Ipswich Town 3 Queens Park Rangers 0

May 3, 2026May 4, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 1 Preston North End 1

February 1, 2026February 2, 2026 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

It’s been an unexpectedly sunny morning but everywhere is still dripping with last night’s and yesterday’s rain. The morning has drifted by after an energetic start, which consisted of popping to the Co-op before breakfast to buy mushrooms, fruit and three bottles of local beer not available in the monopolising supermarket chains. In the Co-op car park, a large petrol-engined pick-up truck, of the sort I imagine American rednecks driving was parked in one of the electric vehicle charging spaces; the legend along the side of the truck in big letters read ‘Barbarian’, which seems appropriate.

Now, the train to Ipswich is on time but confusingly only half as long as it usually is, as if there is a shortage of carriages, but it doesn’t matter as there is still plenty of room on board and Gary and I can comfortably spread out over four seats when he boards at the next station stop, although it takes him time to find me because the train hadn’t stopped as far up the platform as he thought it would. As we descend through Wherstead, Gary admits to considering buying a season ticket for Jimmy’s Farm, although he’s not sure it would be as good value as one for Colchester Zoo. I spot two polar bears patrolling the fence of their enclosure, but Gary doesn’t.

Sunny Ipswich is busy with pre-football people and as we walk along Portman Road I ask Gary what colour kit he thinks Preston North End will wear today. He doesn’t know but hopes all-white. I tell him that if Wikipedia can be believed Preston is home of the tallest parish church spire in Britain, although here in puritan Ipswich I’m not sure it counts because it’s a Roman Catholic one. Somewhere near the Spiral underground car park I listen to a voicemail message from Mick which tells me he is going to be late because he got half-way to the Arb and has realised he left his season ticket at home, so has gone back to get it. Wracked with doubt and disappointment we arrive at the Arb where, as ever, I am first through the door, and following pub etiquette invest in the first round, a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and one of Estrella Galicia for Gary (£10.40 with Camra discount).

Beers in hand we make for the beer garden and select metal chairs to sit on because the wooden seats are damp and the shelter backing on to High Street is fully occupied. When Mick arrives he buys another round of drinks (Estrella, two pints of Suffolk Pride and a whisky chaser) and we settle down to look at today’s team line-up, have Mick regale us with tales of his recent trip to Glasgow and what he did there on Burns (Robert not Wes) night, discuss Charles Rennie Mackintosh, how AI might be able to tells us why Celtic football club has a soft ‘C’ but Celtic culture has a hard one, Antonio Gaudi and the Sagrada Familia, pick pockets in Barcelona, Frank Lloyd Wright, Frank Gehry and the Guggenheim Museums in New York and Bilbao, and the contents of the Kelvin Hall Museum.

Sometime after twenty-five to three we depart for Portman Road and part ways in what would be the shadow of Alf Ramsey’s statue if the sun shone from the North not the South, as Mick kneels down to tie his shoelace. Parting is such sweet sorrow in the knowledge that we might not meet again for a whole month before the next home fixture on 28^th February versus Swansea City. There are short queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand where the search by smiling people of mostly Asian heritage for weaponry and scrap metal continues zealously. I enter the stand through turnstile sixty-two, vent spent Suffolk Pride and join Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood and Angie, who is back in her usual seat, just as the excitable young stadium announcer tells us the names of the Town team and I am able to bawl a few surnames as if I was a Frenchman at Stade du Moustoir, Lorient or Stade de l’Abbe Deschamps, Auxerre.

When the game begins, it is Preston North End who get first go with the ball, which they kick loosely in the direction of Gaye Street and what used to be the appropriately named Revett’s motorcycle shop at 53-67 Norwich Road. Preston, or PNE (pronounced Pernee) as I usually think of them are suited in a plain, but classic kit of white shirts and navy-blue shorts, like England or Bolton Wanderers. The virgin whiteness of PNE’s white shirts is relieved only by a frankly under-sized, curvy orange logo that not very clearly reads ‘Spud Bros’ and looks like the brothers might have designed it themselves. Possible relatives of Mr Potato-Head, Spud Bros are more reliably known as purveyors of takeaway baked potatoes to the people of Lancashire, and “stars” of Tik-Tok, although according to Companies House their registered office is in Brentwood. As ever, the Town are in blue shirts and white shorts that make no reference to vegetables or hot, takeaway food.

The first few minutes of the game have me noting mentally the home debut of recent signing Anis Mehmeti , the fact that the referee Mr John Busby is a very short man who might consider wearing a busby to make him look a bit taller, and how I think today’s tactic should just be to ‘give it to Jack Clarke’. Fiona meanwhile explains her absence from the Bristol City game; although she didn’t feel unwell, she just had to keep running to the loo, so thought it advisable to stay home and watch the match on the telly. Above us, the sky has turned a heavy grey but with welcome patches of blue. With the arrival of the ninth minute Town win a corner and enough of us to form a five-a-side team chant “Come on You Blues”. Fiona asks if Mehmeti is Albanian and the PNE fans sing “Who the fuck are Blackburn Rovers?” to the tune of “John Brown’s Body”.

