Premier League

Ipswich Town 3 Leicester City 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The English Football League Cup, as it was originally called back when participating in or watching the sport of football was more important than just the money that could be extracted from people in the process, is a curious competition.  The French abandoned their version of it, the Coupe de la Ligue, a few seasons ago, and I’m pretty sure the Germans, Italians, Spanish, Dutch and Belgians have never even had one.  But the Scots have one and it seems that in Britain we are suckers for a secondary cup competition, and as if to prove the point non-league football has tertiary, quaternary and probably quinary cup competitions too; more than you can shake a floodlight on a stick at in fact, floodlights on sticks being essential on the late summer and autumn evenings when these early round cup ties are played.

I liked the League Cup more in the past, before the invention or discovery of “energy drinks”, when the early rounds were over two legs, guaranteeing away trips to exotic locations such as Torquay, Wigan, Exeter and Stockport.  But despite Ipswich having reached the semi-finals four times (losing all of them of course) I do wonder “what is the point?”, and possibly so did the Town XIs that in recent years lost at home to Newport County, and Colchester United.   Famously, for former Town manager Mick McCarthy, it was a badge of honour to exit all cup competitions as soon as possible.  Tonight, Town have drawn five times finalists and three times winners of the competition, third division Leicester City.

It’s been a bright, warm, late August day beneath a clear blue sky, although I’ve been mostly indoors, eking out the final sixteen days of my working life.  Just before five o’clock I catch the train to Ipswich, which might be on time, and Gary joins me at the next station stop to talk of couples in which one partner is much older than the other and to look for polar bears; we spot two, both not surprisingly and reassuringly in Wherstead.  On arrival in Ipswich, the train draws unexpectedly into Platform Two, but it doesn’t worry us unduly and we stroll calmly across the forecourt-cum-plaza and up Princes Street towards ‘the Arb’, where I am first to the bar to order a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for myself (£10.70 with Camra discount). We retire to the beer garden and a table where we can sit without the sun in our eyes.    Gary wears his replica 2026/27 season Ipswich Town away shirt this evening and I remark that this cream top with narrow black and red bands appears to be a popular choice for the mature gentleman, with at least two other grey-haired old duffers sporting one in the beer garden this evening. As expected, time passes and Gary buys a second round of drinks, a repeat of the first.  We talk of TV quiz shows and attending the Chappel beer festival and I ask Gary if he is no longer on his diet; he isn’t.  Gary doesn’t manage to finish his second pint of Estrella Galicia before we decide to leave for Portman Road and judging by the loud fart he emitted earlier as we walked here, for which he did apologise, I think he’s probably a bit dyspeptic this evening.

In Portman Road, at one of the booths that look as if they might sell ice creams but don’t, we each buy a programme after I first ask how much they cost.  I am prepared to pay £3 but not £4 for a programme and whilst Gary points out that the £4 programme is probably better value for money in terms of pages, I tell him that the programmes are full of “old rubbish” anyway, so I am therefore happy to pay proportionately more for less.  Tonight’s programme has an interesting and unusual front cover depicting an unlikely scene of a flying carthorse about to knock over the League Cup with its front right hoof whilst an upset looking fox takes evasive action.

The queues to be checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal are shorter than on Saturday and move more quickly, and we are soon breezing through the commemorative turnstile, No 62 and ascending multiple flights of metal stairs to our seats in the top tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, where the public address system is so loud I imagine it might be possible to successfully sue the club for causing hearing damage.  When the teams eventually appear from the ‘tunnel’ I don’t notice them at first because of the absence of the usual accompanying balls of flame, confirming this fixtures’ status as something more akin to a meaningless pre-season friendly.  The game begins with Leicester City having first go with the ball, which they try and kick mostly in the general direction of Vets4Pets on Handford Road, where they are bracing themselves for a sudden influx of squashed foxes, and carthorses with bruised fetlocks.

Leicester are parading a necessary change kit of burgundy, maroon or possibly dark red shirts ,with white shorts.  Ipswich are adorned in their signature blue shirts and white shorts. It might be my failing eyesight but momentarily from time to time, when they’re at the far end of the pitch, I can’t tell the two teams apart.  Ipswich start well and Chuba Akpom is shooting wide of the goal within thirty-five seconds, with a noisy crowd fully behind him.  But the joie de vivre doesn’t last long and before ten minutes are up the Leicester fans are asking “Is this a library?” through the medium of opera.

Fifteen minutes of our lives have been lost to history and the game is dull. All around me people sit impassively, staring ahead, not speaking.  The sky above the Sir Bobby Robson stand is pale blue but growing darker and a faint red smudge can be seen through the metal girder above the roof as the sun goes down. Three or four silhouetted seagulls ‘bust some shapes’ on the roof the West Stand as if auditioning for the opening credits to a new Bond movie. A man in a smart suit, who looks like Ken from the BBC tv sitcom Citizen Smith, appears at the top of the steps into the top tier of the stand and then turns around and goes back down the steps.  “Sorry mate” says a girl in her teens to a man in his seventies as she gets him to stand up as she returns to her seat having perhaps been for a pee.

Twenty-four minutes have been lived and lost and something vaguely football-like happens, the home crowd stirs from its slumber. “We forgot, we forgot, we forgot that you were here” chant the Leicester fans to the tune of Cwm Rhondda; I wish they’d forget they were here too.  Town win a corner and then another and Dara O’Shea’s header is saved by Leicester goalkeeper Stolarczyk. There are now ten minutes left until half-time and Town win a third corner before Leicester get one too, courtesy of an interrupted shot from Conor Chaplin and with five minutes remaining Leicester’s Olabade Aluko is the first player to feel the wrath of referee Mr Lewis Smith and his bright yellow card after a foul on Eggy.  Mr Lewis is clearly now making his own entertainment and awards a corner to Leicester to punish Town goalkeeper Christian Walton for apparent time-wasting.  Leicester proceed to take more time over the corner kick than Walton took over the goal-kick, which if the laws of the game are to be consistent should I think mean that Town now get awarded a goal-kick for Leicester’s time-wasting.   Eventually, the corner kick is headed over the Town cross bar before a minute becomes as much time as the officials dare to add on.

With the half-time whistle, Gary and I descend into the bowels of the stand, or at least its chest cavity, where we meet Gary’s nephew Dan, who is here with his wife Sarah, but she is still sat in her seat up in the moderately fresh evening air. Down here in the guts of the stand the air smells positively stale and a bit sweaty to be honest, not pleasant at all.

