Ipswich Town 2 Middlesbrough 2

April 20, 2026May 4, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a difficult week of a shingles vaccination, which made me feel so ill I was only capable of falling asleep watching the telly, a televised away defeat at Portsmouth, through much of which I wish I had slept, and a Saturday in which I was tasked with wrestling artificial stone paving slabs into some sort of path around a recently refurbished garden pond. Now, to cap it all the Town are having to perform at midday on the Sunday at the behest of some evil, global media empire, and I am having to forego every person’s human right to a lie-in on their actual or nominal sabbath before enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

More cheerfully, it is a bright sunny morning, albeit tempered by a chilly breeze, as I make my way to the railway station where, arriving on the ‘Ipswich bound’ platform I engage in conversation with the man who very often stands here with me on match days. Today, we continue our conversation on the train and not only does he meet Gary, who as ever boards at the next station stop, but he reveals that his name is Gareth, his grandfather was chairman of Braintree Town Football Club back in the 1970’s and 1980’s when they were in the Eastern Counties League, and one of his earliest football related memories is of his grandmother running the players’ baths at Cressing Road just as the game was about to end, because presumably at that time in Braintree the brand names Mira, Triton and Aqualisa were still unknown.

Being Sunday, the train is busy with faithful pilgrims, all bound for Portman Road, who regrettably seem largely unable to talk quietly, making it difficult for considerate people like Gary, Gareth and me to hold a conversation without raising our voices too. In Wherstead we lean towards the train window, searching the landscape beyond for polar bears; a grubby looking one close to the tracks glances up trying to spot any Middlesbrough fans who she might recognise from the frozen wastelands of the North or from episodes of Noggin the Nog.

Arriving in Ipswich, Gary and I bid adieu to Gareth and make for the Arb as fast as Gary’s dawdling gait will allow. Impatient for beer, despite it not yet being eleven o’clock, I am first through the door, but Gary offers to buy the drinks and I let him. The pub is pleasingly not as heaving as it usually is before a match, although a man tries to form a queue behind us at the bar and I have to tell him that queuing is not required in pubs, it’s why they have bars and not hatches, and bar staff not tellers.

Pint glasses of Lager and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride in our respective hands Gary and I proceed to the beer garden where Mick is already ensconced with a pint of Blackberry Porter and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Our conversation begins like an episode of Rumpole at the Bailey; but it’s Gary at Crown Court, as he proceeds to tell us a story of every day criminal folk beating each other up on the mean streets of an Essex town beneath the gaze of CCTV cameras. Gary’s stint as a juror ended this week but the denouement is that all the accused were found guilty of a range of offences and await sentencing.

Another pint of lager, a pint of porter and a double-whisky later Gary, Mick and I are victoriously the last drinkers in the pub when we head downhill to Portman Road where there are queues for the Cobbold Stand. We go our separate ways somewhere close to the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey uncertain whether the final home match of the season is on a Saturday or a Sunday but relatively confident that it will again be stupidly early in the day.

At the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand the queues to be checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal are blissfully short and although the sacred turnstile 62 is temporarily afflicted by a man trying to gain entry using petrol coupons and a Tesco club card, I am soon stood next to Pat from Clacton waiting for her to finish photographing the flames leaping into the midday air in front of the Cobbold Stand so that I can sit down next to Fiona, 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. I think to myself that it’s nice that everyone is present after a few absences for the previous match. Today, I have mysteriously arrived in time to hear the excitable young stadium announcer (EYSA) announce the whole team and I do my best to be like a Frenchman at Le Stadium in Toulouse or the Stade Raymond Kopa in Angers by bawling out the players surnames as EYSA reads them out , but with variable success because he is a beat or two ahead of the scoreboard

Eventually, through an atmosphere of dissipating smoke and fumes the game begins, with today’s guests Middlesbrough, known as The Boro’ to their friends getting first go with the ball, which they are mostly kicking in the direction of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the Smokehouse live music venue in South Street. Very agreeably, both teams sport their proper kits, with the Town of course in their signature blue and white and The Boro’ in all red with a white band across their chests making them look unmistakeably like Middlesbrough. The only pity is that The Boro’s white band is besmirched with the name of an on-line betting company when it should read ‘Geordie Jeans’.