Six minutes later, and Town win another corner. Again, we chant “Come on you Blues”, but to no avail. Above us there is now more white cloud, and before us the green neon light from the Sir Bobby Robson stand flashes “Health care you can trust” implying rather worryingly that there is also health care that you can’t trust. If Nuffield, who claim to be the trustworthy ones know something, they should tell the rest of us. Four minutes later and Jack Clarke shoots high and wide with the admirable style and panache of a man with a hair band, and he was plainly attempting the curl into the top corner.

The half is not quite half over and a foul throw from a PNE player brings the biggest cheer or rather jeer of the afternoon so far. I decide I don’t really care about foul throws, why not let players just chuck the ball however they like? Town meanwhile have the ball most of the time but are not getting through the massed ranks of white-shirted players and not a single cross has come from the right-hand side, where Mehmeti is possibly crowding out Wes Burns. Finding entertainment where they can, Pat from Clacton and Fiona laugh as they recall occasions when Pat’s sister has fallen over, which apparently, she did today when she called at Pat’s before setting off for the football; I didn’t realise they were so cruel. The best move of the half sees Davis cross the ball, Burns head it back and Azom boot an overhead kick straight into the arms of PNE goalkeeper David Cornell, who forgettably, played for Ipswich in the 2020/21 season; if only Azom had been facing the right way and could have seen where he was kicking it,

A third Town corner turns up to tease us and more lonely chants of ‘Come on You Blues’ prove fruitless again before PNE break up field with their number nine, who expertly lifts the ball over the advancing Christian Walton and comfortably wide of the goal. It was probably the best chance of the half. Little Mr Busby meanwhile is making himself very unpopular with the majority of people in Portman Road by only giving free kicks to PNE, and his efforts to atone by going back and booking PNE’s Thompson for a foul committed a minute or so earlier don’t convince anyone. Mehmeti shoots high into the side netting with great velocity and then PNE win their first corner. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” plead the home crowd staving off boredom as sunshine plays on the Cobbold Stand through gaps in the cloud. If anyone has to shield their eyes, they won’t miss much except perhaps Mr Busby squirming slightly to the choruses of “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee, shit referee, shit referee”. With the final minute of the half Town claim their fourth corner and the cries of “Come on You Blues” briefly reach audible levels before two minutes of the future are requisitioned by the fourth official to make up for moments of collective inertia since three o’clock and Town win a fifth pointless corner.

With the half-time whistle, I break ranks to vent more spent Suffolk Pride and then chat briefly to Dave the steward whilst on my way to speak with Harrison and his dad Michael down at the front of the stand. We talk of music and Harrison tells me of his liking for Paul McCartney’s first solo album ‘McCartney’ and we agree it is his best, even if some of it wasn’t considered good enough to be on the Beatles ‘White Album’.

The football resumes at four minutes past four with George Hirst unexpectedly replacing Ivan Azom before Mr Busby tries to curry favour by booking another Prestonian and the PNE manager Paul Heckingbottom, who sounds like he could be a character from the BBC tv sitcom ‘Last of the Summer Wine’. Soon afterwards PNE miss the second-best chance of the game so far as Alfie Devine shoots over the Town bar after a quick break through a sleepy looking Town defence. The smell of damp turf drifts pleasantly up my nasal passages as any remaining sunlight slips behind the West Stand.

Ten minutes of the half have been and gone and already there are desperate pleas of “Come on Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” from the home support. For a few minutes PNE dominate possession and I wonder if maybe Town could turn the tables with a quick break away of their own, but we’re never that quick. To pass the time, Town win a sixth corner and Pat from Clacton tells us that in the ‘pick the correct score’ competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus she has drawn 3-3 and 3-1. “Something had better change pretty soon then” I tell her gloomily. A third decent shot on target from PNE sees Christian Walton make a low diving save prompting chants of “P,N,E, P,N,E, P,N,E” from the inhabitants of the town most famous for its admittedly magnificent bus station and having been the first to be by-passed by a motorway.

Twenty-minutes into the second and final half and Eggy and Jack Taylor replace Wes Burns and Jens Cajuste. Within sixty-seconds, George Hirst misses what looks from the lower reaches of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand like an open goal as he heads wide. Such is our anxiety now that it is agreed that Pat from Clacton should release the masturbating monkey good luck charm from her handbag and he is passed amongst us like some sort of weird Communion cup. The blue Dodo from Mauritius follows the same ritual soon afterwards. Meanwhile, today’s attendance is announced as being 27,549 and as we are thanked for attending by the excitable young announcer, Christian Walton makes an acrobatic save to tip a fourth decent PNE shot over the cross bar for a corner kick.

Sadly, whilst corner kicks have a strong element of lucky dip about them, the odds of Town scoring from them are akin to the likelihood of winning the national lottery, whilst for other teams the odds seem more like the chances of winning a game of whist. This being the case, an outstretched leg and a rebound and then a close range scuffed shot are enough to ensure PNE take the lead with eighteen minutes of the originally allotted ninety minutes remaining. The scorer is number nineteen Lewis Gibson, who bizarrely celebrates by cupping his hands either side of his head to make him look as if he has very big ears, and then running towards the PNE supporters. I can only think he has been rendered temporarily insane with the excitement of scoring.