At ten to nine the players return to the pitch to once again attempt to find the secret to entertaining football and possibly a goal. Quickly, Town succeed, but the ‘goal’ is deemed offside, a particularly harsh decision, even if correct; like taking food away from a starving man because the best before date was yesterday.  Meanwhile, the Leicester supporters chant “He’s one of our own, He’s one of our own” about some youth or other in their team and I question if that’s really a good thing, before wondering what it is of their own that he is one of? A juvenile delinquent? Sex offender?  Leicester city councillor? 

The game moves on, plagued for a while by the ball mysteriously being deemed to have gone out of play and by offsides not visible to the naked eye.  The final third of the match looms up out of the night and the Leicester fans offer a cheery, allegro rendition of “When the blues go marching in”, which compares very favourably to the dirge-like version of the same song favoured by the Town supporters.  When the hours mark arrives, Leicester flinch and make the first substitutions, Within two minutes Town take the lead as for the first time Jack Clarke has plenty of space down the left to run into before his accurate low cross is swept masterfully into the corner of the Leicester goal by Eggy, a player whose goalscoring ability is kept largely hidden when he is used as a winger who only passes the ball back and to the side.

From here, the game picks up, as Town win another corner, Cedric Kipre is booked and the crowd in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand get far more enthused about the ejection of a couple of Leicester fans from the Cobbold stand than anything that has happened on the pitch. Quickly however, Leicester win a corner and equalise with a header from Aluko, who no one had bothered to mark.   “Premier League, You’re ‘avin’ a laff” chant the Leicester fans to the tune of Tom Hark in their curious east Midland’s dialect.  They’re not wrong, Mark Ashton and Co  are ‘laffing’ all the way to the bank, for the time being anyway.

As the game enters its final twenty minutes Town take the lead again and in fine style, Nunez instinctively squeezing the ball in off a post from outside the penalty box, and then with Town 2-1 up Wes Burns arrives as substitute for Leicester to much adulation.  Happily, Burns makes no impression on the game at all and as the final ten minutes turn up, we are told that there are 21,559 of us here tonight, Town make more substitutions and weirdly a few people suddenly shout “Blue Army” as if they are afflicted with Tourette’s syndrome.

Two minutes of normal time remain and for the second time this evening Chuba Akpom is through on goal with just the Leicester goalkeeper to beat.  Last time his shot rolled beyond the far post, this time it is saved.  Akpom needs Jack Clarke to teach him how to the curl his shots around the ‘keeper and inside the far post.  Ipswich have another corner for what it’s worth. “Come On Leicester” implore the visiting fans, who presumably wouldn’t mind having to stay late to watch penalty kicks. 

I’m getting ready to get up as the final minute lands from eternity and as if Portman Road has been strangely blessed something rather wonderful happens as from the mundane surroundings of the centre circle Nunez looks up and lobs the ball high into the night air towards Norwich Road.  The ball comes down off the underside of the Leicester City cross bar and into the goal net with Stolarczyk not being able to work out its trajectory before his team are 3-1 down.  It’s a magnificent goal, one of those that might have people questioning one another as to whether they would have been happy to pay a tenner just to see that and then go home. 

Anyone who does arrive very late only in time to see that goal, gets to see six minutes of added on time as well, but despite some end-to-end action there are no more goals and ultimately Ipswich are relatively comfortably through to the third round of the League Cup.  If Mick McCarthy were dead, he’d be turning in his grave. 

Ipswich Town 2 Sunderland 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

A little strangely perhaps, the 2026-27 football season seems to me to have been a long time coming.  Obviously, I hope, I don’t mean that in the context of the whole of time, because everything has been a long time coming if that’s our measure, but just since the end of the 2025-26 football season.  As a result, this means I am both looking forward to this afternoon’s fixture versus Sunderland and not looking forward to it.  Being mostly human (apart from a bit of bovine tissue in a couple of heart valves), I have adapted quite easily to the football-free regime of June, July and most of August, and having done so I’m buggered if I can now be bothered to change back, but of course I will.

The last time Ipswich Town played Sunderland at Portman Road on the opening day of the season was seven years ago, a one-all draw courtesy of a late defensive error by captain and all round “man’s man” Luke Chambers. Less than a week later I was in hospital in an induced coma (see ‘mostly human’ above), so I will prefer to recall the time before that, in August 1981.   Remarkably, I vaguely remember that match from forty-five years ago and how disappointed I was that Town hadn’t won, despite having come back twice from two goals down to draw 3-3.   But I was young, Town were the UEFA Cup holders and after finishing university, life had barely hinted at trying to run off in directions I didn’t want it to.  In August 1981 I was about to start work or at least search for a permanent job; now at last I am about to retire.

This morning is fraught with concerns about getting into Portman Road using the new mobile phone-based ticket system.  Foreseeing queues, I arrange with Gary to meet him on the train that leaves a whole hour earlier than the one we usually catch and after an unusually late breakfast I am soon changing my mind about whether or not to take a jumper and a light coat because the wind is in the north and there could be showers.  At the local railway station, I resume my acquaintance with the fellow Town supporter who lives down the road from me but who I otherwise never see.  We talk of the currently unknowable prospects for the new season and it’s a conversation which gets more or less repeated when Gary joins us at the next station stop along with his nephew and his nephew’s wife.  Our conversation rattles along with the train, and I almost forget to look for polar bears as we pass through Wherstead; I do however remember to look, just in time to disappointingly not spot a single one.  I hope it’s not a portent of future disappointment.

Ipswich is glorious, sunny and busy when we get there, and with the exception of the man who lives down the road from me, whom I wish ‘bon match’ as I bid him farewell, we all head off up Princes Street towards the Arb, where weirdly people are once again queuing at the bar instead of swarming around it like people did in pubs back in 1981 and probably even in 2019.  Gary gets the drinks in whilst I claim the only vacant table and chairs in the already busy beer garden. Time passes amidst shared tales of organising tickets online and passing oneself off as an away supporter.  I learn that Gary’s nephew has a ‘dream car’ and so does his wife, which I find surprises me as I don’t, although I’d quite like an open-top bus.

