sir alf ramsey

Ipswich Town 2 West Bromwich Albion 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Waking up on a Saturday morning is never quite as good as I think it should be. All through the week I’m usually awake shortly before my alarm clock goes off and I lie there in my warm bed, longing for the weekend, drifting in and out of cosy consciousness, wanting to go back to sleep but knowing that in a few minutes the alarm will sound, and I will have to get up and get ready for work.   But on Saturdays, despite the fact that I can go back to sleep, I seldom do, and the lovely lazy feeling of luxuriating in a warm bed somehow doesn’t materialise. It’s as if existence just wants me to be dissatisfied.

Today is Saturday, and having risen from my bed, showered, prepared and eaten a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and honey with both tea and coffee to help it down, and then kissed my wife goodbye, I am off to face the world of trains, public houses and football.  I hurriedly leave the house to escape the sound of The Stone Temple Pilots who my wife has invited to play very loudly because she knows I won’t be there to complain; not that I would, I’d just stick my fingers in my ears and pull faces or go and play outside.  Outside, it’s a beautiful, clear, bright Saturday morning beneath blue skies dappled with altocumulus.  At the railways station I look over the wall at the back of the platform to see three Christmas tree baubles and I count five ladybirds on surrounding plants.  I didn’t know ladybirds celebrated Christmas, and in February too.  Once on the train I am vexed by one bloke in a group of four ‘lads’, who cannot speak without shouting as they talk of Ibiza, women and Fantasy Football.  I peer out of the train window at the wet fields; after a couple of days of rain everything is sodden and today courtesy of Sky TV it’s another sodden 12:30 kick-off; it will be gone three-thirty by the time I get home, virtually a whole day gone, and at my age I don’t know how many I’ve got left.

Arriving in Ipswich, I head for ‘the Arb’ via Portman Road, where I stop at a kiosk to buy an ice cream but ask for a programme instead (£3.50). The girl who effects my debit card transaction is the youngest looking person I have ever seen working in retail, she looks about twelve.  I thank her sincerely and she thanks me in return but doesn’t wish me ‘bon match’ as a French programme seller would, if they had them.  At ‘the Arb’ I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra discount) and retire to the garden to await Mick.  I sit in the shelter that backs onto High Street , but plagued by more people who can’t talk quietly I move to sit in the open where piercing voices won’t echo off the roof and walls.  It’s not long before Mick appears from the back gate and once he has acquired his own pint of Suffolk Pride we talk of honey, Europe’s most obese nations (Greece and Croatia) , kebabs and takeaway food, e-numbers, water filters, bowel movements,  blood tests and prostates, driving to France, Spain , Italy and Belgium, and Mick becoming a grandfather again next week and having an operation on his foot.  At some stage I also buy another pint of Suffolk Pride and a Jamieson’s, ‘Stout’ Whisky for Mick (£8.56 with Camra discount).

It must be nearly 12:15 by the time we leave for Portman Road, and I consider it a badge of honour that we are the last to leave.  We go our separate ways near the statue of Sir Alf Ramsey as Mick makes for the West Stand and I head to what will to some always be Churchman’s; I pause on the way to help a short woman of Asian origin who is trying to take down the portable gazebo from which East Anglian Daily Times ‘goody bags’ were being sold.  There are no queues at the turnstiles, but disappointingly I am directed away from turnstile 62 by a steward because it doesn’t seem to be working properly; I use turnstile 61 instead, which is almost as good, but not quite.  After syphoning off some excess Suffolk Pride, I emerge onto the stand where Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, his son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket (Paul) are already in position as the team walk on and flames erupt around the edge of the pitch, warming our faces and any other bare patches of flesh we may have on show.  Meanwhile, Murphy the stadium announcer makes his usual appalling hash of reading out the names of the Town team, failing hopelessly as ever to synchronise with the names appearing on the score board.  By the latter half of the team, I just give up and simply shout the names out as they appear, regardless of what Murphy is reading out.

Today’s opponents are West Browich Albion and it is they who get first go with the ball as they attempt to put it in the goal net at the Castle Hill and Akenham end of the ground.  Whilst Town are in their signature blue and white, West Brom are kitted out in an all-peppermint green number, which seems ill-advised, although conceivably it has been devised to simply perplex the opposition who will be too busy mouthing “WTF” to one another to properly defend set-pieces.

The Albion supporters are in good voice and immediately break into a song about Albion which sounds suspiciously like one that Town fans sing about ITFC.  Not sixty seconds have elapsed and West Brom’s number 31 has the game’s first shot at goal, albeit way off target. West Brom then win the game’s first corner and it takes repetition of the mantra “Blue and White Army” at least three times to get the ball back off them.  “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” enquire the West Brom fans in generous mood and as fictional supporters might have if there had ever been a Hollywood musical about football.  I notice that West Brom’s number four is called Cedric Kipre and hope his surname is pronounced ‘Kipper’, but I don’t suppose it is given that he’s from Cote d’Ivoire. 

