black check, which leans to one side like italics, and black shorts. Monaco are wearing an away kit of all purple with gold trim, like you might imagine a team of footballing Catholic bishops to wear.

It is a bright, sunny afternoon but the blue Breton sky is ruffled with high white cloud. Within two minutes Lorient win a corner and two minutes later they get another. After nine minutes the joyfully monikered referee Monsieur Ruddy Buquet records his first yellow card (carton jaune) of the evening in the shape of no less a player than the Monaco captain Thilo Kehrer who carelessly, even negligently sends Lorient’s Arthur Avom Ebong up into the air with a supposed tackle. Oddly, however, Monaco are dominating possession, although it takes another ten minutes before we see what can reasonably be called a decent shot on goal, and that is from Lorient’s number eleven, the short but enthusiastic Theo Le Bris, whose uncle Regis used to manage Lorient but is now manager at Sunderland.

Monaco’s confusing approach to the fixture is further shown just two minutes later when Vanderson also gets to smell Monsieur Buquet’s yellow card after he fouls Arsene Kouassi, who rolls and rolls and rolls about on the ground and appears to go into spasms before incredibly, getting up and carrying on. Another two minutes dissolve and Lorient’s Mohamed Bamba shoots over the cross bar. Despite Monaco’s hogging of the ball for much of the game so far almost a third of it is history before they record a proper shot on goal as Takumi Minamino bounces a somewhat weak snap-shot past a post after what had looked a promising series of passes.

Meanwhile, in the Kop Sud there is a sudden outbreak of orange streamers and the chants of “Allez, Allez, Allez” seem inexplicably louder as if brightly coloured crepe paper has unexpected acoustic properties. The additional orange on an orange background seemingly also causes problems for Lorient goalkeeper Yvon Mvogo who a short while later surprisingly boots the ball out to Minamino who, whilst looking confident and composed only manages to chip the ball over and wide of Mvogo’s goal whilst the Lorient supporters amongst whom I include myself and Paulene all hold our breath as one.

As if a punishment for such profligacy with gifts from fate, a minute later Monsieur Buquet adjudges that Thilo Kehler has fouled Lorient’s Dermane Karim (Dermane to readers of the back of his shirt), and sufficiently badly for him to show him his yellow card for a second time and consequently his red card too. From the subsequent free-kick out on the Lorient left, the ball is crossed in, falls to Mohamed Bamba and he scores from very close range to give Lorient an unexpected lead. “BUT!” announces the electronic scoreboard colourfully as the stadium announcer bellows Mohamed and we all shout “Bamba”, not just once but three times before signing off by shouting his full name just in case anyone was still in doubt about the goalscorer’s identity.

With a one goal lead and an extra player Lorient start to dominate . Bamba is set up well but shoots straight at the Monaco goalkeeper Philipp Kohn and a minute later Kohn is stood in the right place to catch a spectacular overhead kick from Tosin. Monaco win a late corner to raise spectres of those horrible goals against the run of play and do it again inside the four minutes of added-on time, but the Kop Sud remain buoyant, bouncing up and down in the central terrace (safe-standing area to FFF and UEFA officialdom) and singing “Lorientais, Lorientais, Lorientais” like it was going out of fashion.

Half-time is a time of applause and an invasion of the pitch by players of mostly very youthful appearance, although one has a beard, who try to score “one-on-one” with the goalkeeper. The players in green shirts seem to win out over those in blue, and Merlux and Mini-Merlux look on feigning acute excitement or deep frustration and remorse according to whether players score or they don’t. The French version of RADA for people dressed as outsized and vaguely cuddly fish seems to be doing a good job.

The proper football resumes at five minutes past six and Monaco have made some half-time⁹ substitutions; their manager or Prince Albert having presumably realised they need someone on the pitch who is the equivalent of two players. The half starts strangely for Lorient, who appear to be trying to emulate Monaco’s first half display as they have two players, Dermain Karim and Mohamed Bamba booked in quick succession in the early minutes. The sky has clouded over since the first half and its feeling cooler, so I put on my coat, covering up my orange and black Ipswich Town shirt, which was offering chromatic support to Lorient and badge-based support to Ipswich, both successfully as it turns out because both teams are currently winning.

As sure as night follows day, after half-time at Lorient comes the fifty-sixth minute, which is when the foghorn or ship’s siren sounds again, and the scoreboard entreats us all to make a noise. This phenomenon is explained by the facts that Lorient is in the departement (like an English County) of Morbihan and in France each departement is numbered, more or less alphabetically, and Morbihan’s number is fifty-six. After the relaxation of half-time, the fifty-sixth minute seems an ideal time to wake everyone up to shout “Allez les Merlus!” and the encouragement nearly works as the minute ends with Tosin Aiyegun shooting over the cross bar at the far post just as the noise subsides. Meanwhile, Lorient fans are probably thankful their town is not located in Val d’Oise, (departement number ninety-five) .