Because Gary’s nephew and his nephew’s wife have to meet someone at the ground at 2pm they leave shortly after I get a second round of drinks comprising just a pint of Estrella for Gary and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£10 something with Camra discount).  Gary and I speculate as to when most people will leave for the match and by the time we finish doing so most people seem to have left.  We question whether by leaving early we will not just join a queue and perhaps we should leave late to hopefully arrive after everyone else has gone into the stadium.  But being cautious by nature we leave at about twenty past two.

At twenty-seven minutes to three I join a queue the back of which is within touching distance of Russell Road, which must be about 100 metres from the turnstiles.  I am soon joined by Pat from Clacton who seems a bit puffed after walking from where the Clacton supporters’ bus is parked on Sir Alf Ramsey Way.    Our queue is static, so we soon switch to one which is moving and looking ahead I see that there are minimal queues for the actual turnstiles, the delay is with everyone being checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal.  Fortunately, our queue seems to be leading to a couple of the more enlightened employees of Achilleus Security who are able to tell at a glance that whilst many of us are old enough to have been members of the Angry Brigade, the Baader Meinhoff gang, the Red Army Faction, Black September, the Weathermen, the Brigate Rosse, the Symbionese Liberation Army or even in a few cases the People’s Front of Judea and the Judean People’s Front (revisionist bastards), we are mostly only interested in football this afternoon, so just a cursory wave of their ‘wand’ and a smile is all that is needed to send us on our way towards the turnstiles.  There is a blockage at my favoured turnstile 62 so I move to turnstile 60 and am amazed and impressed that the sorcery that is a football season ticket on a telephone (whoever heard of such a thing?) actually works.  I run through the turnstile before it can change its mind, shouting “I’m in!” and waving my arms with excitement. 

When I reach my seat next to Fiona and just behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, it is four minutes to three. The man from Stowmarket (Paul) arrives soon afterwards and soon after that the excitable young stadium announcer, who now has the sort of haircut which suggests National Service might have been re-introduced, reads out the team and like a Frenchman at the Stade Marie-Marvingt in Le Mans or the Stade Felix Bolleart in Lens I bellow their surnames as they appear on the scoreboard.

The teams arrive amidst shooting balls of flame and the smell of sulphur affirming the Premier League’s deal with Satan, and once the roasted and badly singed seagulls have been collected up the game begins.  It is Sunderland who get first go with the ball, which they try and aim mainly in the direction of the former Spiritualist church on Anglesea Road. Sunderland are sporting an un-necessary and rather boring looking change kit of all pink with black shoulders.  The pink shirts look completely plain, but no doubt close-up it is possible to see that the fabric is woven with patterns depicting lumps of coal, ship rivets and Giro cheques to celebrate the north-east’s rich industrial heritage.

Ipswich Town are of course wearing our signature blue shirts and white shorts and within four minutes Leif Davis is blocking a shot from a big Dutch bloke called Brobbey, and Sunderland have the game’s first corner.  But within sixty-seconds Town’s Enciso also has a shot blocked as it leaves his foot and Emersonn has a header comfortably saved by the diving Sunderland goalkeeper, whose name is Roefs.  I need the action to slow down so that I can begin to get to grips with who is in the Town team. As I say to Fiona, it’s almost like coming to support a different club, with only four of last season’s players in today’s team.

I quickly decide I like that Town’s new team is mostly peopled with players from abroad, because if the Premier League has taught us anything it is that as a general rule Englishmen are not as good at football as South Americans, Africans and people from the Schengen Area, but at least we have our sovereignty, whatever that is.   Sunderland it seems are having the majority of possession, possibly because they have not needed to sign a whole new team over the summer.  I wonder to myself why Town’s Issa Diop appears to be wearing puttees and realise I have previously seen Sunderland’s Enzo Le Fee and Thomas Meunier playing in France for Lorient and Paris St Germain.

It’s the twenty-fourth minute and Enciso intercepts a poor pass, runs past the poor passer, runs easily past another bloke in pink and finally squares the ball well enough for Emersonn to be able to roll it  into the empty goal and Town lead one-nil.  Happiness ensues and Town’s first twenty-four minutes in the Premier League this season already seem better than the whole of the 2024/25 season in the Premier League.  “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” we all sing to the tune of The Wild Rover, as we collectively raid our folk memories.

Five minutes later and fortunately for Town one of the pinks heads the ball more or less straight at Town keeper Scherpen.  “How many more games have we got left” asks Pat from Clacton anxiously.  Five minutes later and Sunderland have another corner, but in the Sir Bobby Robson supporters chant “Ole, Ole, Ole” whilst they still feel able to do so. Six minutes later and Sunderland claim the season’s first yellow card at Portman Road for number five Ballard, which consequently makes me think of JG Ballard, his novel ‘High Rise’ and Ipswich’s Cumberland Towers.  The bloke next to me is clearly hallucinating almost as much as I am as he then says to the bloke behind me “Imagine if we do get into Europe”. We must have inhaled something in the smoke from those balls of flame.

There are six minutes until half-time, and Sunderland have a free-kick following a foul by Issa Diop.  Unexpectedly, a tall bloke in pink with bleached hair by the name Angulo steps up to curl the ball into the top left had corner of the Town goal just beyond the very outstretched figure of Scherpen, and the score is one all.  To add to the disappointment, although celebrating the event as one might expect, the Sunderland supporters fail to break into a version of Brotherhood of Man’s 1977 number one record “Angelo”.   

The now even first half trails off into the past with a Sunderland corner and an additional two-minutes, but the mood is still positive with Town having scored a goal and despite a bit less possession than Sunderland no evidence that the away team are more likely to score than the Town are.  With the half-time whistle I remain where I am because Ray is still in hospital and his grandson Harrison and son Michael have moved seats.

The football returns at three minutes past four and most of the ensuing half suggests that another opening day draw might be the outcome as although Sunderland have the ball much of the time they don’t do very much with it and Town are tidy with Enciso playing a starring role and looking a better player than he did two years ago.  Angulo is the second Sunderland player to be booked, for being obtuse perhaps and O’Nien the third; Sunderland are the first to make substitutions and Town win two corners before making substitutions of their own in the sixty-sixth minute.

