Premier League

Ipswich Town 1 Fulham 1

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It’s been a grey morning; warm but cloudy and breezy, with two very sharp, short showers.  The apple tree in the garden has provided a good crop this year and I’ve been cooking them ready to put in the freezer and ensure a future that contains crumble and blackberry and apple pie.  I mopped the kitchen floor too after making waffles for breakfast.  We didn’t get any post, but heck, there’s football this afternoon.

The train to Ipswich is on time, but the carriage I sit in is full of people seemingly with no ability to control how loud they talk, or rather shout. Do they all operate pneumatic drills during the week I wonder, or listen to marbles inside tumble driers as a leisure pursuit?  Gary joins me at the first station stop, I have texted him to tell him I am in the second half of the train, in the carriage with the pointy front; I think it’s called streamlining and is all the rage on modern trains. We talk of people we both know and of what Gary has arranged to do to fill his days now he is retired; weeks of badminton, ten-pin bowling, crown green bowls , indoor bowls and quizzing stretch out before him invitingly.  We spot all four polar bears as we glide down the hill towards Ipswich through Wherstead and one is taking a swim.  It’s a highlight of my day so far, has saved me the cost of entry to Jimmy’s farm, about twenty quid, and I’ve had a train ride and conversation with Gary thrown-in.

In Ipswich, the train stops conveniently close to the bridge that takes us across the tracks from Platform 4 to the exit and our walk along Princes Street, Portman Road and up to ‘the Arb’.  In the beer garden of the Station Hotel a chorus of “You’re going down, you’re going down, you’re going down “ rings out noisily. Premier League banter eh?  We buy programmes (£3.50 each) from one of the ice-cream booths that sell programmes on Portman Road.  Today’s front cover is in the style of a childishly drawn cartoon and very good it is too, and reminiscent of the cartoons that used to appear in the ‘A Load of Cobbolds’ fanzine in the 1980’s and 90’s, although not in a ‘My Sweet Lord’, by George Harrison, ‘He’s so fine’ by the Chiffons sort of a way.

‘The Arb’ is predictably busy and Gary gets the first round in, a pint of Lager 43 for him and a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£8.58 with Camra discount).  It’s odd how the pub seems even busier than it did last season, even though there will be no more home supporters present than before. Perhaps all the ‘Johnny-come-lately’ fans have been reading up on what to do before a game to enjoy the ‘full Premier League matchday experience’.   We talk of the paralympics, Walton On The Naze, religious observance and the religious persecution of women, Ipswich  Town’s latest signings, how strawberries and blackberries are apparently not berries and other inconsequential matters that I can’t recall, before I buy a second round of Lager 43 and Suffolk Pride. After all the other pre-match drinkers have left for Portman Road, we leave too.

Gary and I part ways near Sir Alf’s statue and I head on down Portman Road, flitting as best as a 64 year old man with a dodgy achilles tendon can through the queues into the Cobbold Stand on my way back to my usual seat in the lower tier of Sir Alf’s stand.  The queues at the turnstiles are long again today, unlike for the Liverpool game where there were barely any queues at all. So slow moving is the queue for the illustrious turnstile 62, that like  an impatient driver approaching roadworks on a motorway I switch lanes and join the queue for turnstile 60, where evidently supporters are more proficient at flashing a bar code in front of a screen.

The teams are on the pitch by the time I take my seat and of course ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood, Pat from Clacton and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) are already present.  Fiona however is not, and instead a man who quickly identifies himself as Ian, tells me that he is not Fiona.  Ian is in fact Fiona’s next-door neighbour.  On the pitch, a tall, slim, young man in a suit announces the teams enthusiastically and does a reasonable job of co-ordinating with the scoreboard so that ever-present Phil and I can bawl out the Town players’ surnames as if we were at the Stade de la Licorne or Stade Felix Bollaert, two of my favourite places in northern France. Beside the tall, slim young man, is a shorter young man in a suit and I think of Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo.  The last strains of The Beatles’ Hey Jude drift away as the game begins and Fulham get first go with the ball, aiming it roughly in the general direction of the telephone exchange and London Road Baptist church.  Town wear their signature blue shirts and white shorts, whilst Fulham are in their signature white shirts and black shorts, but with vivid red go faster stripes on their shorts too, that surprisingly look rather good, I think it’s the contrast with the red and the black.  Feeling a little pretentious, I think of Stendahl.

“Blue and White Army” roar some of the crowd above the general loud hubbub of nearly thirty thousand excited people. “Temporary Boiler Hire” flash the electronic advertisement hoards that sit between the upper and lower tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.  I think to myself that that could come in handy in the winter if the water from the taps in the Alf Ramsey stand toilets is as cold as it usually is.  After only three minutes Leif Davis is lying on the turf clutching his back. “Looks serious “ says the bloke behind me, but happily it’s not, and the crowd are soon merrily singing “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” as if imagining the soundtrack from “A Taste of Honey” starring Rita Tushingham and Dora Bryan, which is what I’m doing.

Five minutes in and Town win the game’s first corner; Jacob Greaves’ far post header is saved  athletically by Fulham goalkeeper Bernd Leno who I do not think is related to American TV presenter Jay Leno, but I don’t honestly know. Leno is wearing a slightly dull looking lime green ensemble, if lime green can be dull.  It takes two minutes for Fulham to level the corner count. “Come On Fulham, Come On Fulham, Come on Fulham” is the entreaty from a large part of the top tier of the Cobbold stand, but happily for Town, the Fulham football tean doesn’t oblige.  Two minutes later and Fulham step ahead in the corner count as Luke Woolfenden clears accidentally towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand from distance.  The Fulham fans chant “Come On Fulham” twice as many times as for the previous corner, but it makes no difference, although it adds to the already febrile match-day ambience.  Seeking reassurance after their team’s corner related failure, the Fulham fans sing “We are Fulham, We Are Fulham” and I think I even hear some reference to their postcode, SW6, which is nice for Royal Mail pensioners like Gary and myself.