With an hour then gone both sides indulge in double substitutions before Lorient’s number five Bamo Meite sends a spectacularly awful shot from a good 20 metres out high into ‘Agglomeration de Lorient’ stand and a man sat in the row in front of me becomes very excited about a goalmouth scramble which has him bouncing up and down on his seat. The attendance is then announced with the words “Vous etes 15,561 spectateurs et spectatrices” as the French language politely acknowledges that there are both male and female people watching.

The final twenty minutes arrive pretty much on time, as expected, and Lorient manager Olivier Pantaloni chooses this as the time substitutes the trouble-making Derman Karim from Togo for Pablo Pagis. It’s a good move from Pantaloni as within five minutes Pagis is suddenly slaloming through the middle of the penalty area before poking the ball beyond the Monaco goalkeeper, and Lorient lead two-nil. “Pagis” bawls the crowd each time the announcer shouts “Pablo”, and then they finish off the celebration by bawling out his name in full. The sound of the crowd is wonderful; it matches the goal.

Lorient are dominant. Three shots are blocked in the Monaco penalty area in quick succession, Pagis shoots at the goalkeeper and then from the right hand edge of the penalty area Pagis strokes the ball with his right foot into the top left-hand corner of the Monaco goal as if effortlessly creating a beautiful work of art, as if it was naturally occurring, like a rainbow. “Pablo!”, “Pagis!” rings out again. Lorient lead three-nil. Monaco are abject. The bloke in front of me who was excited by the goalmouth scramble is now beside himself with joy. punching the air and hugging the lad beside him, who I imagine is his son, but you never know.

It’s getting on for seven o’clock now and as the natural light fades shadows of the players begin to be cast onto the pitch by the floodlights from atop their concrete pylons; up beyond the floodlights the blue skies and sunshine have given way to cloud. The five minutes of added on time are unexpectedly mostly played in the Lorient half and they win a couple of corners. With the second corner comes a delay and a hiatus of doubt. Monsieur Buquet consults VAR and awards a penalty, nobody knows what for but Monaco’s Ansu Fati scores anyway, giving his team underserved but more satisfyingly, scant consolation.

With the final whistle the Monaco goal is nothing more than a meaningless footnote to the match, a match that is just the frame for the masterpiece that was Pagis’s two goals. Paulene and I head off back through the departing crowds to our planet saving Citroen in the Place des Armes car park, along the Quai des Indes. We will have fish for our dinner, but haddock, not hake. It’s been yet another fine afternoon in Lorient and although we may not return next year, I don’t want to stay away for too long from my Neolithic ancestors and the Stade du Moustoir.

Bromley 1 Ipswich Town 1 (Bromley win 5-4 on penalties)

August 16, 2025August 17, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

These are the dog days of summer. So named, Wikipedia tells us, because it’s the time of year when Sirius the dog star rises in the night sky. These are hot, humid days and the portent of ill-luck to some apparently, It’s an appropriate time therefore to start the domestic football season, although I count myself lucky enough to have already dabbled in the exotica of the European Conference League back in July when I witnessed Haverfordwest County take on Floriana Malta in cosmopolitan Llanelli.

The Football League and FA Cup have already staged a staggered start over the past two weekends, but I eschewed them in favour of applying satin finish emulsion and gloss on the upstairs landing. Today however, I have knocked off work a little early and now feel myself gently melting into the moquette on the 15:48 to London Liverpool Street as I embark on the epic journey to the deepest suburbs of southeast London, specifically Bromley. It’s a journey that has been in the planning several weeks since Ipswich Town drew Bromley in the Football League Cup, which I believe is now known by younger people, duped by the concept of ‘energy drinks’, as the Carabao Cup. Whatever happened to Milk?

I have had a difficult few weeks since the draw was announced, wondering whether to travel by planet saving electric Citroen e-C4, or to reduce traffic on the roads and catch the train and risk being stranded in the big city if the game went to extra time and penalties. But having learned that extra-time is now consigned to the dustbin of football history along with Dickensian sideburns, ‘dolly birds’ and the teleprinter I gained the confidence to sign up on the Bromley FC website, along with my friend of forty-seven years Chris (aka ‘Jah’ because of his love of Reggae) and acquire two tickets for the North Terrace (£19 each for over 65’s).