Five minutes later, Enciso is sitting on the ground looking like he might have felt a twinge or an ache and he is replaced by Jack Clarke or as the excitable young stadium announcer calls him “Jack! Clarke!”.  Town take a little while to adjust to the loss of Enciso and in the lull Pat from Clacton shares with us that today she is wearing a new pair of ‘Ipswich Town’ blue and white knickers.  I check with her that they are definitely new, and not old, and ask if they’re comfortable. Apparently, they are.  Pat goes on to say they’re sort of “silky” and I tell her I hope she doesn’t slide off her seat.

More substitutions follow for Town, with Abdoul Outtara and Eggy replacing Nunez and Daizen Maeda with less than fifteen minutes remaining, after another Town corner.   The simmering noise of the crowd seems to ask if there is going to be a winning goal and helps erase  memories of talk of Pat’s pants. The excitable young stadium announcer then tells that we are 26, 669 and after Sunderland take the game’s final useless corner I tell myself that there’s little prospect of another goal. 

The final minute of normal time arrives and as thoughts turn to the train home, Town’s Sasa Lukic intercepts another loose Sunderland pass and sets off Jack! Clarke! to run at the Sunderland defence.  With his characteristic style Clarke! drops a shoulder and then curls the ball into the far side of the goal net with a low shot. Town are winning two-one and subject to surviving four minutes of added on time will make almost everyone who isn’t about to make a long journey up the A1 deliriously happy.

The four minutes are easily survived, there’s even some hope of a third town goal, but it’s probably best we keep that in the bank for a day when it will make a difference.  Pat from Clacton and Fiona are quickly away, Pat particularly so in her new, silky, free-moving pants, but I hang about to applaud and maximise my time spent learning what this new team look like.  The new season might have felt like it’s been a while coming,  but on the albeit slim evidence of today’s showing it’s been worth the wait.

Ipswich Town 1 CA Osasuna 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The Google AI overview on the interweb tells us that Pamplona is the historic capital of the Navarre region in northern Spain and that “…it balances a vibrant modern lifestyle with ancient stone walls, green parks, and lively culinary traditions”.     The ensuing Wikipedia entry goes on to tell us that Pamplona also has two football teams, one of which is CA Osasuna (Club Atletico Osasuna) who play in La Liga and that Osasuna means ‘health’ in the Basque language.

Combining this information I think firstly that balancing anything with ancient stone walls is quite a feat and that Pamplona must therefore be quite some place, and secondly the prospect of catching a glimpse of a vibrant modern lifestyle and lively culinary tradition by attending a football match is one I could not pass up.  As luck would have it, tonight, Ipswich Town’s first pre-season friendly of 2026 is against CA Osasuna.  In my younger days I lapped up pre-season friendlies like a thirsty kitten confronted with numerous saucers of milk and I was all in favour of adding stars to the Town shirts to commemorate the Willhire Cup wins of 1979 and 1980.  Forty-five years on, life and loves have taken their toll and now I feel affronted to be asked to cough up my de-valued cash to watch a glorified training exercise but I am nevertheless unable to resist matches against foreign opposition as I strive to relive those European glory nights and compensate for the disaster that is Brexit.

The out in the middle of nowhere stadium near Colchester is just a 12km drive in our planet saving Citroen e-C4 down the A12 for me and my wife Paulene, and after queuing to wait for people to tap their car number plates onto a screen and ‘contactlessly’ pay £3 at the nearby Park & Ride facility, we do the same and are soon cutting our way through the evening heat, past the vicious barbs of rambling brambles that encroach over the footpath along Boxted Road and the approach to the home of Colchester United, where tonight’s friendly fixture will take place.

Access to our seats in the west Stand is via turnstile T3 and is governed by the deeply unsatisfying process of twice placing my mobile telephone up against a small glass window where once upon a time a turnstile operator might have wished me a cheery “enjoy the match” as they ripped a ticket from its stub.  There’s still a good twenty-five minutes until the football is due to begin and therefore, whilst Paulene experiences the toilet facilities, I splash out on a bottle of water (£2.25) from the distinctly not at all busy refreshment kiosk beneath the stand, where two probable sixth formers smile willingly, happy to make contact with a real, fleshy human face, one that’s not an image on a mobile telephone screen.

Disappointingly, there is no programme for tonight’s fixture, so with nothing to read we seek our entertainment in the arrival of fellow supporters; at least two of whom are quite aged and only clamber up the steps of the stand with the aid of sticks and a helpful steward. A little curiously, in the seats in front of us a group of men and boys wear Witham Town shirts.  Without a programme we have no clue as to the identity of the Osasuna players or even some of the Town players, who I will admit to not recognising.  The stadium announcer fails to help us identify any of the players as the public address system turns out to be feeble and easily drowned out by the sound of people talking. It doesn’t help that the announcer also sounds either like he’s recovering from laryngitis or just has the sort of voice best suited to a life of religious devotion in a Cistercian monastery.

When the game begins, it is Ipswich who get first go with the ball, which they direct towards Colchester city centre, its castle and its surviving heaps of Romano-British rubble.  Ipswich are as ever in blue and white.  Osasuna meanwhile are kicking towards the A12 and Park and Ride car park; they wear red shirts and blue shorts, like an Iberian Aldershot Town.  Back in a football stadium for the first time in over two months, I had almost forgotten how annoying I find my fellow human beings with their silly comments and conversation. “Why do people applaud?” asks Paulene earnestly as a hopeful cross from Town’s number 40 (recent signing Abdul Fatawu) sails harmlessly beyond the Osasuna far post and is greeted with a bout of clapping. “If it’s not a goal, then it’s nothing” she says.  I tell her it’s because otherwise they might kill themselves due to loss of hope.

Four minutes have passed.  Leif Davis is beaten on the left flank and a cross, a shot, a save from Alex Palmer and a follow up shot later and the ball is in the Town net.  No one who doesn’t speak Spanish has any inkling as to the identity of the goalscorer.   The sense of unexpected loss is palpable amongst the ‘home’ crowd but whilst some probably head off to graffiti the toilets, most just sit glumly, although when Fatawu jumps high to prevent an overhit cross field ball going out for a throw, the crowd cheer up a bit and applaud; the man in the seat behind me says “I like this bloke already”.