After twelve minutes, Fulham have another corner as Woolfenden blocks a low cross from Adama Traore. “Quick aint he?” says the bloke behind me of Traore. “He aint normal.”  The Fulham fans have given up on their chants of “Come On Fulham” for the time being at least and switch to “No noise from the Tractor Boys”, which, as prophetic football chants go, turns out to be one of the worst of all time as within sixty seconds Leif Davis breaks out of defence, runs, squares to Liam Delap who also runs, but at the goal, and then diagonally, before turning slightly to leather a shot past Leno, who can touch the ball but not stop it rocketing  high into the net. Wow. Town lead 1-0. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, The Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers feeling prematurely, but understandably festive.

The goal lifts Town, who set about levelling the corner count and Liam Delap heads wide when there wasn’t anything or anyone really preventing him from scoring. Town are dominating. “For a team that’s still gelling, we don’t pay bad” says the bloke behind me, and he’s right.  Like someone recently injected with morphine, I sit back and just enjoy the sensation of watching some excellent football.  “Get your head up” shouts a berk from somewhere a few rows back as Sam Morsy wrestles to retain possession.  As if anyone in the crowd could possibly teach these players anything.

Then Fulham equalise, the game has just under an hour left of normal time.  Fulham weathered Town’s onslaught then steadied themselves with a bout of prolonged possession, which was on the verge of becoming boring before a pass out wide, a run to the goal line, a low cross, and a shot swept in by Traore running into an open space.  It’s how good football works I believe.  “Who are ya?” chant the Fulhamites inquisitively, perhaps worried that we are Fulham too, but luckily for them we’re not.   Fulham are now on top and Rodrigo Muniz heads at the Town goal, but straight at Aro Muric.  “We are Fulham, We Are Fulham” chant the Fulham fans again, clearly weirdly obsessed with people’s identities, and possibly postcodes.

Sam Morsy’s standard booking happens in the thirty-seventh minute as he clatters Muniz, but a fine passing Town move follows, which earns another corner, although Kalvin Phillips wastes it by hitting it hopelessly beyond the goal.  The young announcer announces two minutes of added time very excitedly and in a manner that personally I would only think was appropriate if announcing free beer.  At half-time the score is 1-1 and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is very content with what he considers to have been an even first half.  I concur, but add that Fulham have probably had more possession, although they’ve not done much with it.

During the break, I speak with Ray and his grandson Harrison and Ray tells me that they have tickets to see Oasis at Wembley.  I am pleased for them, especially Harrison, who then further pleases me by asking about Robyn Hitchcock’s book ‘1967: How I got there and why I never left’ and the accompanying album (1967: Vacations in the past) which is released in the UK on 13th September. I tell Harrison I shall be seeing Robyn play in Hackney, the weekend after next.

The football resumes at three minutes past four and I’m soon noticing the raspberry blancmange like colouring of Aro Muric’s shirt and shorts, and how from a distance the ball looks a bit like a very un-ripe wild strawberry.  Back in the game itself, Sasa Lukic kicks Liam Delap’s feet away from under him and is booked by referee Mr Lewis Smith, whose first name makes me think of Lewis Carroll and Alice Through the Looking Glass.  “The Hot Sausage Company” appears in bright lights across the electronic advertising boards and Liam Delap shoots over the Fulham cross bar. Ipswich win a corner. Antonee Robinson, the spelling of whose first name would only be improved if it was Antonknee is booked by Mr Smith for shoving over Omari Hutchinson and then Town win yet another corner.  An hour of the match is lost to history and recorded highlights, and the Sir Bobby Robson standers come over all festive again and sing about endlessly fighting Norwich.  “Quick, Easy, Affordable Balustrades” announce the bright lights of the electronic advertisement boards and I try to think of the occasions when I have needed a cheap balustrade in a hurry before deciding that Adama Traore looks a bit like he could be a handy weightlifter when not playing football for Fulham.

The second half belongs to Ipswich and the game is mostly taking place up the other end.  When Fulham do win a corner, it dissolves into a series of wild grabs and shoves and I’m surprised Mr Smith doesn’t tell the players that if they can’t play nicely there won’t be any more corners. The game hurtles into its last twenty minutes and the first substitutions are made, Jens Cajuste replacing Kalvin Phillips for Town.  “I liked him the other night” says the bloke behind me, possibly revealing details of his private life, but more probably that he saw the midweek League Cup game against AFC Wimbledon.  Not to be outdone, Fulham make a substitution too and then today’s attendance is announced as 29,517 with 2,952 of that number being of a Fulham persuasion.  Fulham win a corner, Traore is shown Mr Lewis’s yellow card for tugging at Leif Davis. I’m surprised the hulk look-alike didnt tear Davis’s shirt clean off.

The final ten minutes witness mass substitutions for both teams including a first sight of another new signing for Town, Jack Clarke, but disappointingly nothing more leaps out at me from the electronic advertising boards. Pat from Clacton is feeling nervous and we’re not even winning, but there seems to be a commonly held belief that a point today will be good enough; Fulham are a decent side.  The allotted ninety minutes have expired and the young man in the suit announces that there will five more. “Five added minutes” he concludes portentously, and the crowd responds with a final roar of encouragement, perhaps inspiring Town to win a corner and Omari Hutchinson to turn and shoot and have his shot saved by Leno.

The final whistle draws a torrent of appreciation from the stands as Pat from Clacton and Ian make a swift exit, but with no train home for half an hour, I hang around to watch the ensuing love-in and reflect on what has been a really good match.  I thought last season’s matches were fast and intense, probably because I had become used to what went on in the loveable old third division, but this football, now, has stepped up to a far higher level again.  Happily, it looks like this evolving Town team are capable of playing here.  I don’t like the Premier League, I strongly disapprove of it and its greed, but I have to admit the football we’ve seen at Portman Road in these first two games has been brilliant. But what can you do? Let’s hope we find out soon, and do it.

Ipswich Town  0 Liverpool 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The start of a new football season feels a bit like flying to Australia; you depart Heathrow in the spring and in the space of less than twenty four hours, you’re in Sydney, Melbourne or Perth and it’s autumn.  Where did the summer go? Did it ever come?