I meet ‘Jah’ by platform 4 at Victoria Station, which today is doubling as a greenhouse. By twenty to six we are on the packed train to far away Ramsgate which fortunately stops at South Bromley. On the train, it seems like we are the only two people talking to one another, which is a good thing because my hearing isn’t what it was. We quickly get the subject of the ‘Bromley contingent’ out of the way and share memories of having seen Siouxsie and the Banshees respectively in Durham and at the Ipswich Gaumont, but ‘Jah’ gains the greater credibility because he probably saw them in 1978, about the time ‘Hong Kong Garden’ was released, whereas I had waited until at least 1980.

Arriving at South Bromley railway station we emerge onto the broad high street and look up and down expectantly in the manner of Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly on shore leave in New York. But they had twenty-four hours, we only have two before kick-off at Hayes Lane. We are drawn towards two policemen stood at the edge of the pavement, presumably on the look-out for “football hooligans”. We ask where to find the best of Bromley and they point us back towards the railway station implying that the best thing is the train out. Eventually, they direct us up the high street to “plenty of pubs and restaurants” and down the road to the “Bricklayers” which is the pub for away supporters.

Bromley is apparently the only town with a Football League team to also have a tory MP and from the comparative absence of empty shops on the High Street it certainly looks like the kind of place that can afford to say “we’re alright, we don’t care about you”. Eventually arriving at a large Fuller’s pub called The Partridge, formerly a rather grand branch of the National Westminster Bank, we drink pints of Butcombe Rare Breed pale ale and reminisce about girls we once knew, a record player Jah owned when we were students and how his wife played pool with a family of Irish butchers in a Stockport pub.

Time moves on and so must we, to the Bricklayers Arms pub, which is much closer to Bromley’s Hayes Lane ground. Pints of Shepherd & Neame Whitstable Bay and Master Brew accompany packets of plain, and cheese and onion flavour Kent Crisps for about fourteen quid and we search out seats where we can hear each other above the noise of the television, which is belting out Sky Sports pre-match coverage from just down the road, which might explain why it’s so loud. Very soon however kick-off is a mere twenty minutes away and we must up-sticks again, with Jah not even having managed to finish his pint.

We make it through the turnstiles at Hayes Lane just as flames erupt into the evening sky from what look like darkly painted tea chests, and the two teams take to the field. I look in vain for a programme seller, but the game is about to start and so screwing up my disappointment into a knotted ball of resentment I head with Jah towards the partly open North Terrace. “Don’t worry” says Jah, like a reassuring parent “You’ll probably find one on the floor on our way out at the end of the game.” We make our way across the front of the stand and up the steps past the inevitable youth with a drum to a secluded spot beneath the shallow roof at the back of the terrace from where only one corner flag is obscured from view by the scaffolding tower atop which sits a Sky Sports television camera. I convince myself that karma will reward me for sacrificing my full view of the pitch so that unknown couch potato subscribers to satellite television across the world may see all. Jah and I are stood behind a man with impressively well-conditioned, clean, brown, almost shoulder-length hair, which Sky TV viewers will probably not see.

The match begins and Bromley get first go with the ball, booting it towards the southern end of the ground where the Ipswich supporters are assembled to one side of a modern stand which looks like a very large grey shoe box that has had one side cut-off. On the rear wall of the shoe box neat letters spell out ‘The Glyn Beverly Stand’ which only in my mind is an anagram of ‘Clarks Kickers’. In reality, it simply seems that Bromley FC like to name the architecture of their ground after people who only supporters of Bromley FC are ever likely to have heard of. The John Fiorini Stand looks out on the tea chests whilst a little nearer to us just by the turnstiles is the Dave Roberts tea hut. All along the eastern side of the pitch is a building site, one half of which shows recognisable progress with steel girders and concrete blocks arranged in the form of an embryonic but as yet disappointingly nameless stand.

Back on the pitch, Bromley are in an all-white kit with black trim, whilst Ipswich sport a cheap looking all red number, which closer examination reveals has blue scribble on the sleeves. Bromley have very hastily won a couple of corners, and whilst the home crowd off to our right are noisy and excitable, the football shows room for improvement. Ipswich are keen on the flanks but lack accuracy with crosses and presence in midfield. Town’s Jack Clarks moves nicely but mostly runs diagonally like a stray dog. Bromley are organised and alert and that’s about it. Just as my thoughts are that it would have been nicer to have stayed in the pub, Jah distracts me by asking how I would define the beard on the face of the steward stood at the front of the stand. The same steward also inspected the contents of Jah’s bag before we came through the turnstiles, when Jah had asked him if he was South African. It turns out he is French, but this doesn’t influence me in my decision that his beard resembles that of Ming the Merciless, who with the fall of his empire is now reduced to stewarding midweek matches for lower league clubs.