Early exchanges are fast and erratic as if the game was being played by startled spiders. Waiting for the game to ‘settle down’ I ask Pat from Clacton how her knee is and she tells me it still hurts but nothing like it did and of course she can now walk on it and didn’t, as I suggest therefore, need to be lowered into her seat from a helicopter. “I wouldn’t mind, but I was only getting in my car to go and play whist” moans Pat.

Back on the pitch, the first seven minutes have evaporated like the paraffin fumes, and Town are already starting to dominate to the extent that the smog monsters up in the Cobbold Stand (for that is what people from Teesside are called), are plaintively chanting “Come on Boro, Come on Boro”. The atmosphere is tense. “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” enquire the Smoggies (short for Smog-monsters) through the medium of song, but happily the half-expected medley of works by Chris Rea doesn’t materialise. Looking up into the gap between the roofs of the stands billowing white clouds tower above us in an otherwise clear blue sky. The seventeenth minute heralds Town’s first corner, as the result of a shot from Ivan Azon, but it is all too easily dealt with by the Boro players despite mine, Fionas and ever-present Phil’s chants of “Come on you Blues”. Four minutes on and again our chants are as ineffectual as Nunez’s next corner kick.

With a quarter of the game having faded away into our pasts Town almost score as a low McAteer cross is sent wide of the goal by an unexpectedly far forward Darnell Furlong, who I don’t think I had ever seen have a shot before. Somewhat typically, within a minute Middlesbrough take the lead, predictably perhaps from the Town left where the improbably plainly monikered Alan Browne appears unmarked to cross low for David Strelec to tap the ball in from close range. “Tingly Teds hot sauce by Ed Sheeran” read the neon lights of the Sir Bobby Robson stand not making matters any better.

A deathly silent pall of gloom, which the home crowd always keeps close at hand for such occasions hangs over the stands and consumes all hope for a full five minutes. But then, a bit of space in front of the Boro back four, a pass, a dinky back heel from Ivan Azon, and the re-born Kasey McAteer is drilling the ball into the corner of the Boro net from outside the penalty area and twenty-seven thousand odd people believe again. “By far the greatest team the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers. “Well may be not the World, perhaps Suffolk” says Fiona, and Norfolk of course. Town win a third corner and again at least three of us bellow “Come on you Blues”. As the ball is again cleared, I wonder to Fiona whether our chants put the players off rather than encourage them. Meanwhile up in the Cobbold Stand the Smoggies are chanting “You don’t know what you’re doing” to referee Mr Jarred Gillett, who has made or not made some or other decision to annoy them, even though he appears to have also awarded their team a free kick; you just can’t please some people. Boro’ goalkeeper Sol Brynn takes the free-kick and I momentarily think of Uncle Bryn in tv’s Gavin and Stacey.

Half-time is only about seven minutes away and Jaden Philogene has a rare shot on goal which gives Town a fourth corner and a handful of us another opportunity to encourage the team vocally. Town have been the better team this first half, but the Smoggies are blaming Mr Gillett. “You’re not fit to referee” they sing, like chapel-going Welshman and then more experimentally, and as Brynn takes the inevitable goal-kick following Town’s corner, “Shit referee, Ole, Ole, Ole”. The goal-kick skews out into touch and I tell Fiona “I don’t know about the referee, but the goalkeeper’s not that good either”.

After Middlesbrough win their only corner of the half, which they don’t seem very keen to take, a minute of added on time is added on and then it’s time to applaud the team off before going to the front of the stand to chat to Dave the steward, Ray and his grandson Harrison and son Michael. Today Ray tells me how he used to get free tickets for both home and away games when his father drove the team bus in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s. On my way back to my seat ever-present Phil who never misses a game tells me how yesterday he went to watch Kings Park Rangers at Cornard and how this very blog came in useful, fore warning him that Cornard United’s Backhouse Lane ground is a real ale desert, so he drank elsewhere.

The football resumes at two minutes past one and soon it becomes evident that this is going to be a ‘game of two halves’ and it seems that it is Middlesbrough’s turn to dominate. Like some meteorological portent of doom, the sky has clouded over, and the breeze seems even cooler than before. Middlesbrough win a corner. Three minutes later a state of confusion in the Town box has the ball rebounding off a post and Christian Walton saving the ball from crossing the goal line. Things are looking a bit grim and as a diversion I look for poetry in the Boro team names, but Ayling, Browne, Fry, Gilbert and Morris can’t compare to Boam, Brine, Craggs, Spraggon and Woof from the Boro team of the 1970’s.