 To add to my feeling of disorientation today, Town are playing Liverpool, who I don’t think I’ve ever heard of.  I am of course familiar with The Beatles, Ken Dodd, Jimmy Tarbuck, Derek Hatton, Cilla Black, Sandra and Beryl the Liver Birds, Roger McGough, Adrian Henri and Brian Patten, the Mersey Sound, The Scaffold, the Pier Head, Paddy’s Wigwam, Hope Street, Lime Street station, Penny Lane, racing from Aintree, the Albert Dock, St George’s Hall, the Queensway tunnel, the Three Graces, Brookside, the ferry ‘cross the Mersey, the ‘Boys from the black stuff’, Littlewoods Pools, Letter to Brezhnev, dodgy blokes in shell suits with ‘taches and perms, the Anglican Cathedral, Alexei Sayle, the Echo and Scouse, but who knew there was a football team too?  If they’ve got one, they certainly haven’t been frequenting the sort of exotic places we’ve been visiting in recent years.

It was only when staring into the distance and idly reminiscing about when Ipswich used to nearly be the champions every year, a long time ago when we was ‘fab’, that I remembered that it was a team called Liverpool that mostly were the champions every year.  Then I remembered Mich D’Avray heading home a cross from Kevin O’Callaghan as Sammy Lee sat on his bum on the wet turf and watched, and eventually, much later, Adam Tanner and Marcus Stewart scoring winning goals at Anfield.  Yes, I remember Liverpool now.

I meet Gary on the train to Ipswich, and he tells me that only one of the current ninety-two football league teams is in a parliamentary constituency that has a Tory member of parliament; he asks me which one I think it is.  I think for a moment and say “Cheltenham”.  But I’m wrong, it’s Bromley. So much for Siouxsie Sioux and the ‘Bromley contingent’, although I guess that’s what they were escaping from, even if some of them did like to wear swastikas. We carry on talking as if life is a pub quiz and Gary seems impressed that I know that when George Best played for Dunstable Town, Barry Fry was the Dunstable manager.  Suddenly, following a tangible moment of recollection that is visible on Gary’s face, he pays me for his ticket to see Stewart Lee at the Chelmsford Civic Theatre next February (£31 including booking fee) and we complain to each other about the scandal of booking fees.  I never paid a booking fee to see Rick Wakeman at the Ipswich Gaumont in 1975, or for my FA Cup final ticket in 1978, or to see Buzzcocks at the Brighton Top Rank Club in 1979, when I recall being handed tickets by a person from behind a glass screen and not having to print anything myself using printer ink, paper and electricity paid for by me.  If they’re going to riot, this is what people should be rioting about, not a few unfortunates being made to waste away their days in a Best Western.

Disappointingly, we do not see the polar bears of Wherstead today as the train descends into Ipswich, but at least the bloke mowing the grass in their enclosure lives to mow another day, and arriving in Ipswich we head for the Arboretum, travelling via the ice cream kiosks that sell match programmes. We buy a programme each (£3.50) and are both impressed by the design of the front cover, which has taken a step away from the usual boring fare, although it’s a shame about the same old drivel inside, and the price.  Portman Road is busy; very busy considering that there are another two hours to pass into forgettable history before the game begins.   Middle- aged blokes with estuarine accents hawk blue and red scarves that are half Ipswich and half Liverpool, no one seems to be buying.   At the Arb’ there is no queue at the bar, and I quickly order a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£8.35 including Camra discount). In the beer garden all the tables are occupied, so we sit on a park bench and have barely discussed anything before Mick arrives, before leaving again to acquire his own pint of some beer or other, probably Suffolk Pride, before returning to discuss ‘half and half’ scarves, which Mick says are like being bi-sexual. It’s much worse than that I tell him, and we all laugh, much more than we probably should, and for a variety of unspoken reasons. 

Mick asks what time we should leave for Portman Road, anticipating that the turnstiles will be busy.  I tell him that its likely all our fellow drinkers will leave here long before we do because they will be wanting to experience the Premier League circus, and we should be able to rock up just before kick-off and walk straight in as if we were playing Preston North End.  My prophecy will come to pass, but we nevertheless agree to depart shortly after midday, and after Mick buys a round of three more pints, which he sensibly carries from the bar on a tin tray, that is what we do, although not before discussing why Mick may not go to Nice next weekend after all, today’s team selection, how to spell Szmodics and how I don’t feel as excited as everyone else seems to be; it’s just another new football season, another game.

Portman Road is still busy, mostly with queues for ice creams that turn out to be programmes. At turnstile 62 at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, there are no queues, but a man who looks older than me seems to be struggling to get his season ticket to work, so rather than create a queue with just me in it I use turnstile 61 and am soon hugging Pat from Clacton who then photographs me in an embrace with ever-present Phil who never misses a game.  Ever-present Phil’s son Elwood, Fiona and the man from Stowmarket are all here too of course and soon the teams are on the pitch and flames are leaping into the air which are much bigger than any flames that we’ve ever seen before at Portman Road, because these are Premier League flames.

The teams are announced by an enthusiastic bloke in a grey suit who looks about half the age of Murphy, the now pensioned-off, one season wonder of an announcer who took nearly all of last season to learn how to read out the names of the team.  Unfortunately, Portman Road is so noisy today and the PA system so unintelligible that I can’t hear a word this fresh young fellow says and am reduced to having to try and lip read as he tells us the Town line-up, but I think I do a reasonable job of bellowing like a French football supporter the surnames of the players as he says them.  Except for the obvious and necessary concrete bits, the stands are mostly a sea of blue shirts.

‘The Knee’ is taken, which we haven’t seen for a while, and the game begins with Liverpool having first go with the ball and wearing all red, pretty much like they did back in 1974 when I first saw them at Portman Road and Bill Shankly spoke to me, telling me in his gravelly Ayrshire accent “Aye, you’ve a good team”.  As ever, Town are in blue and white and when they get the ball, they send it in my direction and that of ever-present Phil, Elwood, Fiona, Pat and the man from Stowmarket. My early impressions are that there are new illuminated advertisements between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, one of which advertises Universal Customs Clearance, whatever that is. I like to think it is something to do smuggling because this fits in with my pre-conceptions about the dodgy owners and sponsors of Premier League clubs. I also notice that the Liverpool number four has the name Virgil on his shirt and so I think of both the Aeneid and Thunderbirds.  Sadly for Town, from his stature, Virgil looks more likely to be a classical hero rather than a jiggly puppet that appears like all Thunderbirds puppets to be suffering from Parkinson’s Disease.   Omari Hutchinson has an early shot on goal for Town but Liverpool are awarded the game’s first free-kick. After six minutes Luke Woolfenden greedily claims the first booking of the Premier League season for some shirt grabbing and torso grasping of Jota who had run around Woolfenden as if he was a large bollard with a blond wig.