Half-time approaches with the memory of Ali Al-Hamadi having failed to make more of being put through on goal with just the ‘keeper to beat, Conor Chaplin whipping a shot narrowly over the cross bar and Jack Clarke having a not particularly hard shot stopped with a diving save. For those around me one of the highlights of the half seems to have been receiving texts from friends and loved ones at home watching Sky Sports TV telling them that Ed Sheeran is in the crowd. The chants of “Ed Sheeran, your music is shit” to the tune of Sloop John B would be understandable anywhere but are particularly so from inhabitants of a town where someone used to be next door neighbour to David Bowie.

The half ends with a corner to Bromley from which their second tallest outfield player, Deji Elerewe, scores with a header from improbably close range. What had been a neutral half of inaccurate football, abusive chants and a shoe box has taken on a new level of disappointment for me, which I can only hope to assuage by obtaining a programme. Jah fancies eating a pie, which doesn’t surprise me given the size of his stomach, but he foolishly says he’ll wait until I get back. I return to a point close to the scene of my entry into the ‘stadium’ but can see no hint of a programme seller, only a couple of queues of thirsty, or hungry Bromley fans snaking away from the Dave Roberts tea hut. I ask a young steward who is guarding the John Fiorini stand where I might find a programme and am surprised when he directs me to the tea hut. Excitedly I join the shorter of the two queues but there I stand for at least five minutes without progressing any closer to the hatch where I had expected to see a busy exchange of teas, programmes, cash and card payments. Looking back towards the pitch to check that the second half hasn’t started yet I see Jah has now joined the other queue and having not seen anyone depart the tea hut hatches with a programme I decide they must be sold out and I abandon the queue to stand with Jah. Eventually, Jah reaches the hatch only to discover that the pies (and indeed the programmes) have all sold out; unsure of what foodstuff can adequately compensate for the lack of meat, gravy and pastry in his diet this evening, Jah buys a Twix.

The players are by now back on the pitch and play has re-started as we head back to enjoy our slightly obscured view of the second half. Jah eats his Twix, only to find that the chocolate coating has mostly melted, which is why Twixes will never replace pies. The football is much the same as the first, but my spirits are raised after about ten minutes when substitute Ben Johnson scores for Town, although I do also start to worry that a draw and resultant penalty shoot-out will risk my missing my train out of here. In truth, it is probably fourth division Bromley who have the better chances to score in the remainder of the game, despite Ipswich eventually introducing the players more likely to be considered ‘first choice’.

There is something inevitable about the game descending into a penalty shoot-out, but that’s probably just because neither side looks capable of scoring another goal. Our over-65 tickets now prove particularly good value as the penalty shoot-out takes place in the goal right in front of us, rather than at the far end where our obviously failing eyesight would render events somewhat mysterious. Hopes for catching the first available train home quickly receive a filip as Town’s top striker George Hirst strikes the first penalty poorly and it is saved, although in my heart of hearts I’d rather it hadn’t been. But a penalty or two later Bromley’s Ashley Charles, who to my out of date mind has the name of an actor rather than a footballer has his penalty saved too and I’m once again checking the time of the next train. The first ten penalties pass into history with both teams scoring four and then the hopeful release of “sudden death” or “Mort Subit” as the French and Belgians call it arrives. Death is indeed mercifully sudden as Bromley score their next penalty, but Ali Al-Hamadi doesn’t and for the umpteenth time this century Ipswich are knocked out of the League Cup by lower league opposition. I can’t decide if Ipswich are consistently careless, uninterested, over-confident or just useless, but whatever it is, Town’s record in the League Cup has now become so atrocious that it is no longer embarrassing, it’s just what happens and there is no point bemoaning it. We can but look forward to next season’s defeat to Colchester, Swindon, Cheltenham, Newport, Wimbledon, Crawley, Newport, Bristol Rovers, Reading, MK Dons, Stevenage, Northampton Cambridge, Exeter, Leyton Orient, Barnet, Gillingham, Peterborough, or Bromley again.

Disconsolate but accepting of our fate I leave Hayes Lane with Jah and together we head back to South Bromley South railway station past the backs of people lauding their team at the front of the stand. The one plus is that as I leave, as Jah predicted, I find lying on the concrete of the North Terrace a discarded or dropped programme which, after enquiring if it is the property of the people standing nearest, I claim as my own. Life is never all bad I conclude.

Ipswich Town 1 West Ham United 3

May 26, 2025May 26, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It’s a blustery, disturbed, impatient day as befits my mood. At last, Ipswich Town’s long, drawn out season in the Premier League is drawing to its long, drawn-out conclusion, having all been a bit pointless since as far back as February. After the first match of the season against Liverpool, as I walked up Princes Street to the railway station and my train home, a visiting supporter said to me “You’re going down, aren’t you?” With the benefit of hindsight, I almost a feel a bit embarrassed that I replied that I thought it was a bit early to say. Now I just can’t wait to get this season over and done with. But typically for the Premier League, the pain has been extended just a little bit longer still, with the game not being on the traditional Saturday at three o’clock, but a day and an hour later and whole week after the FA Cup final, the mark of the end of the season in civilised countries, has already been played. Like Donald Trump, it seems the only thing the people who run football care about and know anything of is money.