As we head into the last fifteen minutes, Town continue to rack up corners, and the home crowd show growing impatience as Dara O’Shea lingers over the ball rather than surging forward like Kevin Beattie, or just booting it, like Kevin Beattie. Mehmeti shoots wide before Akpom replaces him and Johnson usurps Furlong. Another Town corner develops into an exciting head tennis match or bout of pinball. PNE make substitutions. Town take another corner and I tell myself I am still believing Town will score and go on to win. That things don’t go as they should seems in part due to Mr Busby and the Sir Bobby Robson standers chant “Shit referee, Shit referee, Shit referee” with a passion and a volume never produced when merely attempting to encourage the team.

The final ten minutes of the ninety see George Hirst’s flick over Cornell cleared off the line after a fine pass from Jack Taylor but otherwise Town possession does not translate into shots on goal or the PNE defence being torn asunder. But then, as if by magic, in the very final minute, with additional time of six minutes having just been announced, Jack Clarke runs across the PNE penalty area and is tripped by a Spaniard by the name of Pol Valentin. Mr Busby awards a penalty kick and Jack Clarke scores. Apparently, because Clarke slips when taking the kick, the PNE players try to claim the ball was kicked twice but Mr Busby has received enough abuse this afternoon to stop him entertaining specious claims like that.

Eventually, the six added minutes are played and despite multiple claims for penalties for firstly another foul on Clarke and then two or three handballs, no further goals are scored. It’s been a disappointing afternoon of course, one to file with the catalogue of similar matches from the past against the likes of Cheltenham Town, Oxford United, and Port Vale, clubs often desperately punching above their weight. We win most of them but not all and today we have been lucky to draw.

The crowd depart quickly into the dusky evening both happy and unhappy to have drawn. The late goal almost feels like a win if like me you adjusted your expectations with only time added on standing between the present and defeat. Even if the football wasn’t always the best, we’ve had our money’s worth this afternoon in terms of drama. The Wolsey Theatre would be worried about the competition, but pantomime season has finished.

Ipswich Town 3 Blackburn Rovers 0

January 18, 2026January 20, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Woke up, fell out of bed. It was damp and dreary outside when I drew back the bedroom curtains. Feeling inspired, I thought I’d check to see when I had last seen Ipswich Town play Blackburn Rovers, and I was surprised to learn that it was in August of 2018; it was the first game at Portman Road under the pitiful and thankfully brief leadership of the diminutive Paul Hurst. In case you’re wondering, I missed Blackburn’s last visit to Ipswich in September 2023 because I was in Brest, where I witnessed Stade Brestois beat Olympique Lyonnais one-nil to go top of Ligue1.

Times change, but Ipswich Town are playing Blackburn Rovers again today (Brest are away to Lyon tomorrow) and today’s match kicks-off at the silly time of 12:30pm, when civilised people should be eating lunch, in the pub, or still in bed. I catch the train to Ipswich, looking up I notice it isn’t late, and I have a carriage to myself until Gary joins me at the first station stop in his brightly coloured anorak. The train speeds on through a damp and dismal winter wonderland of bare trees and decaying vegetation, brightened only by the sighting of two very off-white polar bears that live by a lake in Wherstead. Arriving in Ipswich, pale sunshine is straining its way through the cloud because the sun always shines in Ipswich or tries to. As we cross Princes Street bridge there are just two people sat in the beer garden of the Station Hotel and they look very young; they’re probably drinking Vimto.

In Portman Road, a crowd of people loiter, waiting for the turnstiles to open. Gary and I speculate as to the attractions that Portman Road holds ninety minutes before kick-off but can’t think of any. I am first through the door at the Arb and with no other punters at the bar I am soon paying for a pint of Estrella Galicia for Gary and a pint each of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for Mick and myself (£14.90 with Camra discount). We repair to the beer garden to sit in the shelter that backs on to High Street, joining a solitary man with glasses and tied back hair at the end table having first asked if we may; we may. Mick is late, but it’s not long before he arrives. We talk of the African Cup of Nations, how Mick will miss Tuesday’s match because he must go to Scotland for a funeral, of the Tory councillor from Lymington in Hampshire sent to prison for twenty weeks for stalking former Tory MP Penny Mordaunt, and jury service. Gary buys more drinks and we leave for Portman Road at about ten past twelve once we’re happy that we are the last to leave.

We part ways near Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue; Mick and Gary heading for the west stand whilst I make for turnstile sixty-two and the cheap seats of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, where a smiling man first scans me for concealed weapons and scrap metal. From outside, I have already heard the excitable young stadium announcer reading out the names of the teams and I didn’t join in. After disposing of spent Suffolk Pride in the proper manner, I make for the stand, pausing only to allow the minute’s applause for all deceased Ipswich Town fans to end. I’m not a fan of the mawkish, public sentimentality of the ‘Memorial Day’. Grief is private, life is for the living and we’re all going to die.

Kick-off is moments away as I shuffle past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat a row or two behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood, and two along from the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who today is making his return to Portman Road after missing several matches. When the game begins, it’s Blackburn who get first go with the ball, which they launch in the general direction of the Vets for Pets premises on Handford Road and the Co-op next door. Blackburn are wearing an unpleasant looking yellow kit, which from where I am sitting looks as if it is covered in brown smudges, ‘skid marks’ perhaps. According to the Lancashire Telegraph however, the shirt is gold in colour and is a ‘love letter to Blackburn’ featuring several of the town’s landmarks throughout the design. I squint and think I might just be able to make out the four thousand holes, give or take three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. Aside from the shirts, the first two minutes of the game are ‘all Blackburn’ and in the third minute their number 20, Erain Cashin scores a spectacular goal, albeit in his own net. Nunez and Philogene exchange passes before Nunez delivers a low, hard cross, which Cashin belts into the top corner of the goal from a seated position, thereby promoting himself as the possible answer to Town’s perceived need for a ‘top striker’. Town lead one-nil.