Brief respite and enjoyment arrive on fifty-three minutes as the afternoon’s first booking goes to Boro’s Matt Targett who has fouled Jack Taylor. I speculate that a matt target is easier to hit than a glossy one which might produce awkward reflections and that he perhaps has a sister who is formally known as Miss Targett. As the game descends into its final half an hour the first substitutions see former Town loanee Jeremy Sarmiento applauded by the home supporters who may never forget his last-minute goal versus Southampton in 2024, before Ivan Azon hurriedly shoots over the Boro cross bar.

As in the first half, Town’s spurning of an opportunity is soon punished and two minutes later the Town defence is as ever penetrated on its left hand side and again a low cross is pulled back allowing little Tommy Conway to score from close range with the Town defence well and truly dissected and pinned out like a frog in a school biology lab. Boro lead 2-1 and substitutions for Town are immediate but not necessarily related, with Mehmeti and Clarke usurping Nunez and Philogene. But Town’s defence doesn’t improve much as Sarmiento’s shot is saved and then another three are blocked in quick succession before Middlesbrough have a corner.

Eighteen minutes of normal time remain when Eggy replaces McAteer, fourteen when Mehmeti shoots straight at Brynn, and Town begin to claw their way back into the contest with a corner seven minutes later and then two more substitutions with George Hirst and Dan Neil saying ‘hello’ and Ivan Azon and Azor Matusiwa saying ‘goodbye’. Six minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our ‘incredible’ support, which numerically speaking today amounts to 29,684. Incredible. Two more minutes have elapsed when a low cross from the right looks to be too far ahead of George Hirst for him to threaten the Boro goal but Adilson Malanda doesn’t make the same judgement and with the sort of slightly violent, gung-ho spirit he might have been infected with whilst playing in the USA, he pulls Hirst back and gifts Jack Clarke a shot at goal from the penalty spot. Clarke scores the penalty and despite another eight minutes of added on time being added on, and two more players for each team being booked, the game is drawn.

The final whistle sees Pat from Clacton departing as quickly as she can and Fiona leaves too for her train. My train leaves in not much more than ten minutes time too, so I don’t linger either. But this has been a good match, not very much use as a result to either team really, but not a disaster either and worth the entry money as a spectator. The Smoggies up in Cobbold stand seem bitter however, and Mr Gillett is the target of their ire as they advise him that he is not fit to referee nor perform other tasks requiring snap decisions and good eyesight presumably, like racing driver and fighter-pilot. It makes a welcome change though for opposition supporters to be singing this particular song, long may it continue.

Stade de Reims 0 AS Monaco 0

December 19, 2024December 20, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

When planning a long weekend trip to France, ostensibly to enjoy a Christmas market, it is important to ensure that there will also be a convenient football fixture to attend, there’s only so much mulled wine, churros and roast chestnuts that one can imbibe after all. So it is that with Amiens away to Laval and Lille in Marseille, I find myself with my wife Paulene in Reims (pronounced Rance but without really saying the ‘n’), city of Champagne, art deco architecture, Gothic splendour and the place where Clovis, the first king of what would become France, was baptised in about four ninety-seven. Coincidentally, in two night’s time this very same Clovis will be the answer to a question on University Challenge about which king was baptised in Reims in about four ninety-seven.

The dramatic concrete shapes of Stade Auguste Delaune, home of Stade de Reims are a twenty-five minute walk from our hotel according to Google maps. With kick off at 9pm local time we set off well before eight o’clock to allow for my wife’s short legs and asthma, and getting lost. The last time we went to a match in Reims we caught a tram, but that night our hotel was near a tram stop; tonight it’s not and it’s probably just as well because I don’t think the trams are running, something about an earlier “perturbation” (disturbance) and a “greve” (strike). It’s a marrow chillingly cold evening, so a walk will keep the circulation going, and it is warmer than it has been during the afternoon, when it rained; an hour away to the north there are reports of snow.