The game is even, with Liverpool having more possession but Ipswich looking no less likely to score, albeit on the break.  Thirteen noisy minutes have disappeared for ever, only to be repeated on satellite tv and Match of the Day, and Omari Hutchinson is booked for a supposed foul, for which any decent player would be embarrassed to be awarded a free-kick.  We need to keep an eye on the referee Mr Tim Robinson, he may prove to be a bit of a berk.  The game continues in much the same manner to a back-drop of general noise, but no discernible organised chanting, as if the Premier League just makes everyone talk very loudly, which I think in some ways it probably does. Town win a free kick and Jacob Greaves heads the ball straight at the Liverpool goalkeeper; would Terry Butcher or Kevin Beattie have scored?  We’ll never know, so it doesn’t really matter.

The first half is half over and referee Tim Robinson, whose name is a little too much like ‘Tommy Robinson’ for comfort, confirms that he is a complete berk as he books another Town player, this time Wes Burns, for a supposed foul that most under-fourteen players would not have noticed.  Much booing ensues and I join in, swept up in the maelstrom of silliness that is the Premier League, and we haven’t even had the VAR out yet.

Less than a third of the half is left and after a Liverpool corner Omari Hutchinson breaks away, beats two Liverpool players and then shoots, but not well enough to avoid the goalkeeper’s elongated but comfortable looking dive.   “Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” chant the Town fans at a Liverpool player whose truss has come apart, or may be at the Liverpool fans who are quietish and so far don’t compare for enthusiasm to those of clubs in the second division that are only ‘fashionable’ in their home towns.

Eight minutes until half-time and Christian Walton makes a fine diving save from a Luke Woolfenden diversion, but by way of balance Axel Tuanzebe heads the ball onto the roof of the Liverpool net before Town win a corner, and in the last action of the half the Liverpool have their first recognisable shot on goal, courtesy of the lengthily named Trent Alexander Arnold, whose  names seem to have either been arranged back to front or mostly taken from a map of Nottingham.  After a minute of added on time spent finding the ball after TAA’s shot, Robinson blows his whistle and we all get the opportunity to boo him again as he and his minders wander off for a cup of tea and to do whatever referees and their assistant’s do at half-time.

The consensus amongst those around me is that it was a satisfactory half in which Town did pretty well and arguably had the better chances to score, although it could be a worry therefore that they didn’t.   For half time entertainment Ray’s son Michael and a much larger man wearing possibly an XXXL Town shirt take part in a little quiz, the first few questions of which are stupidly easy and appear on the large screen between the Cobbold Stand and the Sir Alf stand. Later questions unfortunately, do not have multiple choice answers and are therefore read out over the incomprehensible PA system, so we have no idea what is going on.

At twenty-seven minutes to two the second half begins, and Liverpool have substituted their number 78 for a more sensible number 5, who is Ibrahima Konate and also plays for France, so is therefore likely to be pretty good.  But, eight minutes into the half and it is Town who are appealing for a penalty as Leif Davis is barged over. There is a  brief VAR check, during which I find myself praying to someone or something, perhaps divine providence, but conveniently for Liverpool and the status quo, the linesman has his flag raised for offside.  The bloke behind me jokes that with all the recent works to the stadium the electrics for the VAR haven’t been finished yet,  so the protocol is just to wait for five minutes and then say “No”.

As if being denied penalties isn’t bad enough, Wes Burns seems to be hurt and has to be substituted for Ben Johnson.  Three minutes later Christian Walton has to make a fine save and then gets lucky as the ball is crossed back in and an unmarked Jota heads wide of an open goal from close range.  Just a minute further on however, Jota scores as the ball is pulled back from the by-line and the Town defence is ripped apart.   The Liverpool fans in the Cobbold stand can suddenly be heard, and above the general hubbub comes a jubilant roar.  “Someone’s just found a quid I reckon” says the bloke behind me.

Town substitutions follow in the 64th minute with Conor Chaplin and Massimo Luongo being replaced by Marcus Harness and Jack Taylor.  Just a minute later Liverpool lead 2-0 as Salah tucks the ball neatly over Christian Walton from an angle.  Liverpool seem to have simply changed up a gear and Town have been overrun.  Omari Hutchinson manages a volley from quite close in that might have headed goalwards, but doesn’t, and the bloke beside me says “A goal would be nice, wouldn’t it?” The bloke behind me says “Yes”.   Marcus Harness has a shot, but it goes high over the bar.

More substitutions follow, Ali Al-Hamadi and Sammy Szmodics replacing Liam Delap and Axel Tuanzebe but Liverpool are still the better team.  I ask Pat from Clacton what she’s having for her tea tonight. A baked potato with barbecued chicken slices is the answer.  Fiona and I are both having left over curry from Thursday night, both our curries were home-made, not takeaways.  The attendance is announced as 30,014. It’s the first time there have been over 30,000 people at Portman Road since 20th April 1981 when we played Arsenal; we lost that afternoon 2-0 too, and I remember standing with my father in the North Stand, it was the only place where we could get in.  It was a result that severely and unexpectedly dented our hopes of winning the league and I can still recall vividly how royally peed off I was, I think I still am.

It is now clear that Town are going to lose today, and Liverpool come close to scoring several more times as Christian Walton plays an absolute blinder in the Town goal, a state of affairs confirmed by the Sir Bobby Robson stand’s embittered chanting of “Two-nil and you still don’t sing” followed by a reprise of “Your support, Your support, Your support is fucking shit”.  A monstrous eight minutes of added on time is announced to give us hope of a miracle, and last season Town would probably have won, but today it’s Liverpool who nearly score again, twice, with Christian Walton making a brilliant ‘double save’ although ‘man of the match’ is awarded to Jacob Greaves.   Scant consolation for the result arrives in the form of a late booking for Liverpool’s number 18 Cody Gakpo, which is greeted with ironic cheers and sarcastic ripples of applause from the home crowd.  The bloke behind me wonders if Mr Robinson had lost his yellow card somewhere and only just found it.