The goal results in Ipswich gaining the confidence for Eggy to have a volley tipped over the crossbar by Blackburn goalkeeper and ancient Egyptian deity Toth. The Blackburn number 10 is jeered by home supporters. “That’s Cantwell” says the fella in front of me. “Whoever he is” I respond, genuinely not knowing who he is although I’d seen his face before. “He used to play for Norwich” says the fella. “Like Nunez” says Fiona. Ipswich have a corner “Come on You Blues” chant at least five of us. A far post header sends the ball into the six-yard box, Toth smothers the ball but then doesn’t and Jack Taylor belts it into the roof of the goal net from less than a metre out. It’s a goal ugly enough to have travelled through time from the days of Mick McCarthy. Town lead 2-0, although I had expected the goal to be disallowed, but that was before I remembered we’re not in the Premier League anymore.

“All games should start like this” I think to myself and then tell Fiona. Seventeen minutes have left us, Town still lead two-nil, Blackburn win a corner. Eight further minutes pass into history and Blackburn’s Atcheson claims the day’s first booking after fouling Jaden Philogene. I had been wondering how many goals we might score but things have quietened down. A long throw from Darnell Furling momentarily excites. “A helluva throw” says the bloke beside me, “Like a bullet”, and it was. Then Blackburn win another corner. “Wanker, wanker, wanker” chant the Sir Bobby Robson standers, and “He’s only a poor little budgie” to the tune of ’The Sparrow’, a Christmas 1979 hit for The Ramblers, a choir from the Abbey Hey Junior School, Manchester, and along with Brian and Michael and St Winifred’s School Choir, a rarely celebrated part of the ‘Madchester scene’. I assume the target for the abuse is Cantwell, a man who sports a mullet, which makes him resemble a cross between Jerry Seinfeld and Mickey from the Job Centre in the BBC tv series ‘The League of Gentlemen’.

There are twelve minutes remaining until half-time and as we wait for Leif Davis to take a corner having chanted “Come on You Blues” a few times for luck, Fiona comments on the grubby appearance of Blackburn’s yellow shirts that look like they’re covered in brown marks of unknown provenance. An injured Jaden Philogene is replaced by Jack Clarke, Blackburn win another corner and two minutes of added on time are stolen from our futures before half-time arrives.

During half time, I talk to the man from Stowmarket (Paul), who has been in hospital. He tells me all about it and I can only marvel again at the NHS and the beautiful idea of distributing resources amongst the population for the common good and according to people’s needs. I vent more spent Suffolk Pride and at twenty-six minutes to two the football resumes beneath a hint of winter sunshine. Five minutes in and Ipswich have a corner. The crowd is mostly quiet today because Blackburn have had a lot of the ball, albeit without doing much with it. But Ipswich are dominating now and the Sir Bobby Robson standers sing “When the Town go marching in” at a depressingly funereal pace appropriate for ‘Memorial Day’. Five minutes later however they feeling are more up-beat as they chant ‘Blue and White Army’ and it works as Town win another corner.

But Ipswich’s domination is fleeting as a Blackburn shot is blocked and another goes tamely wide. When Blackburn win another corner, I see just how bad Cantwell’s mullet is and so advise him to “get your ‘air cut, Cantwell” as any responsible citizen would. “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” pleads the home crowd and as if in response Eggy and Hirst are replaced by Ivan Azom and Wes Burns who draws a cheer for just trotting onto the pitch. “I don’t need to get Monkey out, do I?” asks Pat from Clacton, and Fiona and I agree we don’t need any lucky charms yet, because we’re still two-nil up.

In the final twenty minutes of normal time three more Blackburn players, Trondstad, Cantwell and Cashin are booked by referee Mr Kitchen, all for fouls on Jack Clarke who has become Blackburn’s target man since Philogene had to go off. Mr Kitchen meanwhile sports an impossibly neat but receding hairline as if like a 1960’s Action Man his hair has been painted on to his scalp. More substitutions are made, Pat from Clacton tells me about the pantomime she saw, the dame was called Belle Ringer, and for a short while my mind wanders off, I’m not sure where but I’m back in time for the eighty-eighth minute when Jens Cajuste surges forward, slips a through ball to Wes Burns and his square pass is swept into the Blackburn goal by Sammy Szmodics. Town lead three-nil and five minutes of added on time make no difference, although it sounds like Cedric Kipre has been chosen as man of the match by something called Holiday Testing Concrete Limited; I expect it’s something to do with Brutalist architecture.

The final whistle sounds and people stay and leave in equal measure to cheer the victors or catch buses and trains or queue in car parks. or just walk home. It’s been a slightly odd game, good in parts, very good in flashes. Ipswich have been too good for Blackburn whose greatest contribution to the spectacle has been providing a pantomime villain in Cantwell. Most significantly however, for the first time this season the visiting supporters have failed to sing “Football in a library, do-do-do”. Having had to get up in the middle of the night to travel over 400 kilometres for a 12:30 kick-off I don’t suppose they could be bothered.