Fatawu is a hero again after eight minutes when an Osasuna player tries to relieve him of his shirt and is booked by the anonymous referee.  “That wasn’t even subtle” snorts the bloke behind me. Amusingly, to me, Dara O’Shea is rightly booked for the same thing moments later provoking predictable complaints from Town supporters.   Then Fatuwu gets behind the Osasuna defence, only to pick out the head of an Osasuna defender with his cross.  The game proceeds uninterestingly, but for wondering who the Osasuna players actually are.  Town’s first shot on goal arrives after twenty minutes courtesy of Nunez, who then has another shot three minutes later, earning the game’s first corner as a result. More exciting however is the ‘hydration break’ two minutes after that, which draws boos from Town fans who would probably complain that “they never had drinks breaks in my day” and possibly believe that Colchester United are now selling premium priced advertising on their streaming service.

The remainder of the half drifts away with Alex Palmer palming away a couple of shots, both teams trading lame corner kicks and a man in the seat next but one to Paulene breaking open a cellophane package containing a lurid green coil of something with the consistency of mozzarella cheese, from which he proceeds to break pieces off and give to the girl next to him; he eats the rest.   Three minutes of added on time are announced because that was the length of the unpopular hydration break.

We stay in our seats for half-time as daylight fades into dusk and the sky explores deepening shades of blue.  The half-time entertainment consists of the scoreboard advertising forthcoming attractions at “Layer Road” including an under 12’s disco and comedy nights, although Colchester United mostly now play on Saturday afternoons.

The football resumes at ten to nine with old hands Wes Burns and Chuba Akpom appearing in place of new boys Emersonn and Abdul Fatawu and the stadium announcer embarrassingly letting us know the substitutes’ identities as if they were challengers for a World Heavyweight boxing bout. For a full couple of minutes Ipswich display what looks like attacking intent and after eight minutes Akpom stretches for a deep hopeful cross and manages to direct the ball over or around the mystery Osasuma goalkeeper and into the goal.  The goalkeeper looks somewhat disappointed.  I tell Paulene I hadn’t expected to see an equaliser.

After the goal, a second hydration break follows unexpectedly in the sixtieth minute, but it transpires that it’s just an excuse to swap about the remainder of the Town team.  Several fresh Town players appear, and I have no idea who they are, but it seems neither does the announcer, who maintains radio silence.  I feign disgust, and referencing the lack of a programme or audible announcements speak to Paulene of an “utter shambles”, but in truth it’s just my way of enjoying the evening,

Once the game has re-started Paulene admits to boredom and a dislike of the people behind based on the sound of their voices.  Perhaps annoyed by the growing pointlessness of the football Paulene goes on to comment that there are a lot of funny looking people here and we wonder whether they are from Ipswich or Colchester, or both.  I admit that Ipswich is not renowned for its beautiful people, but where is?  The bloke behind us starts sneezing loudly whilst several nearby children have started to repeatedly shout “Blue Army” in the shrill way that only children can.  This then raises the question of why the Colchester United banner at the back of the stand behind one of the goals reads ‘Blue White Army’ and not ‘Blue and White Army’, and so the legend of the lost ampersands of Colchester edges out the football in terms of interest.

About twenty-five minutes remain to be endured and a Ben Johnson cross wins another Town corner.  “I’m liking Chuba more than I thought I would” says the bloke behind me, who had previously unexpectedly liked Abdul Fatawu; he would seem to have a lot of love to give.  The sands of time continue to run out but it’s only five minutes later when I look to the clock on the scoreboard again and wish they could run a bit faster.  I realise that I’ve kicked over my bottle of water and most of the remaining contents have dribbled down the steps of the stand, and in a drought too.  The two teams trade corner kicks and George Hirst replaces Chuba Akpom, a change which unlike the previous mass -substitution is unexpectedly announced over the public address system, and with incongruous enthusiasm.

Eight long minutes of normal time remain; some people are already leaving, their evenings and perhaps their lives defined by their desire not to queue when leaving the car park.  Osasuna win a corner. The corner is taken and the ball diverted to the outside of the penalty area where some bloke in Aldershot Town kit lashes it into the top right corner of the Town goal via the underside of the cross bar. Osasuna lead 2-1 and what will prove to be the winning goal, if not worth the entry money on its own, has certainly been the only thing worth paying to see.

All that remains is for the stadium announcer to tell us that we numbered 4,685 before people started to leave early, and for three minutes of added time to be aimlessly endured.  The final whistle is a gentle release, but at least I can now say I have seen Club Atletico Osasuna play, if anyone asks and I’m looking forward to the friendly versus Havre AC on Tuesday night already.

Ipswich Town 3 Queens Park Rangers 0

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I was awake before my alarm went off this morning, which was a good thing because being awoken by an alarm clock on a Saturday morning is plainly wrong.  What was not a good thing however was that I had thought it necessary to set my alarm because the evil media moguls of Sky tv had decreed that Ipswich Town will begin their last match of the season, against Queens Park Rangers at just half an hour past noon and I am therefore having to catch a train to Ipswich before the clocks have struck ten o’clock.   Having noted that the weather forecast from the met office predicted temperatures of almost 20 degrees centigrade today I decided to wear a lighter pair of trousers.   Feeling in the pocket of these “cargo pants”, which I probably hadn’t warn since late last summer, I discover the receipt for a cheap bottle of champagne.  I take it as a portent of celebrations yet to come.

At the railway station I wait with a man called Gareth who introduces me to Sally who is also going to the match.  “How do you feel about the match?” asks Gareth. “Relaxed” I reply.  Gareth and Sally laugh as if that can’t possibly be so.  But it is. I always want Town to win, but if they don’t, then they don’t. I don’t want to get ill over it.   I have no idea if the train arrives on time but I’m soon talking to Gary as we speed towards the promised land, Ipswich.  Our only disappointment is that as we descend the hill through Wherstead a train passes in the opposite direction obscuring our potential view of the polar bears, but I still manage to see one.  In Ipswich, the sun is shining as we walk to the Arb stopping only to purchase a programme from one of the kiosks that look like they should also sell ice creams.  I explain to Gary that I am, exceptionally, buying a programme (£4.00) today because it will potentially be an auspicious occasion, although if Town don’t win I will likely be left with a programme I don’t really want, although the front cover does feature a picture in profile of Darnell Furlong staring moodily off into the distance.