The final whistle draws appreciative applause from all around the ground and it has been a decent couple of hours of football, although after Liverpool scored Town were no longer in it to win it, only to keep the score down, which they did.  “You’re gonna get relegated aren’t ya? ” Says a Scouser to me as I walk back to the station.  “Not today” I tell him. “We’ll be alright”.  The football season has started so it may be approaching autumn, but it’s not winter yet, and I’m still hoping for an Indian summer.

Ipswich Town 1 OGC Nice 0

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As far as I can recall, the last time Ipswich Town played French opposition was forty-three years ago when ‘Les Verts’ of St Etienne visited Portman Road in the second leg of a Uefa Cup quarter final tie.  For me, as someone who feels certain the world would be a better place if only Napoleon had won the battle of Waterloo, this is nothing short of a personal tragedy, but one I’ve tried to make up for by watching French football whenever possible.  I can now boast (and I do) having been to every stadium in Ligue 1 except Stade Meinau in Strasbourg and Stade Raymond Kopa in Angers, having seen more than half of the teams in  Ligue 2 and scores of those in Ligue National and the regional leagues below, and I’ve been to the final of the Coupe de France at the Stade de France.  When I heard therefore that Ipswich would be playing Olimpique Gymnast Club Nice (known as Le Gym or Les Aiglons – The Eaglets) in a pre-season friendly I was as happy as a Frenchman with a fresh baguette and a 2 litre bottle of Pastis. But, as someone who thinks access to pre-season friendlies should ideally be free, I also immediately regretted having already forked out a stonking twenty quid for a ticket for the pre-season friendly versus German second division club Fortuna Dusseldorf, and with good cause as it turned out, because that match was a stinker.

After ten days or more of mounting anticipation, today is the day of the match.  Resisting all temptations to have croissants and champagne for breakfast, it’s not long before I’m on the train to Ipswich with my wife Paulene and friend Gary looking out for polar bears as we descend past Wherstead, the A1214 and into town; we see three, two of whom are stretched out on the ground like a big game hunter’s fireside rug.  Arriving at Ipswich station there are the inevitable queues at the gates as two trains disgorge in quick succession and people struggle with QR codes on phones before eventually, a wise ticket collector simply opens the ‘sluice’ gates to prevent the human tide backing up into Greggs, a brand which I imagine any French person on the station concourse would instinctively keep a safe distance from.

Gary and I cross the road to the Station Hotel whilst Paulene makes straight for Portman Road because she wants to watch the players of OGC Nice warm up before the game; she has a particular interest in the forty-year old Brazilian colossus Dante, former Olympique Marseille players Morgan Sanson and Jonathan Clauss and the attractively monikered Gaetan Laborde. Unfortunately for Paulene, Nigerian forward Terem Moffi isn’t in the squad today because of a cruciate ligament injury.  Meanwhile, back in the Station Hotel, Gary buys me a pint of Abbot Ale and some heavily advertised lager or other for himself.  As we sit down, Mick arrives , and once he has a pint of Abbot Ale too, we talk of the Olympic games, the complicated cycling events such as the Madison and Omnium, how Gary might buy programmes for the home matches this season and the local Nicois or Nicard language or dialext of Nice as we struggle to hear ourselves talk above the noisy family who are enjoying a pre-match drink on the other side of the room.  They annoy me a bit, but Mick thinks it’s good to see families out enjoying time together.  Mick is very resaonable man. Mick also has plans to be in Nice (Nissa in Nicois) for a jazz festival a fortnight today and I quickly interrogate the interweb to discover that OGC Nice will be at home to Toulouse that weekend too.  I advise him that the Ligne 3 tram will take him to the magnificent Stade de Nice or Allianz Riviera as it is also known.

Resisting temptation for a second time today, I don’t have another pint of Abbot Ale; the first one wasn’t that great, and it also seems that today in the Station Hotel is a dress rehearsal for hosting the supporters of Liverpool next week because we are having to drink from plastic glasses.  Liverpudlians are also only allowed to use scissors if supervised by a responsible adult. Mick and I briefly discuss oxymorons before heading off for Portman Road; Gary has left already because he is making a visit to the club shop to collect one of the bright pink third choice shirts which went on sale recently and when worn will cause many a Town supporter to look like a raspberry blancmange.  Weirdly, the club has allowed Ed Sheeran to advertise one of his many bland tunes on the shirt by scrawling an impression of Framlingham Castle across the front. It would make sense on a Framlingham Town shirt, but with its high-Victorian Town Hall, Italianate Customs House, brutalist St Francis Tower, Orwell bridge, Meccano-like dockside cranes and a Corn Exchange which wouldn’t look out of place in any French city, Ipswich has more than enough interesting architecture to conjure up a skyline of its own for a Town shirt. 

Mick and I don’t quite get as far as Portman Road itself because we end up approaching the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand across the site of the former Staples store in Ruseell Road and I remark that the wide tarmac approach to the stand would be a tree-lined avenue in France; both Mick and I buy programmes (£2.50) from the ice cream booth which is situated where the first London Plane would be.

Once onto the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand it seems odd not to be greeted by Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket and most strangely of all ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood.  I’m not sure if ever-present Phil counts pre-season friendlies in his long back catalogue of games he has not missed, but if he’s not here today I for one think he risks losing his epithet, and no one wants to see that.  I am however re-united with Paulene and together we ‘go down the front’ to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison.  Paulene asks Ray about his solar panels, and he tells us that they are very successful although British Gas don’t seem to be paying him the money for the electricity his system puts into the grid. We tell him to dump British Gas and sign up with Octopus.  