Two of the satisfyingly avant-garde, pointy floodlights of the Stade Auguste Delaune eventually hove into view like a seven or eight centuries late alternative to the Gothic spires that the magnificent cathedral of Notre-Dame de Reims was meant to have, but never did; cancelled like a medieval HS2. The whole stadium then appears before us as we reach the busy Boulevard Paul Doumer and cross over the Aisne-Marne canal and Voie Jean Tattinger, which run side by side. Eventually, we reach the stadium and the short queue to negotiate security who pat us down thoroughly. It is strange how at French football matches, despite much tighter security than in England, someone, and often several people, always seem to be able to sneak in some flares or smoke canisters.

After a brief visit to the club boutique, where I decide 29.95 euros is too much for a T-shirt, we make our way to the other side of the stadium, past statues and murals of Raymond Kopa and Juste Fontaine, who were the French Ted Phillips and Ray Crawford in 1962, to the turnstiles and our seats (35 euros each) in the upper tier of the tribune Francis Meano. We take it in turns to use the facilities and as I wait for Paulene I stand and watch two men looking very pleased with themselves as they drink champagne and photograph themselves at the back of the stand. Sadly, I haven’t spotted any programmes, and with our tickets being on our phone I will have no memento of this game only memories, unless that is I rip my seat off its concrete base and hide it under my coat on the way out..

Stade Auguste Delaune is an exciting looking stadium, the work of architect Michel Remon. It was completed in 2008 and is on the site of the ground where the club has always played. Weirdly however, there is perhaps less to it than meets the eye, as it is skeletal with no enclosed landings or concourses, only the vaulted, cantilevered roofs over the four tribunes. In contrast to most similar sized English stadiums (21,684 capacity) however, it is a triumph of rakish angles, steps, curves and concrete, not a defeat to painted metal sheeting and tubular steel.

On arrival at the top of the final flight of stairs, we stand a moment to get our bearings and look about to try and spot our seats amongst the lettered rows. Immediately to our right sits a line of six men and women in late middle age and one much younger male; all of them are, not to put too fine a point on it, very fat. Like Michel Platini or Zinedine Zidane about to take a free-kick over a defensive wall into the top corner of the goal, our brains and eyes quickly and instinctively make a calculation and conclude that we will not be able to squeeze past these enormous people to our seats, and nor would we want to. Instead, we opt for a short free-kick, walking unopposed along the row behind, which fortuitously is completely vacant. We sit in the seats directly behind where we should be sitting and hope no one has bought them. As we await kick-off, we take in the sights and sounds of flashing floodlights and a bullish stadium announcer, who although annoying in almost every way imaginable, reads out the first names of the home team wonderfully, providing the perfect cues for the home crowd to bellow the players’ surnames; and what surnames they are, Agbadou, Atangana Edoa and Nakamura to name just three. Who wouldn’t enjoy shouting those out?

When the game begins it is Monaco who get first go with the ball, aiming it mostly in the direction of the goal to our left, which stands before the tribune Albert Batteux and the turnstiles through which we entered the stadium. Monaco wear an all bottle green kit, looking like and yet looking nothing like a more chromatically subdued Yeovil Town or Gorleston. Reims parade in their signature home kit of red shirts with white sleeves and shorts, like a sophisticated Rotherham United, albeit from a city steeped in Champagne and the historic coronation of French royalty rather than scrap metal.

To our right, behind the other goal, but confined to a corner are the Monaco fans, about 900 of them and they are in fine voice, chanting “Monagasque, Monagasque” and “Allez, Allez, Monaco” to the constant rhythm of a drum, the beater of which hardly ever looks up at the match, it’s as if he’s here in a wholly professional capacity, just to beat the drum. I like to think he’s on the payroll of Prince Albert, the Monagasque sovereign.

Since the game began, the seats to our right have become occupied, the three closest to us being a temporary home to three impossibly smart and neatly presented young people, a man and two women. The man sits between Paulene and the taller of the two women, who is dressed in white trousers over which she wears a long white fur coat; she probably spent more time applying her make-up and doing her hair than she’ll spend at the match. On the pitch, eleven quite dull minutes pass before the first shot of the game arrives, an effort which goes both wide of and above the goal. The shot is by the usually pretty reliable Aleksandr Golovin, a player who for some reason I consider to be a Dean Bowditch lookalike.