Inside the Arb there is a queue for the bar and not wishing to cause a scene I reluctantly join it. Queues at the bar in pubs? The world has gone mad.  Happily, the queue moves quickly, and I am soon looking for Gary in the beer garden whilst holding a tray on which sit a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, one for me and one for Mick, who has texted me to say he will be arriving late.  Our conversation today soon establishes that our lives are currently quite boring and uneventful although Mick is considering going to Venice by rail and is exploring the possibility of getting a ferry to Bilbao and then a train across southern France into Italy, perhaps stopping in Marseille to take in a match at the Velodrome.  Two more pints of Suffolk Pride, a pint and half of Estrella and two whiskies later we are alone in the beer garden because all the other drinkers left a good ten minutes ago or more and we are ready to depart for Portman Road too.

There are no queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand when I arrive and I even manage to use the side access normally reserved for people with disabilities, before accessing the stand through the illustrious turnstile sixty-two. I am venting spent Suffolk Pride when the excitable young stadium announcer announces the team and imagining I am in a pissoir, like a Frenchman at the Stade Jean Bouin or Stade Abbe des Champs I bawl the surnames of the few players whose squad numbers I can remember, or whose first names are long enough for me to work out which surname they belong to before the announcer finishes saying them.  Up in the stand Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are of course already here.

Eventually, with huddles having huddled, bursts of flame having died down and plumes of smoke having settled, the game begins with the Park Rangers of the Queen getting first go with the ball in their strikingly metrosexual livery of black and pinked halved shirts and black shorts.  The Rangers try to point the ball in the direction of Norwich Road and local twentieth century public housing landmark Cumberland Towers.  The Town are as ever in our signature blue shirts and white shorts and the teams wear Halos on their shirt fronts, instead of above their heads.

Inside two minutes Leif Davis is bearing down on Joe Walsh in the Rangers goal, but his low shot is saved by the former Eagles guitarist at the expense of a corner and an early rendition from me and as many as half a dozen others of  ‘Come on You Blues’.  As usual our shouts fall on stoney ground and the ball is cleared. But the Town are relentless, assaulting the Rangers goal with wave after wave of running at them with the ball down both flanks and through the middle. Within another two minutes Town lead, George Hirst kicking the ball over the goal line from improbably close range after slick passing finds Leif Davis crossing the ball low into the deepest recesses of the goal mouth. “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go!” fills the void, although in truth we can’t actually go any further up the Football league because Coventry have already bagged first position.

Behind me a bloke sings loudly and out of tune, like an international footballer rendering his national anthem as a tv camera looks up his nostrils.  “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” we bellow with tearful sincerity to the tune of The Wild Rover.  This is how the match was meant to begin; it was how it began in Town supporters’ dreams and those dreams are becoming a reality.  The onslaught continues with what seems like a season’s worth of attacking intent and desire rolled into one as if making up for lost time. It’s the tenth minute when more joyful running and passing leaves Jaden Philogene in front of goal and a jink and a twist later to avoid a Park Ranger he’s rolling the ball into the Rangers’ goal from about six metres away. Two-nil to Ipswich Town and that’s it; I reckon we’ve won.

With the game won, the excitement subsides a little and Town allow the Rangers a little more of the ball.   Up in the Cobbold Stand, the Rangers’ supporters make the attacks that their team is unable to conjure by chanting “Football in a library, do-do-do”.  I cope with the insult by thinking of tv’s Crossroads and inwardly laughing to myself that their number twenty-three is called Bennie, even if the spelling is wrong. The Rangers fans respond with “Two-nil and you still don’t sing”.  The first half is half over and the bloke next to me says “It’s all about game management now”.  I think to myself that our game management in the first ten minutes was pretty flippin’ good.  Back on the pitch George Hirst goes to stamp on a balloon but it escapes from beneath his boot and he stamps on fresh air, which looks decidedly uncool.  To escape further embarrassment and to punish the balloon George proceeds to pick it up and crushes it with his bare hands.

Town are managing the game well enough now that with six minutes to go until half-time the blokes behind me and a few from further along the row feel confident enough to repair to the bar for an early half-time beer.  Within two minutes the Rangers win their first corner, but the ball is easily gathered by Christian Walton because generally, as Fiona remarks, corners are equally ineffectual for all teams.   The words “Hot Sausage Company” scroll across the face of the Sir Bobby Robson stand in yellow on a vivid red background and we learn that five minutes of time are to be taken from our futures to make up for players lying prone on the turf during the previous forty-five minutes.

Unusually, the stolen five minutes provide some excitement as Town are awarded a free-kick just outside the Rangers’ penalty area and referee Mr Gavin Ward gets carried away marking out a line ten yards from the ball, applying his white spray with aplomb like a cross between Banksy and Jackson Pollock.  From the free-kick a corner ensues, presenting the last time this season in which the Churchman’s ultras will chant “Come on You Blues” and share the disappointment of not scoring again.

With the half-time whistle I go for the final time, until August that is, to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison and in passing to Dave the steward before venting more spent Suffolk Pride and returning to my seat in time for the re-start of the football at twenty-three minutes to two.

The second half is not unexpectedly different to the first, football mostly being a game of two halves.  Rangers have made two substitutions, one having the unusual first name of Tylon to rhyme with Skylon and Nylon, and the players have evidently received a reminder from their French coach Monsieur Stephan about the need to try and score les buts. As a result, an early Town shot at Walsh becomes an isolated incident as Rangers proceed to soon win a corner and a free-kick and their supporters become optimistic enough to chant “Come on you R’s” with genuine enthusiasm.  It seems that Monsieur Stephan has successfully injected a bit of va-va-voom and even “Je ne sais quoi” into his players.   I am particularly impressed by Ranger’s number ten Ilias Chair, although he is quite small, more of a footstool or a pouffe than a chair really.  

Despite the Rangers’ improved showing I don’t get the impression anyone is getting over-anxious.  “Another goal would knock the stuffing out of them” says Fiona, and I agree with her, my only quibble with her analysis being that it makes QPR sound a bit too much like cuddly toys and I wouldn’t want to see the Portman Road pitch festooned with kapok. 

With an hour gone the Rangers’ fans launch a final attempt to goad the home supporters with a chant of “Football in a library”. But their efforts fall on deaf ears, which is hardly surprising given the age of some of us in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  Two minutes later and the traditional ‘half an hour left’ substitutions are made by a thoughtful looking Keiran McKenna as Philogene and Burns are replaced by Clarke and McAteer.  Almost instantly, Town win a couple of predictably disappointing corners but it’s enough to re- invigorate the home crowd,  who are soon back to chanting “E-I, E-I, E-I, O, Up the Football League we go” in the simple style of a class of primary school children.  Twenty-one minutes of normal time remain when Jack Clarke shoots wide of the goal. A minute later and Nunez and Hirst depart for the bench to be replaced by Azon and Mehmeti in the well-rehearsed fashion.  Across the illuminated centre of the Sir Bobby Robson stand the spirit of optimism is echoed in the words “The future of flat roofing today”.