I walk to the railway station beneath skies so blue and bright I decide to wear sunglasses. The railway station platform is surprisingly thinly populated, but I discern one Ipswich supporter, who is unhelpfully stood at the foot of the bridge over the tracks, and what I deduce from his colour scheme to be a West Ham United fan, although he could be a disorientated Burnley fan who doesn’t have Google maps on his i-phone. The train arrives a minute late, in keeping with the prevailing theme of the afternoon, and is predictably half full of blokes talking about jellied eels and their love of Mary Poppins. Gary joins me at the first station stop and I share with him my sneering pleasure that this Premier League season is at last going to finish. Gary shares with me some statistics on which players have been responsible for most opposing teams’ goals. Ipswich’s Aro Muric is apparently top of the list with five goals to his ‘credit’, although he has actually conceded fewer goals per game than Alex Palmer. The highlight of our journey, as ever, is spotting a polar bear as the train descends through Wherstead. It seems to be other people’s highlight too.

Arriving in Ipswich we stride out for ‘the Arb’, pausing only for an imaginary ice cream and a match programme (£3.50) at one of the blue booths that look like they should sell ice creams but don’t. I was hoping that as a thank you for our ‘incredible support’ the club might share some of the Premier League largesse and perhaps dole out free programmes today, but I realise I am a hopeless dreamer. As we continue along Portman Road I reminisce to Gary about the last match of the 1974-75 season when Town beat West Ham 4-1 and Kevin Beattie ran from the half-way line through what seemed like the whole West Ham team to score. Two girls walking along in front of us turn around to see what someone who can remember 1975 looks like. At ‘the Arb’ Mick is turning away from the bar, brimming pint glass in hand, as we walk through the door. Gary buys me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and a pint of Lager 43 for himself and we head for the beer garden, where Mick has found a Yogi bear-style picnic table beneath a large umbrella and is sat at it with a schoolteacher he knows called Steve, who commutes from Swilland to Holbrook every day on an electric bicycle.

We talk of the artwork that should have been on the front cover of the match programme today, but which has been relegated to inside the back page because of the philistines who run Umbro and want to see blokes wearing their shirts on the cover instead. Today’s design is reminiscent of the work of Jackson Pollock and its ‘splatter’ and ‘drip’ effect and defiant scrawled message to “Follow the Town up or down” seems to sum up Town’s season. Mick speculates as to how many Town fans would know who Jackson Pollock was and Gary accuses him of being ‘a bit snobby’. Mick accepts that he probably is, although there is no ‘probably’ about it. Steve leaves early because he’s meeting someone at Portman Road and Mick buys another round of drinks, because it’s his turn. By twenty to three we are the last people left in the beer garden, which we accept as a badge of honour before making our relaxed, not very bothered way to Portman Road.

Somewhere near Alf Ramsey’s statue we bid one another ‘adieu’, perhaps until next season, and I make my way to Alf’s stand, where the queues are reassuringly short. I join the queue for turnstile number 62 and am scanned by a steward as I do so, but at the front of the queue the bloke now there inevitably fails to work the bar code on his season ticket, so impatiently I switch to turnstile number 60 which now has no queue at all. Panic stricken that I appear to have dodged the security cordon for turnstile 60 another steward scans me retrospectively from behind for firearms and explosives as I pass through the turnstile.

I get to my seat next to Fiona, next door but one to both Pat from Clacton and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood as the players stream on to the pitch and balls of flame burst into the air to incinerate the more nonchalant amongst passing seagulls and pigeons. The excitable young stadium announcer, sporting a jewelled earring and slightly crumpled blue suit announces the Town team and I attempt to bawl out the players surnames in the style of a Frenchman at the Stade de la Liberation, Boulogne or Stade du Roudourou, Guingamp, but the young announcer is too excitable and is not in sync’ with the names on the screen. The knee is taken by the players to muffled boos from some of the more cliched, Reform voting members of the visiting support and the game begins with the Town getting first go with the ball, which they are aiming at the goal just in front of me and my fellow Ultras.

The noise in the ground today is cacophonous with both sets of supports merrily chanting and singing at the thought of the Premier League season finally ending after ten months of ceaseless, hyperbole, VAR and added on time. “We are staying up” chant the Hammers fans, and then “ You are going down” as if they’ve waited to fulfil a season-long desire to make public information announcements which states the bleeding obvious. Ten minutes pass and Jacob Greaves flashes a header comfortably wide of the West Ham goal from a free-kick.