Ipswich Town 2 Oxford United 1

January 3, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I just can’t help it but this morning I feel bright and optimistic. It’s the dawn of a new year, I had a good night’s sleep, a pale winter sun is shining, and I still haven’t forgotten Ipswich Town’s fabulous two-nil win at top-of-the-table, previously unbeaten at home Coventry City last Monday evening. So cheerful am I that I can’t help feeling that everyone else must feel the same too. Indeed, supporting my theory, yesterday in a work e-mail from my boss, he couldn’t resist telling me that he too was still “buzzing” from Monday’s win. To add to the mix, today Town are playing Oxford United, who are just part of the sludge at the bottom of what I call the second division.

I’m not sure that I am buzzing or have ever buzzed, but I think I can at least lay claim to a pleasant hum as I make for the railway station, where the train arrives on time and I sit next to a man who will remain almost bent double over his mobile phone all the way to Ipswich. Gary joins me at the first station stop and after the usual polite enquiries about our respective Christmases, he is eager to tell me about how Celtic lost the 1926 Scottish FA Cup final two-nil to St Mirren wearing white shirts. Being at best still Medieval in outlook, Celtic blamed the shirts for their defeat and quickly off-loaded them onto Barhill Football Club in Ayrshire, who had conveniently just written to both Celtic and Rangers asking if they had any old kit they didn’t want. The punchline to Gary’s tale of silly Scottish superstition resulting in generosity is a photo on Gary’s phone of four Barhill footballers, one of whom is Gary’s grandfather, each wearing one of the said shirts. The story is the highlight of today’s journey because we fail to spot a single polar bear as the train eases down the gentle incline through Wherstead into Ipswich.

In historic, interesting Ipswich the sun still shines as we make our way down Princes Street and Portman Road and then uphill towards ‘the Arb’ on High Street. Pints of Lager 43 and Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (Eight pounds something for the two with Camra discount) are soon sitting before us in the beer garden, where we talk of Gary having only watched Tanzania in the African Cup of Nations on the telly, whilst I have watched at least some of almost every game. Our conversation progresses onto the defining characteristics and dates of Generations X, Y, Z, the “Great Generation” and the “Silent Generation”, the merits of Dad’s Army, Porridge, the Detectorists and Morecambe and Wise, and the novel ‘The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist’ by Robert Tressell, which we decide is as relevant today as it was when it was first published in 1914. By the time Gary fetches two more pints our fellow drinkers in the beer garden are fewer in number than they were, and eventually at twenty to three we retain our record of being last to leave.

Gary and I part ways somewhere near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey, bidding each other adieu until next Saturday’s eagerly awaited FA Cup tie versus Blackpool. As has become normal, there are no queues outside the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, only men in black of mostly south Asian heritage each brandishing some sort of hand-held detection equipment. For a moment as I pass through the famed turnstile sixty-two, I speculate whether a sitcom set outside a football ground and amounting to Citizen Kahn meets The Detectorists could be funny. Having never watched Citizen Kahn I decide I ‘m not going to know.

After venting spent Suffolk Pride I emerge into the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand just as the excitable young stadium announcer is reading out the Ipswich Town team and failing to co-ordinate his reading with the players’ names appearing on the score board. I bellow out the players’ surnames, nevertheless, sounding like the echo to a public address system more than I do the crowd at Stade de l’Aube in Troyes or Stade de Furiani in Bastia. Before the na-na-nas of The Beatles’ Hey Jude can ring in the new year I wish a happy new one to Pat from Clacton and Fiona and nod to ever-present Phil who never misses a game and who is accompanied by his son Elwood, although the man from Stowmarket (Paul) is once again absent.

The final prelude to the match beginning is a minute’s applause for recently deceased former Town player Robin Turner, who in ten years started only twenty-nine games with thirty-three as substitute, but nevertheless famously kept Town on course for the 1978 FA Cup with two goals away to Bristol Rovers. The respect shown for Robin is only very slightly diminished by the scoreboard at the Sir Bobby Robson Stand end of the ground showing his name as ‘Robin Tuner 1955-2025’, but it sounds worse than it looks as if aurally he might have been related to that Lesley Dolphin on Radio Suffolk.

When the game eventually begins it is today’s opponents Oxford United who get first go with the ball, which after a couple of short passes they boot in the general direction of Cumberland Towers and the YMCA. Town soon have possession however, which they rarely lose, but they seldom make much of it either, although it feels like it will just be a matter of time before they do. Oxford lack bold intentions and it smacks of gloating by Oxford tourist guides grown big-headed on fancy college architecture when their supporters’ chant that Ipswich is a “shit ‘ole”, when plainly it’s not. But weak revenge is wrought on the hopefully thinned skinned academic visitors with the words ‘Cambridge Windows’ scrolling across the front of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand in brightly illuminated letters. “Is this a library?” chant the Oxonians ironically in response, as if they don’t know what a library is and before anyone can chant “Oh fuck off you privileged twats” to the tune of something by Gaz Coombes of Supergrass, they launch into “Football in a library , do-do-do” just like every other bunch of away supporters that ever visits Portman Road.