Another goal would be good, and I sense some frustration that it hasn’t been scored yet as everyone yearns to see the game ‘put to bed’, perhaps with a milky cup of Horlicks or Cocoa.  Leif Davis getting booked barely registers in the scheme of things now and the longed-for goal almost comes as Jack Clarke is fouled and from the free-kick the ball is headed across the face of the Rangers’ goal.  Eleven minutes of normal time remain, and Rangers’ Smyth makes his mark on the game by having his name taken by Mr Ward for a foul on Darnell Furlong.  Eight minutes of normal time remain, and the Sir Bobby Robson standers are now confident enough to test out a chant of “We are going up, We are going up”, which almost seems to be the signal for a parade of stewards and police in what look like uniforms that can easily be wiped clean to surround the pitch.

Seven minutes remain, and Christian Walton is forced into a flying save to keep out a shot from one or other of the Park Rangers and it’s as if the surrounding of the pitch by people dressed in black and day-glo orange might have been distracting.  But three minutes later play is at the desired end of the ground again as Jack Taylor storms towards goal, the ball is blocked but runs to Kasey McAteer who guides it into the net and Town lead three-nil. 

Now the game is truly over and promotion is secured, again. It doesn’t really matter that Dan Neil replaces Jack Taylor, that we number 29,636 today or that four minutes of added on time will be added on.  With the final whistle, within seconds a swarm of supporters cover the pitch and Town are definitively promoted to what is called the Premier League.  The last time I saw this many people on the pitch at a match versus QPR they were fighting each other.

Very few people leave to catch trains or buses today.  I was going to, but against my better judgement I hang about pointlessly looking on at people milling about the pitch whilst the excitable young stadium announcer tells them that there will be no presentation of the runners-up trophy until the pitch is completely cleared. I am wasting my life away here.   The game ended at twenty past two and its three o’clock by the time the presentation of the trophy is made but there are too many other people on the pitch to see that and then the team don’t parade it around the pitch, they just hang about near the halfway line enduring very loud music. A blast of Status Quo at getting on for two-thirty is the final straw and I head for the railway station and home to find that I must have already drunk that bottle of champagne for which I found the receipt.   

Ipswich Town 2 Bristol City 0

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Looking back, as I often seem to do nowadays, I find that the first time I saw Ipswich Town play Bristol City was nearly forty-nine years ago. Back then, both clubs were in what has since become the Evil Premier League but this has no bearing whatsoever on the fixture that is taking place tonight at Portman Road. The past is a foreign country, which makes us all immigrants.

It’s been a dull day decorated with scudding clouds courtesy of a brisk but strangely cold southerly breeze. But then, it is January.  After a day’s work at home, I head for the railway station. The train is on time and Gary joins me on it at the first station stop. It’s dark outside so we don’t see any polar bears as the train reaches Wherstead and I’m not about to suggest the bears begin to wear dayglo gilets.    Leaving Ipswich railway station, the Portman Road football ground shines like a glorious blue and white beacon or even a jewel on Ipswich’s evening skyline. Gary, a man not known for his interest in graphic design remarks upon the clear, classic font of the letters that spell out the words ‘Ipswich Town Football Club’ on the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.

By way of a change this evening, I decide we should not walk up Portman Road, across the corner of Portman Road car park, along Great Gipping Street, up Civic Drive, across the car park where the Civic Centre used to be, up Lady Lane, over the crossing where St Matthews Street meets Crown Street, up St George’s Street, along Upper High Street and into High Street to reach the Arb.  Instead, we just walk up Princes Street and Museum Street and into High Street. Gary thinks the other way is quicker but he’s an Ipswich supporter who is awkwardly unfamiliar with Ipswich’s historic town centre and doesn’t realise how many more listed buildings we have passed tonight.

I’m first to burst through the door when we reach the Arb (not listed), and I get to the bar first to invest in a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£10 something for the two with Camra discount) for myself.  Gary heads for the cool of the beer garden whilst I linger a little longer to select a snack to help sustain me through the evening, choosing a felafel Scotch egg (£8) before joining him in the shelter (not listed) backing onto High Street, which is otherwise empty, for the time being anyway.

Our conversation meanders from Trump to religion to ‘famous’ Bristol City players (Billy Wedlock and Gerry Gow,) to how far south and east we’ve travelled, to tonight’s team and how unexpectedly cold it is this evening.  Gary buys another pint of Estrella Galicia for himself and one of Suffolk Pride for me.  I buy another half of Suffolk Pride and when there is no one else in the beer garden we up and leave; it’s a bit before twenty-five past seven.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand tonight, there are queues to be scanned for weaponry and scrap metal, it’s hard to know why, other than lots of people arriving at once or more people than usual carrying weapons and scrap metal.  But I’m soon on my way through the Football League Champions Memorial Turnstile, number 62, and after releasing spent Suffolk Pride I’m joining ever-present Phil who never misses a game and Pat from Clacton on the lower tier of the stand.  There’s no Elwood tonight, nor man from Stowmarket (Paul), although his grandson is here with his girlfriend (Paul’s grandson’s girlfriend that is, not Paul’s), nor Fiona, who is feeling unwell.  In Fiona’s place however is Angie, who usually occupies the seat in front of Pat from Clacton.  I shout out the players’ names as best I can when the excitable young stadium announcer reads them aloud, but he’s not in time with the scoreboard.  In the questionnaire I receive from the club by e-mail after the match I will suggest he goes on a fact finding mission to Lens, Lille or Paris to see how it’s done.

When the game begins it is Ipswich that get first go with the ball, which they send mostly in the direction of me and my fellow ultras.  Naturally, Town are in blue shirts and white shorts but strangely, Bristol City, or ‘The Robins’ as they are known, presumably because of their signature red shirts, are wearing what must be their little-known winter plumage of white shirts and black shorts, like a poor man’s Germany or Port Vale.  Town are soon on the attack and win their first corner after barely three minutes. Angie remarks on the height of referee’s assistant, who although bearded like a garden gnome is much taller than the usual.  “Come On You Blues” five, or possibly six of us bawl and we do it again and then again as Town take two more corner kicks until Bristol goalkeeper Vitek punches the ball high into the air before catching it on its descent to spoil our fun.