I have noticed that the West Ham goalkeeper is called Fabianski, a name which sounds like he might have played electronic dance music in the 1990’s. Omari Hutchinson has a shot at goal when he might have had done better to cross it. He’s not playing well, as the bloke behind me says, he’s playing like he’s got someone else’s size 11 boots on. “De-de, De-de-de, De-de, Nathan Broadhead” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of Depeche Mode’s top ten single from 1981, “I just can’t get enough”. Then Fiona tells me that Crazee the Town mascot is retiring, and we discuss whether the mascot is retiring, or just the person inside the costume. We speculate as to whether there will be a position available at Portman Road, and I tell Fiona I might be interested, and that I have previous experience.

Back on the pitch, as the first sixth of the game fades into history, Conor Chaplin receives treatment and everyone else has a drink and gets remedial coaching on the touchline. The result is a period in which there are a lot of passes, but not much else, and I feel like I’m just sat here waiting for something to happen. In time it does and unusually in a good way as ten minutes later Town are enjoying a period of sustained pressure on the West Ham goal, the like of which we haven’t seen in over a year. Nathan Broadhead has a shot saved and Sam Morsy shoots wide before the first player to be booked is West Ham’s Maximilian Kilman, and I can’t help wondering if the referee didn’t just want to hear him say his name because it sort of rhymes.

The descent to half time sees Christian Walton have to make a save as Town’s period of dominance recedes like an ebbing tide, but the prospects look good for the game being goalless at half-time and West Ham couldn’t really complain if Town scored. It’s unfamiliar territory for Town and as if to prove the point Sam Morsy passes the ball to a West Ham player near the edge of the Town penalty area and a square pass and a shot later Town are losing. “We’re winning away, we’re winning away, how shit must you be, we’re winning away” sing the West Ham fans to the tune of ‘Sloop John-B’ but two minutes of added on time don’t produce an answer.

Half-time couldn’t and didn’t come soon enough for Town, or me as I now enjoy a Slovakian Horalky wafer courtesy of the World Foods aisle in Sainsbury’s. Having drained off some spent Suffolk Pride, I briefly speak to Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison before ever-present Phil tries to convince me that a decrepit looking old bloke a couple of rows behind me is my dopple-ganger. I take no notice, but begin to wonder if I might have offended ever-present Phil in some way.

The second half begins as it inevitably does most weeks and as Crazee the mascot wanders by in front of us, a spontaneous round of applause breaks out amongst a few people. I’m not sure if this is a response to his apparent forthcoming retirement or whether people just think he’s had a good season. I prepare myself to never know, but soon all thoughts of Crazee are forgotten as the West Ham defence parts like the Red Sea supposedly did and Nathan Broadhead moves into the gap before shooting cleanly beyond Fabianski and his array of keyboards to put Town level. “The goal scorer, OUR No 33, Nathan Broadhead” announces the excitable young announcer to make it clear to the hard of thinking and those who haven’t heard of Jackson Pollock that it wasn’t the West Ham No33 who just scored for Town.

This is more like it we all think, and visions of greater glory and a second home win of the season hove into view for about three minutes until Jarod Bowen decides to run more quickly than the Town defenders near him, which allows him to execute a swift “one-two” with some team-mate or other before hitting a stonking shot past Christian Walton from the edge of the penalty area. Out of the blue,Town are losing again and it all feels horribly familiar, even though overall West Ham are not discernibly any better than the Town.

Town continue to play reasonably well, winning a corner of two but not ever tearing the West Ham defence to pieces as they did back in April 1975. Substitutions follow substitutions, the attendance is announced as 29,771 with 2,991 being of a ‘Gor Blimey, apples and pears, love a duck’ persuasion, and then with everyone still hoping for an equaliser, West Ham break forward not particularly quickly, too much space is given to a little fella called Mohammed Kudus and he scores a third goal. “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose” we all think, unless we’re the sort of people who haven’t heard of Jackson Pollock, and the last three minutes of normal time and seven minutes of added on time turn in to a love-in of fond farewells to Town’s Massimo Luongo, who replaces Sam Morsy for a final ten minutes, and West Ham’s Aaron Creswell who is appreciated by home fans too recalling his one-hundred and thirty-two games and three goals for the Town between 2011 and 2014.

With the full-time whistle, the majority of people seem to be staying for the usual end of season parade around the pitch by the players and increasingly their families, because we all like to cheer the players’ wives and girlfriends and assorted toddlers and babies. But I’ve had enough for this season and am soon heading for the railway station just as I did after that first home defeat back in August. As good as promotion felt at the end of last season, the reward has for the most part felt like a complete waste of time .