Golovin’s impressively inaccurate goal attempt will unexpectedly prove to be representative of the whole match and ten minutes later Monaco’s Eliesse Ben Seghir is through on goal but smashes a terrible shot over the cross bar. Seven minutes after that Monaco’s Takumi Minamino is all on his own in much the same position and succeeds in winning the game’s first corner. Although hopeless in front of goal, Monaco have been marginally the better side until Reims breakaway, win a corner and Marshall Munetsi glances a header over the Monaco cross bar. The Monaco supporters continue to chant and sing however, undeterred by a line of half a dozen stewards who cover some of the area in front of the stand , like a sort of human Maginot line, which would inevitably be easily breached if anyone made it onto the pitch.

The descent towards half-time brings the worst miss yet as Reims’ Keto Nakamura appears to be set up perfectly at the far post after a break down the right , only to despatch the ball in almost the completely the wrong direction in the manner of someone who has no idea what he is doing, or if he does, he doesn’t want to do it. Another type of entertainment is soon provided by Monaco’s extravagantly numbered Soungoutu Magassa (number 88, but still not the highest numbered player on the field) as he is pointlessly booked for tugging at Junya Ito before Ito himself joins the ranks of players intent on blazing the ball as high and wide of the goal as possible. With the final minute of the half and then added on time, Ben Seghir and Golovin shoot straight at Diouf the Reims goalkeeper and Reims ruin a promising looking break from defence with an awful cross.

Half-time comes as a welcome break from the frustrating performances on the pitch and the girl in white fur embarks on her own personal telephone photo shoot as she explores how, through pictures she can tell the world of social media that she is at a football match. In front of us the tubbiest people in the ground all up and leave, presumably for a re-fuel at the buvette; they are joined by another even larger , but younger woman from the row in front of them whose clothes fail to cover up a large expanse of what must be cold flesh where her top was meant to meet the top of her trousers. On the pitch, we are entertained by three people attempting to kick a football through holes in a sheet hung across the face of one of the goals. One of them fails to lift the ball off the ground in three attempts, but another scores one out of three, which everyone seems to agree is a decent effort.

At ten o’clock the football resumes and the Monaco fans unfurl a tifo which reads Daghe Munegu, which, if the Monagasque dialect is as similar to the Ligurian dialect as Wikipedia says it is, possibly means something like “Give it a chance”. Sadly, as to why this makes any sense as a slogan at a football match, I have no idea, but it all adds to the colour, even though on this occasion the words on the tifo are in black type on a white background. Back on the field of play, the pattern of the first half more or less continues as Ito runs down the wing, cuts inside and sets up Diakite to shoot against the cross bar for arguably the best shot of the game so far.

Monaco have improved on their first half display and win three corners in quickish succession as the first hour of the match slips away into history. Just to prove his increased commitment Kassoum Ouattara also gets himself booked. The increasing cold is penetrating deeper into our bones and Paulene puts a blanket over her knees whilst the seats directly behind us are filled by teenagers who all seem to be supporting Monaco, as does the young woman in the white fur, who has begun squealing excitedly when Soungoutu Magassa gets anywhere near the ball. In front of us, the weight watchers on a night out have returned to their seats and have colonised the places that are really ours, with buttocks straddling two seats at a time. Monaco are the first to make substitutions, perhaps as the team of whom more is expected because they sit second in the Ligue 1 league table to Reims’s middling ninth.

The final twenty minutes witness a Reims corner which is headed away, but otherwise it is Monaco who come closest, but never particularly close to scoring. Minamino gets past a defender only to shoot wide, substitute Elio Matazo scoops a shot over the bar and Ben Seghir shoots high too. But it’s all grist for the Monaco fans who happily sing “Na Na, Nana, Naa, Naa, Wey hey hey, Monaco” to the tune of the 1969 single “Na na, Hey hey, Kiss him goodbye” by the made-up band Steam. In the final ten minutes Henrique and Minamino add to the catalogue of missed goal attempts for Monaco and in time added on play ebbs back and forth in vain, whilst the young woman in the white furs, and her friend continue to yelp and shriek. The final whistle confirms what had become increasingly likely, that neither team would score. As we go to leave, the young man raises his eyebrows and possibly almost rolls his eyes. I’m not sure if his gesture is made in reference to the game or his accomplices, or all three.

The walk back to the hotel will prove to be long, cold and gently uphill, and there still won’t be any trams. As enjoyable as tonight has been tomorrow evening I think we’ll go back to the mulled wine, churros and roast chestnuts.

Ipswich Town 1 OGC Nice 0

August 14, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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.