It is the ninth minute. Jens Cajuste pirouettes to leave some hired imitation Bristolian in his wake and passes to Jack Clarke.  All floppy hair and loping gait, Clarke drops a shoulder or two, eases the ball on with a stroke of the outside of a boot, and then side foots it inside the far post past a clutch of legs from about twelve metres out. Town lead 1-0.  It’s yet another early goal from the left and Jack Clarke and Jaden Philogene who isn’t playing tonight seem to have become one.

“One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Bristolians up in the Cobbold Stand, mysteriously goading the pensioners and conservative people in late middle age who populate the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand.  Fifteen minutes have melted into history and Town continue to do what is sometimes described as ‘taking the game to the opposition’. “Go on Wes, do ‘im” says Angie as Wes Burns receives the ball on the touchline and runs at the Bristol full-back.

But five minutes later Bristol almost score, as ‘playing out from the back’ fails to live up to expectations and Bristol get gifted a free shot on goal that Christian Walton saves rather well, giving Bristol a corner. Tension is relieved however by the sight of former ‘Blue’ Sam Morsy stepping out from what once was a dugout but now looks like a section from a short but wide open-top team bus. “He’s Egyptian, but he comes from Wolver’ampton” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of “She’s electric” by Oasis, although I might have misheard.  After Wes Burns shoots to win Town another corner that comes to nothing Sam Morsy then replaces a bloke called Adam Randell and everyone applauds arguably Town’s best captain since Matt Holland.

The first third of the match begins to slip out of sight, except as recorded highlights, and Ivan Azon wins another corner and then shoots narrowly and quite spectacularly over the Bristol crossbar from about 20 metres away.  “Ole, Ole Ole Ole, Azon, Azon” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers as they tuck into their tapas and click their castanets.  Seemingly aiming to please the home crowd further, Sam Morsy shoots wide and everyone cheers ironically, and then with no hint of irony at all the few hundred visiting supporters and possibly the fifteen-hundred or so empty plastic seats allocated to Bristol City but left unsold sing “Your support is fucking shit” to the tune of Cwm Rhondda.

Nine minutes until half-time and Town notch yet another corner to a tiny chorus of “Come On You Blues” before Bristol City hint at having a pact with the devil as Cajuste’s shot is blocked and Azon’s sudden follow-up attempt is deflected by unseen forces over the bar, although it is goalkeeper Radek Vitek who gets the thanks from his team mates.   With five minutes until half-time the home crowd celebrate again as referee Mr Whitestone selects Bristol’s Neto Borge to be the recipient of his first yellow card, after Borge shoves Dara O’Shea headlong into the West Stand advert hoardings.

The half comes to a close with three minutes of added-on time, another necessary save from Christian Walton and yet another hollow chorus of “Come On You Blues” from me and the other five ultras as Town’s corner count exceeds its ultra count.  Applause greets the half-time whistle, and I take a short trip to the front of the stand to speak with Harrison and his dad Michael, and briefly with Dave the steward before I head indoors to release more spent Suffolk Pride, returning in time to see the football resume at twelve minutes to nine.

Unexpectedly, it is Bristol City who win the first corner within a minute of the re-start, whilst Pat from Clacton shares the news that Angie’s bobble hat was new from the club shop tonight; nine pounds in the ‘under a tenner’ sale.  Angie wears the woollen hat well, but I don’t think such a large bobble would suit me at all.  I might write to the club to suggest the shop stocks blue berets and ITFC pin badges to be sold in tandem with prescription sunglasses for that authentic Ultra look.

Seven minutes into the latest half and Walton makes another save, this time from Emil Riis. It’s an incident that prompts Town fans to plead “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” a minute later.  Clearly struck by the crowd’s imploring cries Town up their game and Azon chases down the right before squaring the ball to Jack Clarke who sweeps the ball very precisely but stylishly inside the far post as only a man wearing a hair band can. Two-nil to Ipswich.  “We’re on our way to the Premier League” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers suddenly filled with a hitherto missing confidence, although they soon reveal that they’re a little unsure how promotion actually works chanting “How do we get there?  I don’t know”.    Moments later however they seem more certain as they launch into “Ee-I, Ee-I, Ee-I, Oh, Up the Football League We Go”, again probably for the first time this season.

Mass substitutions soon follow for Bristol City as their fabulously Germanic sounding manager Gerhard Struber trusts in ringing the changes and bringing on players called Pring and Earthy.  Although often messy, with possession changing hands a bit too frequently, the game provides plenty for the crowd to enjoy and no more so than when, possibly just for old times’ sake, Sam Morsy gets shown Mr Whitehouse’s yellow card.  But Morsy is in good company in this Bristol City team, which almost queues up to be cautioned with a series of assaults on Jack Clarke, Dara O’Shea and Ivan Azon or anyone who runs past with or stands between them and the ball.

Not to be outdone by the former insurance salesman from Austria, Keiran Mckenna makes the customary multiple substitutions too, giving opportunities for the home crowd to give dedicated applause for the excellent efforts of Azon, Burns, Cajuste, Clarke, and Nunez, who have all shown skill and endeavour in the face of a team that with the possible exception of Sam Morsy due to his religious beliefs, probably trains on rough cider.

With the second goal the game had become a matter of will we or won’t we score a third goal.  “I don’t need to get Monkey out do I” says Pat from Clacton, referring to the lucky charm who apparently used to cause instant changes of fortune for struggling Town teams upon leaving her handbag but has since lost his touch a bit.  Angie is reduced to giggling about the surname of Bristol’s Rob Dickie, whilst I enquire of her whether she thinks he’s from Billericay.  I hope she remembers Ian Dury.

It’s been a relatively comfortable game for the Town with the feeling that if we wanted or needed to, we could always try a little harder and score some more goals.  Six minutes of added on time is therefore a little unwanted for both teams probably, but we survive it.  With the final whistle we can clear off home safe in the knowledge that a third consecutive home victory over teams beginning with letter ‘B’, after just one win and two draws in consecutive games against teams beginning with the letter ‘W’ back in September and October is a slightly strange measure of how much the team has improved. It’s just a pity that if things keep on like this, we might end up in the bloody Premier League again