“Columbus Mechanical” announces the Sir Bobby Robson stand illuminations, and then “We are Columbus”. I ask, but Fiona has no more idea of who Columbus might be than I do before she has a conversation with Pat from Clacton about this year’s pantomimes. The sky has turned from blue to pale grey, Eggy loops a shot lazily over the Oxford crossbar. Only twelve minutes have dissolved into the past and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow, and perhaps as many as half a dozen people join in or at least turn round to stare at the idiot making all the noise. The early pussyfooting has gone; the corner came to nought but five minutes on and Town now attack with pace and clever passes. Oxford intercept the ball, they think it’s all over, but Chuba Akpom wrestles the ball back, Jaden Philogene advances feints, turns, twists feints again and shoots, and Town lead 1-0. Wow. I can feel myself smiling so much it makes me smile some more.

So how many more can we score? Eggy crosses to the far post, Davis heads the ball back and Philogene swipes the ball narrowly over the angle of post and bar from 12 metres or so. As a brief side-show Oxford’s Siriki Dembele, who has replaced the poorly spelt and now injured Tyler Goodrham, looks to shadow box Town’s Darnell Furlong and is booked for his trouble by referee Mr Finnie, another one of those small, very neat men who seem attracted to officiating.

A half an hour has disappeared into the past and strangely Oxford have a corner. “Yellows, Yellows, Yellows” chant the Oxonians up in the corner of the Cobbold Stand, and some big bloke wearing a yellow shirt heads high over the Town goal. Then Oxford equalise. A poorly protected left flank, an unhindered run to the penalty area, an exchange of passes and someone with the unlikely surname of Lankshear scores. We have ten minutes to live until half-time. In the fifth of those minutes Furlong surges into the Oxford penalty area, squares from the by-line and Chuba Akpom diverts the ball into the Oxford net, well wide of goalkeeper Jamie Cumming. Town lead 2-1 and the world’s natural order is restored.

Forty-two minutes lost to the past and Nunez shoots, Town have another corner. “Come On You Blues” I bawl, but the Oxford goalkeeper gathers. “Down with the Norwich, You’re going down with the Norwich” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of ‘Guantanamerra’, although stupidly keen to imagine university-based puns I like to think they are singing “sent down with the Norwich, you’re being sent down with the Norwich”. “Two-one and you still don’t sing” is the Oxonians momentarily inaccurate but understandable response, followed up with an ironic “Your support is fucking shit” from a group of fans who would need to have bought two seats each to fill their allotted space in the Cobbold Stand. Jaden Philogene shoots wide and three minutes are stolen from the future never to be returned, and are added to the first half.

With the half-time hiatus I vent more spent Suffolk Pride and then head for Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison at the front of the stand, stopping briefly to speak with Dave the steward on the way. I tell Harrison to check out a music artiste called Spencer Cullum, whilst Ray tells me he won’t be at the next match because he is off on a cruise in the Caribbean; I hope it’s not on a Venezuelan fishing boat.

The football resumes at five past four as Portman Road is briefly enveloped in a radiant, pink sky like the backwash to an unexpected mid-afternoon aurora borealis. Two more Town corners ensue and along with Oxford’s Brown, Chuba Akpom’s name is entered, no doubt very neatly into Mr Finnie’s notebook when his ire is stoked by the rough conduct of the Oxford defender. “Hot Sausage Company” read the Sir Bobby Robson stand illuminations. As the violence continues, Helik scythes down Akpom and the home crowd jeer, singing “Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you” to the tune of “Cwm Rhondda”, boastful of their ignorance of the Polish international defender. Mr Finnie again licks the end of his pencil and re-opens his notebook. “We forgot that you were here” sing the Oxonians, again ironically because judging by the empty seats in the away enclosure many of them genuinely aren’t here, although at £38 a ticket I can’t say I blame them. Whatever happened to ‘twenty’s plenty’?

Almost two-thirds of our afternoon’s ‘football experience’ has been experienced. Leif Davis crosses low, Nunez shoots, Cumming saves and Town have another corner. Fiona and Pat from Clacton discuss Pat’s handbag. Pat says she won’t get the masturbating monkey lucky charm out today, it’s too cold; anyway, we’re still winning. A Town free-kick is awarded; Nunez curls the ball over the defensive wall towards the top corner of the goal, but Cumming claws the ball away spectacularly.

It’s time for substitutions and Eggy and Nunez leave, making way for Wes Burns and Jack Clarke. “Burns, Burns will tear you apart, again” predict the Sir Bobby Robson standers with help from Joy Division. There is another Town corner and we are thanked for our incredible support by the excitable young stadium announcer, who tells us that we number 28,199. Will Vaulks completes the neat list of Oxford names in Mr Finnie’s notebook, yet more substitutions are made and yet another Town corner and even an Oxford corner come and go. At last, another additional three minutes are drawn from the infinite bank of time and then Town are up to second place in the league table because Middlesbrough have lost; vanquished Oxford face the ignominy of being one place below Norwich City who have beaten some Park Rangers belonging to the Queen.

The new year has begun, Ipswich Town have played and I’m still feeling optimistic. As Pat from Clacton told me earlier, it’s the Chinese year of the horse, which it was in 1978 when Town won the FA Cup and in 1990, 2002 and 2014 when they didn’t.