Back in our seats, the Town line-up is announced, I think, but I’m not sure because the public address system is completely unintelligible, which is shame on today of all days when I imagine everyone will want to pretend to be French and call out the surnames of the players after the announcer reads out their first names.  The stadium announcer seems not to read out the names of the Nice team at all, perhaps for fear of embarrassing himself with poor pronunciation, not that it would matter when no one can understand a word he says anyway.  Eventually, the teams appear and I recall how for home games in Nice, the pre-match ritual includes ‘Mefi’ the eagle flying around the stadium; perhaps Town should have a Suffolk Punch rolling the pitch. When the game begins it is Town that get first go with the ball and aim it mostly in the direction of the goal almost in front of me, Paulene, Mick and Gary in the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  Town wear their signature blue and white kit today, whilst Nice wear an unnecessary away kit of all-white, which is huge shame because their red and black home shirts and black shorts are a visual treat.

After almost eighteen minutes I glance up at the scoreboard and say “Is that all? It feels like we’ve been here far longer.” The game has so far displayed a dullness to rival the thoughts of Michael Owen or that of the Dusseldorf game.  But after an impromptu drinks break, when a Nice player receives treatment for acute boredom, the game miraculously perks up and both teams venture forward by means of neat passing and winning corners.  “Allez les Bleus, Allez les Bleus” I chant at an appropriate moment, and Paulene tells me later that people gave me funny looks as a result.  Liam Delap runs through on goal for Town and has a shot saved by the Nice goalkeeper and everyone starts to think that may be the new season might be ok after all, except for Paulene who supports Portsmouth and so doesn’t really care.  Then, with half-time approaching like a motorway service station on a not overly long journey but one where it’s probably as well to stop, it looks like George Edmundson and Axel Tuanzebe both make a bit of a lunge on Evan Guessand, a player with whom incidentally, Debbie Harry,  Alan Sunderland and I share a birthday, albeit not in the same year. Presumably unaware of Guessand’s star sign, not that it makes any difference, referee Mr James Bell awards Nice a penalty.  Mohamed-Ali Cho takes the penalty kick for Nice, but unusually the laws of physics are defied in Town’s favour for once and the ball strikes the inside of Muric’s right-hand post and deflects out of rather than into the Town goal.  It’s a lucky escape for Town and after only literally seconds of added-on time Mr Bell says it’s time for a cuppa and the opportunity to reflect. 

Half-time permits a thorough read of the match programme, because we don’t get much for £2.50, and for some unfathomable reason the text incorrectly, but consistently, refers to OGC Nice as OGM Nice.  I wonder what the half a dozen Nice supporters up in the Cobbold stand think of this poor journalism, particularly given that they are used to match programmes being free. 

Beneath oppressive grey skies the second half begins and carries on where the first half left off.  Both teams pass the ball tidily, but Nice possibly have a bit more flair, and in keeping with both teams’ respective country’s geographies, Nice’s passing is more expansive whilst Town’s is tighter; l’hexagone against Little England.  Napoleon would have understood.

Early second half action sees George Edmundson clear a shot from Jonathan Clauss off the Town goal line, but then the thirteenth minute of the half proves unlucky for Nice as a goalmouth melee is abruptly ended by Axel Tuanzebe lashing the by now disorientated ball into the net from inside the six-yard box. Town lead, but less pleasantly four minutes later Omari Hutchinson suffers the ignominy of being booked for a foul in a friendly match, although to his credit he does look sorry.  A minute later and mass substitutions are made, and the hopeless PA system sounds off to full effect, like a malfunctioning foghorn.  The Town players who are replaced gather in the corner by the Cobbold and Sir Alf stands presumably to warm down, causing us to speculate on whether the gym is full of building materials or whether this is just a PR exercise and the players are merely getting close to their public.  I suggest that they are going to form a cheerleading troop, but no one is overly surprised although they may be disappointed when events prove me wrong.

The highlight of the final seventeen minutes is a low shot from substitute Freddie Ladapo which strikes the inside of the far post and predictably deflects out of the goal, not into it, and Marcus Harness is arguably a little too careful with his follow up shot, which consequently is booted clear by a retreating defender. When the time comes, the final whistle is blown promptly by Mr Bell (Monsieur Cloche in French) with no un-necessary added-on time, and we all agree that it has been an enjoyable game full of free-flowing football.  Paulene and I bid farewell to Gary and Mick at the railway station as Gary catches an earlier train and Mick collects his bicycle.  We look forward to seeing the Polar bears again on our journey home and I reflect on how if only Town were in Ligue 1 we might be playing Olympique Marseille next week, not Liverpool.

Ipswich Town 2 Huddersfield Town 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Further reading: The man who hated football by Will Buckley

Word of the week: Ambivalent

Ipswich Town 3 Birmingham City 1

/ martinpbrooks / 4 Comments

When I was growing up in 1960’s Shotley, a village about 13 kilometres from Ipswich, our next door neighbour was from Birmingham.  Barbara spoke with a somewhat whiny, nasal accent but was a very skilled seamstress and made some excellent clothes for my Action Man, including a pair of stripey pyjamas and a set of underwear, the sort of apparel I would wager most Action Men could only dream of, if indeed Action Men do dream, which I doubt.  A few years later my sister left school and went to Birmingham University, and I remember visiting her there and discovering the delights of the Bull Ring and the then brand new, but now sadly demolished Birmingham Central Library, a concrete wonder in the Brutalist style; I also remember Birmingham  having lots of blue and cream buses and I came home with a pocket full of bus tickets, which on the back had what looked like a squirrel stuck in a glass, the logo of Ansell’s brewery. 

It was in December 1973 that I first saw Birmingham City play Ipswich Town at Portman Road; although eventually avoiding relegation by two places and five points (Norwich finished bottom), Birmingham were rubbish and Town won 3-0, and throughout the rest of the 1970’s I never saw Birmingham City do anything but lose at Portman Road.  Fifty years later I’m hoping history is repeated as I watch Town play Birmingham for the thirty-sixth time.  It’s a glorious, bright, sunny day as I leave my wife to an afternoon of watching people in lycra cycling around Belgium on the telly.  The train is six minutes late, but once on board I am entertained by a man on his ‘phone who says “Let me call you on a normal phone, I’m on the train” and “I think it’s a bit of a crap connection”, sadly I can hear him perfectly.  The phone man gets off the train at the next stop and a chubbier man sits opposite me who looks a bit like the former Poet Laureate Sir John Betjeman, but of course it can’t be him because he died in 1984.  The dead poet doesn’t stay long and soon walks off down the train, perhaps seeking inspiration.