Ipswich Town 0 Brentford 1

May 11, 2025May 12, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It seems to have been a week of looking back on momentous events, with the 80^th anniversary of the liberation of Europe, my own twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and also the forty-seventh anniversary of Ipswich Town winning the FA Cup. Today however, I am returning to the present and am preparing to see Ipswich play Brentford, a club which back in 1978 had just won promotion from the fourth division, which perhaps helps explain why I always think of them as a ’lower division’ team, like Colchester United or Newport County.

For the first time this year It is warm enough not to need a coat, and I walk to the railway station beneath a clear blue sky. It’s a pleasant walk, disturbed only by the loud, wailing sirens of four ambulances and a police car, which careen past me slaloming between lanes of traffic. The train seems on time, but I don’t really know if it is, only that it smells unpleasantly of the on-board toilet. The carriage is mostly empty and surprisingly seems devoid of Brentford fans. Gary joins me at the first station stop and we talk of nothing much in particular, although the polar bears of Wherstead inspire a brief conversation about whatever happened to the soft drink known as ‘Cresta’, a beverage which was possibly at the height of its popularity in1978. The fur of one of the polar bears looks very clean today and we speculate briefly about polar bears and shampoo.

In Ipswich, we head for ‘the Arb’ as quickly as Gary’s dawdling gait will allow, pausing only to buy a programme each (£3.50) at one of the booths that look as though they might also sell ice creams. As ever, I am disappointed that they don’t and that the programme seller doesn’t wish me ‘bon match’. Today’s front cover design, which is not the front cover of the programme thanks to the evil capitalists of the Umbro sportswear company, is an ITFC version of Peter Blake’s sleeve design for The Beatles’ Sgt Pepper album. You can’t beat a bit of Pop Art, and for a moment I find myself daydreaming of seeing Ray Crawford, Ted Phillips or Sir Alf Ramsey as they might have been portrayed by Andy Warhol, Pauline Boty or Roy Lichtenstein.

At ‘the Arb’, there is literally a queue at the bar, which I think I succeed in jumping because in my world people don’t queue at pub bars because the bar staff always know who’s next. Happily, it’s not long before Gary and I are soon in the beer garden clutching pints of Lager 43 and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£9 something for the two with Camra discount) and looking for a place to sit. Mick appears from the back gate and while he is getting himself a pint of Suffolk Pride, Gary and I share a table with a man and a woman and two small dogs who are on a pub crawl of Ipswich’s dog friendly pubs; they’ve already been to the Woolpack and the Greyhound and have five more pubs to visit, when the dogs will qualify for ‘free’ bandanas. I take their photo for them to record the event for their Facebook friends, and reminisce about visiting numerous Tolly Cobbold pubs in the early 1980’s in order to acquire a ‘free’ T-shirt advertising Tolly ‘Original’.

After Gary has bought a further round of drinks and Mick has promised that it will definitely be his round next time, we eventually find ourselves with empty glasses and nothing else to do but head downhill to Portman Road and the afternoon of delights that awaits us. I bid Gary and Mick farewell somewhere near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey, which isn’t in the Pop Art style, and this is probably a good thing. The queues at the turnstiles to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are short, but it still takes longer than expected to gain entry because of zealous use of scanners by the security staff, although I get the impression that they are losing heart because no one seems to be trying to smuggle in firearms or explosives; it can’t be good for their morale never discovering anything.

By the time I am reacquainting myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, the teams are on the pitch, balls of flame have burst into the sky, and a pall of smoke is drifting across the pitch as if all the explosives the security staff had hoped to find, but hadn’t, had been let off at once. The excitable young stadium announcer, whose grey suit looks as if he’s only just got it back from Sketchley’s reads out the teams and I bawl the Town players’ surnames as if I was in the tribunes of the Stade du Moustoir, Lorient or Stade Gabriel-Montpied, Clermont Ferrand.

Ipswich, sporting their usual blue shirts and white shorts get first go with the ball and are mostly trying to kick it towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras. Meanwhile, Brentford sport their traditional red and white striped shirts and black shorts, although closer inspection reveals that the black of the shorts bleeds into the red of the stripes and there are black bits underneath the armpits of the shirts too, as if the players were all using an experimental pitch or creosote-based under arm deodorant.

The game has only just begun, but already I’m thinking that Conor Chaplin is looking different today. At first I think it must be his haircut, but then decide he has a beard, although such thoughts are suddenly swept away as Omari Hutchinson crosses and Liam Delap heads towards the goal, but Mark Flekken the Brentford goalkeeper, who is Dutch but has a French tri-colour against his name on the back of the programme makes a neat but not overly difficult save. ‘Edison House Group’ reads the electronic billboard at the far end of the ground, and although I try not to, I hear ‘Love grows where my Rosemary goes’ playing in my head.