Ipswich Town 2 Derby County 2

August 31, 2025August 31, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a week in which summer, previously baked by the hot sun, has started to crumble away, buffeted by cool breezes, drenched by heavy showers and obscured by clouds. As an Ipswich Town season ticket holder however, I am used to disappointment, and more than just believing it is, I know this is the natural order of things. This morning, after a breakfast of sausage, egg, mushrooms and toast I put a coat of white gloss paint on the inside of my upstairs toilet door. The paint was old and past its best, another coat or two will be needed and probably from a new tin.

Outside, the sun shone this morning, and it still does. A wild array of billowing white clouds decorate the blue sky as I walk to my local railway station to catch the train to Ipswich, which is delayed by two minutes. Three blokes sat up straight on scooters, scoot past noisily. At the station, a grey-haired man wears a T-shirt proclaiming, “Punk’s not Dead – The Exploited”, of course even in 1981 when that album was released, that wasn’t true, Punk inevitably committed suicide or took an overdose long before that.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and we discuss his injured achilles tendon, which means that on arrival in Ipswich we will not be walking to ‘the Arb’ but will drink in the Fanzone. There are of course also still polar bears in Wherstead, although I only spot one today, which like a lot of other things is a little disappointing. Gary asks if I will be buying an “ice cream” today and I think I probably will not because it feels like a football programme that costs four quid has lost sight of what a football programme is meant to be; not that football programmes can really see of course.

It feels like a long arduous walk down Princes Street and Portman Road and into Sir Alf Ramsey Way alongside a gently limping Gary, and our lack of speed worsens the confused pangs of longing I feel as I pass numerous programme sellers. Eventually, we make it to the Fanzone with its loud music, ice cream van, beer tent and huge tv screen, which today is telling us how lucky we are we aren’t from ‘Up North’ by showing Middlesbrough versus Sheffield United. Many people seem strangely mesmerised by it, however.

In the beer tent queues of uneven length line up for young women to dispense plastic cups of dull yellow liquid. Gary says he’s on a diet, so should not really have a drink but he’s going to anyway. We look up at the list of beers, the names of which mean nothing to me. Why doesn’t it just say Lager and Bitter? Gary has something that sounds Spanish and out of sheer cruelty I get him to ask the young woman server if they’ve got a bitter. She looks worriedly at a list and says there’s a lager and then describes something else as an IPA, although she also mentions fruit. Foolishly, half remembering IPAs as amber coloured beers I opt for the IPA and receive a cloudy looking tub of yellow liquid that tastes only of grapefruit; that was the fruit, I guess. The ‘beers’ cost a staggering £6.50 each and miraculously I suddenly realise that in December 1976 the programme for the Ipswich v Liverpool match, which coincidentally advertised the Sex Pistols ‘Anarchy in the UK’ tour, cost 15 pence, whilst at that time a pint of beer cost about 23 pence. So, in a world where the retail price index is based solely on beer and football programmes, in nearly forty-nine years the price of programmes relative to the price of beer has actually fallen a little. Nevertheless, given the choice, and I have been, I will give up football programmes before I give up beer.

At about a quarter to three a man in a day-glo coat effectively tells us to leave and go to our seats. He seems a little curt, even rude, but I let it pass considering that a lot of people have strange jobs nowadays, and Gary and I soon bid our farewells. The blue skies punctuated with white cloud have given way to grey cloud and there is a queue to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, but it moves as if well lubricated and I am soon passing through the hallowed turnstile 62, named in honour of Sir Alf Ramsey’s team’s achievements back in 1962. I arrive at my seat moments before Fiona arrives at hers and not long after Pat from Clacton reached hers. The man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are already here too and I’m in good time to join in, in the manner of a Frenchman at the Stade Marie Marvinght or Stade Marcel Picot when the excitable young stadium announcer, who today has seemingly mislaid his jacket but wears a shiny brown waistcoat, reads out the team.

“Be loud, be proud” announces the excitable young stadium announcer as a final gesture, before the strains of The Beatles “Hey Jude” begin. With Jude’s na-na-nas fading away arm in arm with August, the game begins and it’s Derby who get first go with the ball, booting it where possible in the direction of the old telephone exchange, Coes and the Halal butcher on Norwich Road. Derby sport a modern, plastic looking version of their traditional kit of white shorts and black shorts, which sadly fails to conjure spectral visions of Kevin Hector, Archie Gemmill or Colin Todd. Town are similarly in a modern incarnation of blue and white that doesn’t really suggest David Johnson, Jimmy Robertson or Trevor Whymark were once here either.

A man arrives and sits in the seat in front of me but then continuously turns around, his arm hanging over the back of his seat, to talk to the bloke beside me. I try to watch the game. The bloke in front stays mostly turned round to talk to my neighbour. The space in front of me has always been small and now it’s smaller, the seat is pressing against my knee, I’m trying to watch the match, I’m feeling a bit annoyed, a bit grumpy, that pint of IPA in the Fanzone was truly horrible, the bloke in front of me is still turning round. “Look, why don’t you just sit here, and I’ll sit there, this is getting on my nerves” I say, standing up and gesturing the bloke in front to climb over his seat whilst I do the same in the opposite direction. The manoeuvre seems to cause a bit of consternation around me and I think the bloke now behind me is explaining what’s happened to the blokes behind him. “I’m sure we can all read about it later” says ever-present Phil who never misses a game.