Arriving in Ipswich I find it full of policeman in baseball hats, who eye everyone suspiciously and to my mind look like what would have happened if Sir Francis Chichester had been in Z cars.   I want to stop and ask a policeman if Birmingham City supporters are considered dangerous, but I don’t, I just assume they are.  I carry on up Portman Road to ‘the Arb’, pausing only to buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the ice cream booths, and crossing Civic Drive I admire a snippet of Victorian Ipswich skyline which includes the town hall clock,  St Mary Le Tower and a bit of the Corn Exchange.  The sound of happy drinking and chatter spills from an open upstairs window and from the garden of ‘the Arb’ as I approach.  Soon, with a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra discount) in hand I find a seat in the beer garden which is full of pre-match drinkers.  I flick through my programme, which today has a front cover across which stride the well-proportioned features of recent signing Lewis Travis, a bearded man who I am pleased to see doesn’t have all his hair shaved off in a band around his ears and the back of his head like some unfortunate army conscript.

Another pint of Suffolk Pride later, and with everyone else in the beer garden already gone, I depart for Portman Road, politely returning my glass to the bar and thanking the bar staff as I do so.  It seems it must be one of those days when the automatic turnstiles haven’t been working as they should, as Portman Road is thick with queuing spectators and so is the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, but the queue at turnstile 62 moves along at an acceptable pace and I am soon shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona and behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood, to take my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul).   Between me and Paul today is a quiet man with a dome-like bald head, although facially he resembles Baldric (Tony Robinson).  In no time at all the players are parading onto the pitch and Murphy is announcing the team; at first he succeeds in keeping at the same pace as the scoreboard, but as usual he races off like a whippet after a rabbit and by the time we get to Wes Burns he is hopelessly out of sync and I am left to bawl out the players surnames  on my own as they appear on the scoreboard if I want to continue to pretend to be at a football match in France, which I do.   Murphy finishes his awful announcement with a cringe inducing “1-2-3, Blue Army” and as he says it again I think we are all meant to join in and shout “Blue Army” after three, but needless to say I don’t. He’ll by saying “Nice to see ya, to see ya nice” next week.

With the usual communal rendition of Hey Jude out of the way, it is Ipswich,  and more precisely Conor Chaplin who gets first go with the ball as the game begins under a pale blue, late winter’s afternoon sky decorated with puffs of grey cloud.  Town are aiming at the goal in front of me and my fellow ultras, and as ever wear blue and white, whilst Birmingham City sport vivid, flaming red or orange shirts the colour of red-hot pokers, but adorned with black marks that make the shirt look as if it had been momentarily placed on top of a hot grill or barbecue.  Their shorts are black and their socks are same colour as their shirts, but minus the decorative soot and scorch marks.

“Keep right on to the end of the road” sing the visiting Brummies, and Pat from Clacton complains that it was Town fans who used to sing that when she first came to games, I think Pat thinks the Brummies stole it,  and they apparently first sang it as recently as the 1956 FA Cup semi-final, so she might be right.  At the front of the stand I can see Ray’s slightly bristly pate glinting in the winter sunlight. The flags on the roof of the Cobbold Stand hang limply, but below them  it’s pretty noisy.   The Birmingham goalkeeper John Ruddy is roundly booed by the Town fans because he used to play for Norwich.  Four minutes pass; Town earn a corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues”. Pat from Clacton joins in, but doesn’t bellow, and I’m pretty sure ever-present Phil joins in too, but as boiling cauldrons of noise go, the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand is still an ice bucket.

The corner comes to nought, but two minutes later as, in a spirit of bonhomie, the whole crowd joins in with a minute’s applause for Birmingham manager and former town captain Tony Mowbray, who is ill, Wes Burns scoots away down the Town right and pulls back a low cross which Keiffer Moore is about to sweep into the net when it is cleared off the end of his toe by a Brummie defender.  Within sixty-seconds Moore nearly scores again,  but shoots over when through on goal and it’s not long before he’s chalking up a third near miss with a scuff.  He can’t seem to get anything quite right, but  undeterred the Town fans that sing, sing “Addy, Addy , Addy – O” and then those that serenade, serenade John Ruddy with “He’s only a poor little budgie, his shirt is all tattered and torn”.   Birmingham have some forays forward too, but not as good as Ipswich ‘s and the afternoon is tense and exciting.

“Come On You Blues” I yell again and again as Town win their second corner, in the eighteenth minute, and Conor Chaplin’s header is caught by Ruddy.  Two minutes later Wes Burns limps off and Omari Hutchinson sprints on.  Then Birmingham’s number four Marc Roberts is laying prone on the grass and the game is stopped, but referee Mr Gavin Ward walks over to him lays his hand upon his back and Roberts is back up on his feet;  I speculate to Fiona as to whether Mr Ward has healing hands before Pat from Clacton, having watched Leicester City play Leeds United on the telly last  night reveals that she doesn’t like the Leeds manager Daniel Farke, she thinks he looks scruffy and even dirty. I agree with her that he is a bit of a “Farke” because he managed Norwich City  (twice), but secretly I quite like his German hippy vibe and suspect he’s quite nice, probably giving his players lifts home after training  in his VW camper van.

A Conor Chaplin shot, another corner. Another chance to bawl “Come On You Blues”, and the first half is half over.  Seven or eight minutes on and Sam Morsy shoots from 20 metres or so, Conor Chaplin is in the way, he looks offside, but diverts the ball past Ruddy and he’s not offside and he scores!  Town lead 1-0. “E-i, E-i, E-i, O, Up the Football League we go” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand before progressing on to their all-time favourite Christmas ‘Number One’ and “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away”; who cares that Christmas is still another ten months away, although admittedly almost to the day.

Half-time is drawing near and Keiffer Moore’s close range header falls straight to ruddy Ruddy again, before Town win what will turn out to be their final corner of the half and I bawl “Come On You Blues” for all I’m worth.   Then suddenly, there are chants from the Brummies up in the Cobbold stand of “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you?” and “I can’t read and I can’t write, but I can drive a tractor” which I don’t think I’ve heard away fans sing this century. The Brummies cap it off with a more contemporary ditty that goes “You are wankers, you are wankers, you are wankers”, and the bonhomie of the sixth minute seems to have been lost somewhere.