Ten minutes pass and Brentford begin to hog the ball, and then they win the game’s first corner. “Football in a library” sing the Brentford fans perhaps expecting us to cheer their corner, and Pat asks who the well-known Brentford players are so she can photograph them. But Fiona and I don’t really think any of them are well-known, although Fiona has heard of Mark Flekken. I tell Pat I expect they’re well-known in Brentford. With fifteen minutes up, the referee Mr Barrott, whose surname pleasingly rhymes with carrot decides it’s time Brentford scored from a corner and keeps giving them corners until they do. Part way through the catalogue of corners the match is paused for VAR to check for a possible penalty due to over-enthusiastic grappling. “Place your bets” I tell Fiona and Pat from Clacton, but surprisingly no penalty is awarded, although Jack Taylor and Christian Norgaard are both booked. From the next corner however, Brentford score as Kevin Schade, who in his spare time also plays for Germany, rises unopposed at the near post and heads just inside the far post.

Ten minutes elapse after we rapidly come to terms with the likelihood of another home defeat, and Town then win a corner of their own. “Come On You Blues” I bellow, hopefully, but the ball doesn’t even get past the first Brentford defender, who is stood at the near post. “Gotta beat the first man” says the bloke behind me censoriously. The familiar sound of ironic cheers follows two minutes later as Omari Hutchinson wins a rare free kick for Town, but two minutes later Brentford have the ball back and Alex Palmer is making a decent save to prevent a goal.

The final seven minutes of the half witness corners to both sides, more chants of “football in a library” from the Brentford supporters, Jack Taylor shooting wide of the goal and Pat from Clacton complains about the bloke behind her constantly talking (and swearing), most weeks as Pat tells us, there’s a “…nice, quiet older man sitting there”.

After two minutes of added on time, half-time arrives as expected and the disappointments of the first half are forgotten as I go to the front of the stand to talk to Ray and his grandson Harrison, applaud the promotion winning women’s team, see Harrison’s 21^st birthday announced on the big screen and finally enjoy a Polish Przy Piatczku chocolate wafer bar courtesy of the World Foods aisle in Sainsbury’s. Unfortunately, the chocolate on one side of the wafer has melted in the warmth of the afternoon, and through being in my pocket , so after I’ve eaten it I have to ask Fiona if I’ve got any chocolate around my mouth; I haven’t and I think she’s pleased she’s not going to have to dab anything off with a hanky as if she were my mum.

The second half brings the usual misleading, renewed hope, and after ten minutes Jack Clarke, or “Jack Claaarke” as the excitable young announcer calls him replaces Conor Chaplin. Pat from Clacton shifts her attention away from the constant talking of the bloke behind her to the Brentford manager Thomas Frank, who apparently is “always chewing” and with his mouth open too, yuck. More substitutions follow just five minutes later as Jens Cajuste and George Hirst replace Jack Taylor and Liam Delap. Alarmingly, George Hirst has dyed his hair blond and now looks like a cross between a Midwich cuckoo and Sick Boy in the film of Trainspotting.

The game is a little more than two-thirds over and I’m beginning to feel a bit annoyed like Pat from Clacton, but my irritation isn’t down to talking and chewing, but down to the Brentford players who, when not charging at the Town players ( I think it’s called ‘pressing’), seem a whingy, whiny lot who are constantly running to the referee, ‘pressing’ him to give them free-kicks. I begin to wonder if Brentford aren’t called The Bees because they’re always buzzing around the referee, although having grown up in the country I’d be tempted to liken them more to flies around a cow’s arse.

Another Brentford corner brings another VAR check for a possible penalty, which is again turned down, this time with the explanation that there had been ‘mutual holding’, which in the privacy of one’s own home sounds quite appealing and probably explains why no one was booked this time. Less appealing is a somewhat reckless overhead kick by Yoane Wissa which makes contact not with the ball, but with Jacob Greaves’ face, although fortunately he is not hurt and manfully he carries on despite the taste of dubbing.

The closing fifteen minutes of the match play out in a way that cruelly allows Town fans to retain hope of an equaliser, which of course never comes. Sam Morsy shoots over, George Hirst bursts through and shoots powerfully wide, Omari Hutchinson shoots beyond a far post too and Town win more corners. Today’s attendance is announced by the now unctuous sounding but still excitable young stadium announcer as 29,511, of whom 2,953 are here for ‘the Brentford’ and indeed “You’re only here for the Brentford” is what they touchingly sing to one other. Five minutes of added on time produce another shot on goal for Town which I think is saved, but before it was it had me off my seat almost thinking it was a goal.

The final whistle is greeted with applause for the Town players today and the realisation that with a bit more luck we might have got a draw and we would have deserved it, and so perhaps, like the season as a whole, it hasn’t been a complete waste of time.