“We are Derby” sing the Derby fans. “Create more space with a mezzanine floor” reads the illuminated advertisement between the two tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson stand. “We hate Nottingham Forest” continue the Derby fans and it feels like the world is falling in on me. On the pitch, Derby seem very enthusiastic, running and jumping and barging about like they’ve all over-dosed on pre-match Sunny Delight. It’s not pretty to watch but it’s stopping Ipswich from playing much football. “Windows that Wow. Doors that delight” announces the Sir Bobby Robson stand as a Derby player takes a throw. The Derby goalkeeper is wearing a dayglo orange kit that looks like it might also be worn by staff of the Derbyshire County Council highways department.

Nineteen minutes have gone the way of the previous twenty-nine and a half days of August and the Derby fans chant “Football in a library, do-do-do”, illustrating how human evolution seems to be standing still. A break by Kasey McAteer, and a cross leads to Leif Davis having Town’s first decent shot on goal but it bounces conveniently into the arms of the man from the highways department, and Town begin to get to grips with Derby’s WWF inspired style of play. Twenty-seven minutes are up and Town earn a corner. “Come on you Blues” chant a handful of us lamely. Five minutes later a Conor Chaplin shot earns another corner. More half-hearted chants but they’re all Town need and as the ball sails over the flailing fist of the bloke from the Council, Jacob Greaves applies a stooping header, the humblest of all headers, to put Town one-nil up.

With Town ahead, it’s only a matter of two minutes before the first Derby player is booked for dissent as the Sunny Delight hangover begins to kick-in. “Come on Town, this is good” shouts the bloke behind me and Town win another corner from which Dara O’Shea hits a post with a header before the referee laughably books McAteer, seemingly for over-optimistically jumping alongside the man from the Council who is eight centimetres taller than him. Two minutes of additional time follow, in which Town win a fourth corner but nothing more.

Half-time is a time to talk to Ray, reflect on his forthcoming birthday which features a zero at the end and discuss why Kasey McAteer was booked. Even as a former county highways department employee Ray does not know. On my way back to my seat Pat from Clacton tells me not to swap my seat with the same bloke again because he’s been getting on her nerves too.

The game re-starts, and I eat a Slovakian Horalky wafer bar to help my body forget the memory of what I consumed in the Fanzone. I’m not sure if my lack of concentration whilst eating is partly to blame, but there is also a sudden lack of concentration in the Town defence and some bloke in a white shirt has to be chased into the penalty area by Leif Davis, who is then adjudged to have handled the ball as he dives in to block a shot and Derby are awarded a penalty, which one of them scores. Despite the equalising goal, which the balance of play suggests they should be slightly embarrassed about, Derby’s players are haranguing the referee seemingly wanting Davis sent off for the handball. Quite why these players are not booked or even sent off for unsporting behaviour is a mystery, especially when George Hirst is then booked for alleged diving and weirdly we’re all wishing we still had VAR.

With the scores once again level, Derby clearly intend not to go behind again and have evidently decided the best way to do this is to ensure as little football as possible takes place in the remaining thirty-five minutes. At times the game now resembles a match involving the Keystones Cops and American Civil War soldiers as players comically fall about and then lay on the pitch like extras from the scene in Gone With the Wind after the battle of Atlanta. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” chant the home support imaginatively. “We forgot you were here” reply the Derby fans also failing to roll back the frontiers of witty ripostes before doing it again by once more chanting “Football in a library, do-do-do”.

Time moves on and the inevitable rash of substitutions are made with twenty-two minutes left of normal time. Two minutes later another lack of concentration in the Town defence sees both O’Shea and Greaves miss the ball to allow some brutish part-time actor from Derby to score and give his team the lead. Town win a corner, another substitution is made and we are told by the excitable young stadium announcer that we number 29,155 and 1,144 of us are supporting the bunch that are currently winning and have a road mender for a goalkeeper.

With time not unexpectedly continuing to ebb away into the abyss, Town struggle against Derby’s “tactic” of not wanting any one to play football and the bloke behind me announces that “Nobody seems to want it”, although Chuba Akpom’s shot that goes narrowly over the bar doesn’t really back him up. Certainly, it seems many supporters don’t want to witness the final whistle, and the stands would only empty out more quickly if Nigel Farage had made a guest appearance. Help eventually comes from an unexpected source as it is announced that there will be a minimum of thirteen minutes additional time, and I think I detect a sudden dash to the toilets amongst anxious Derby fans. As the additional time, unfortunately, proves no better than the wasted time it replaces, it seems like maybe my prevailing emotion on a Saturday evening will once again be disappointment.

But then, as once more and then once more again Town sling the ball into the Derby penalty area, the referee awards a penalty. I couldn’t see why from the far end of the ground, but in the absence of VAR I trust the referee who obviously knows what he’s doing, on this occasion. Jack Clarke steps up to take the penalty as the blokes behind me agree that they would have Ashley Young take it and the bloke next to me holds his head in his hands and seems to weep as he says “Not, Jack Clarke, please not Jack Clarke.” But happily, yes, Jack Clarke, as he takes one of the best penalties by an Ipswich player that I think I’ve ever seen, striking the ball hard and into a corner and with a bit of a curl on it too for good measure. There’s still time to win I say to myself, but it turns out there isn’t.

Inevitably, with sixteen minutes of additional time having been played, on hearing the final whistle people don’t hang about. I too turn and head for the exit and my train home to reflect on what despite the last minute goal, still feels like a disappointing afternoon; that beer in the Fanzone was disgusting.