Two minutes of normal first half time remain and Birmingham win their first corner, and then within a minute their second.  “Four additional minutes” announces Murphy and I worry how many more corners they might get, but corners are the least of our worries as following a run down the Town right by Birmingham’s Koji Myoshi, they have the cheek to equalise thanks to Jordan James.  “Who are ya, who are ya ?” chant the Brummies, struggling to know how to react to their team’s moment of success, and equally confused the Sir Bobby Robson standers chant back “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you?”.  I blame a diet of Coca Cola and fast food. Fortunately, Nathan Broadhead seems to know who he is and he dances himself into a shooting position, but sends the ball narrowly past the post before Mr Ward finally calls time on the first half.

After syphoning off some excess and spent Suffolk Pride, I join Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand and Ray bemoans Mr Ward’s inability to spot persistent fouling and thinks referees should be ex-players who understand what cheats footballers really are.  Our conversation moves on to laughing about a former work colleague before the Town players are wandering on to the pitch again and it’s time for the football to begin once more and I must return to my seat where i still find time to eat a Nature Valley crunchy oats and honey bar.

There are fewer clouds in the sky and a seagull sits on the central flagpole on the Cobbold stand as play resumes.  Massimo Luongo is booked for a harmless looking foul and then Nathan Broadhead wins a corner and Axel Tuanzebe heads the ball at Ruddy and Mr Gavin completes the Town central midfield on his bingo card as he books Sam Morsy for another innocuous, imagined infringement.  Birmingham win a corner and I notice that the floodlights seem brighter as the sun sinks lower behind the West Stand.   Birmingham have more attacking intent this half and an undetected Jay Stansfield shapes up to volley a cross at the Town goal, but gets it completely wrong and the ball skids harmlessly off the side of his boot; popular 1980’s chanteuse and winner of TV’s ‘Search for a Star’,  Lisa Stansfield  could probably have done better.

With thirty-one minutes of normal time remaining applause breaks out around the ground, I am a little mystified but Fiona tells me it is for another Town supporter who has sadly died.  Two minutes later and Nathan Broad is substituted with Jeremy Sarmiento, whilst Birmingham ostentatiously make a triple substitution; one of the departing players being former Town starlet, Andre Dozzell, who I hadn’t really realised was playing, so some things don’t change.  Birmingham and Town exchange corner kicks and the Sir Bobby Robson stand even chants “Come On You Blues” before repeating “Blue and White Army” at least three times a few minutes later after Jeremy Sarmiento shoots wide.

The sixty-ninth minute arrives with Town playing competently but unable to find the key to a second goal and therefore Pat from Clacton fishes the masturbating Cambodian monkey charm from her purse.  She rubs his head for luck and then keeps him inside her glove, which is probably the best place for him.  Murphy has now counted the crowd and tells us that there are 29,363 of us here today including 1,979 away supporters and he thanks us for our continuing support, which could of course melt away at any moment.

Back on the pitch, I become aware of Birmingham’s number 34, Ivan Sunjic, who, with his long hair and beard has something of the popular impression of the Messiah about him.  Moments later , although he might look like Jesus, Mr Ward doesn’t think he plays like him and he books him for a foul on Omari Hutchinson.   Fourteen minutes remain, and while Ipswich are dominating, Birmingham manage to break away and Jordan James forces Vaclav Hladky into a save to win a corner. Beams of golden sunlight stream across the upper tier of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, which is probably a bit of a bugger if you’re sat there with the sun in your eyes.

Eleven minutes remain and continuing pressure wins Town a corner.  Two minute later and Omari Hutchinson plays in Axel Tuanzebe who seems to run in slow motion into the box before carefully squaring the ball for Jeremy Sarmiento to side-foot into the goal and Town lead 2-1.  It’s taken twelve minutes but the masturbating monkey from Cambodia has worked his magic.  “Jeremy Sarmiento, something, You Know” chant the home crowd impressively, even if I can’t work out all the words.  At least I know the lyrics to “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” so, I feel like they’re doing it for me when they sing it again.

Not long left, but another goal would be nice. As I left ‘the Arb’ earlier I heard the bloke who I assume to be the owner tell someone he would put money on 3-1 today, and that would seem to be a fair reflection of the game.  Pat, Fiona and I all look at one another and agree it feels like it suddenly got colder, as if s a ghostly presence has just walked up the stand, or it’s nearly five o’clock in the afternoon and it’s February. Either way, Pat is looking forward to her baked potato when she gets home, which she’s having with a Marks & Spencer prawn salad; I think she’s a creature of habit is Pat.

The last five minutes of normal time have arrived and Conor Chaplin is down hurt. Birmingham make another substitution and the sun shines on the girder across the roof of the Sir bobby Robson Stand.  It’s the final minute of normal time and Conor Chaplin is replaced by Marcus Harness with, as Pat from Clacton tells us, “his lovely blue eyes”.  I tell her I can see them sparkling from here, which of course I can’t.  There will be six minutes of additional time Murphy tells us.  I am confident that Town are more likely to score than Birmingham and am sure a statistical analysis would prove me right. There’s a throw in, a high ball forward, Keiffer Moore nods it on and Omari Hutchinson is through on goal with just Ruddy to beat, which he does.   “E-i, E-i, E-i-O, Up the Football League we go” is the chant and Town are going to win 3-1.  Town do win 3-1. Axel Tuanzebe is voted man of the match by some sponsor or other with a very long name, and with smiling faces Pat and Fiona make a quick exit as Mr Ward blows the final whistle.  The quiet man with the dome-like head who has quietly sat next to me leaves quietly.

I linger to enjoy the post-match celebration and to applaud. The man from Stowmarket and I agree that Axel Tuanzebe has played a masterful game as if he was told exactly what to do and he has studiously and calmly followed it to the letter.  It’s been a magnificent match which I have thoroughly enjoyed. It’s been tight and close, but Ipswich have always been the better side; they had ninety minutes in which to win and saw nothing wrong in using nearly all of them all to do so, well why not?  As a final thought, I’m glad I don’t have my Action Man anymore, if I did I would be regretting tonight that  Barbara never made him an Ipswich Town kit.