Suddenly, it looks like Town might be on the attack, but Wes Burns is offside, and we get to see how unfortunate he looks with his new haircut.  He needs to grow it back as soon as possible and I hope the barber asked if he wanted anything on it to help it grow, and that he accepted.  There used to be a barber and avid town fan on Felixstowe Road (John) who would always ask that, it was one of the reasons I used to go there.  “We want the action down this end” complains Pat from Clacton as I see that the West Brom goal-keeper is called Palmer, which depending on how good he is might almost be a case of nominative determinism.

It’s only the fifteenth minute, but I seem to have been here longer. Seagulls are hovering above the Cobbold stand perhaps looking for burgers and other mechanically reclaimed meat products hurriedly discarded in Portman Road before kick-off.  West Brom win another corner “Come On You Baggies” chant their fans.  The corner takes an age to be taken and results in a shot over the Town bar.  Two minutes later Luke Woolfenden looks to be brushed off the ball a bit too easily and West Brom’s number thirty-one Tom Fellows runs on to score rather too easily.  The only good thing is that I am momentarily reminded of Graham Fellows and his alter ego “Jilted John” , who along with his album “True Love Stories” was another of many highlights of 1978.

The West Brom team have an extended celebratory drinks party on the touch line before returning to resume the match, whilst the referee Mr David Coote, who sadly isn’t bald (unless he’s wearing a toupe) , looks on pathetically.  Two minutes later and Town have a corner of our own and I bellow “Come On You Blues” as loudly as possible to make up for the thousands who remain silent, lost in quiet contemplation. The corner is far too easily cleared and frankly wasn’t worth my effort.  The Baggies fans continue to sing and the Town fans don’t, although someone is banging a drum, albeit mournfully.

I don’t realise it at the time, but the twenty-fourth minute is the peak of the first half for Town as Nathan Broadhead glides into the penalty area and pulls back a low cross which Conor Chaplin proceeds to boot high above the cross bar with ‘the goal at his mercy’.  I shake my fist at the sky.  The West Brom fans couldn’t laugh more if they’d been watching Charlie Chaplin. “Bus stop in Norwich, You’re just a bus stop in Norwich” they sing. “Better than being a public convenience in Smethwick” I think to myself in a Midlands accent.   A half an hour has receded into history and Sam Morsy is booked for bumping into Fellows twice in a few seconds, “David Coote’s a Moron” I sing to myself in the style of Jilted John.  Four minutes later Sam Morsy has a shot on goal, but it’s too weak for Palmer to even have to palm away.  “There’s more of them on the pitch than us” complains Pat unhappily.  I tell her it’s an illusion created by their peppermint shirts.

There are less than ten minutes to go until half time and it seems like West Brom are going to try and spend the whole nine minutes taking a throw-in.  We wait and wait, and Mr Coote starts waving his arms about as if relaying what the odds are on a thirty-sixth minute throw in, before circling his hands about one another like a John Travolta hand jive in Saturday Night Fever.  Town win another corner and I bellow “Come On You Blues” again, not discouraged by the fate of the last corner kick.  Two minutes later, Wes Burns shoots and a deflection produces another corner, and I’ m bellowing once more, but to no effect.  “We all hate Walsall” chant the Baggies fans, I think. “Shit referee, shit referee, shit referee” sing the home fans and the Baggies claim that they had forgotten the home fans were here, although I bet they can remember who won the FA Cup in 1968.

It’s the 43rd minute already and Palmer palms a fine Harry Clarke shot over the cross bar and for the final time this half I get to bellow to no effect. Two minutes of added-on time are added-on and as the first half approaches its finishing line Darnell Furlong dillies and dallies with a throw-in and encouraged by the home crowd, Mr Coote shows him the yellow card.  Time remains however for a final through ball into the penalty area which Conor Chaplin can’t quite reach, “because his legs are too short” suggests Fiona, and we agrees that some sort of clown shoe could make the necessary difference.

With the half-time whistle Mr Coote is booed from the pitch, but it seems likely he’s used to it.  I head down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison, stopping briefly to speak with Dave the steward with whom I used to work back in the 1980’s and early 1990’s, in the days of Frank Yallop, Graham Harbey and Ulrich Wilson.  Ray shocks me by saying that a profile picture I posted on social media made him think of how he imagines a young Boris Johnson might have looked. I may not speak to Ray at the next home game.   

No sooner has the match re-started than Ipswich equalise, George Edmundson nodding the ball on for the excellent Nathan Broadhead to skilfully and acrobatically prod inside the far post on the half-volley.  Nathan Broadhead is such a beautiful player to watch,  with great balance and poise; he just needs longer hair.  Town will surely now go on to win provided Mr Coote allows it, although very soon he is suggesting he might not as he books Harry Clarke for a supposed tackle from behind, but then he does award a free-kick after a foul on Keiffer Moore, which invites ironic and prolonged jeers from the home crowd.

Town are now the better side and dominate possession.  Another corner is won by Town, and Sam Morsy shoots over the cross bar before West Brom decide something better change, and they make two substitutions.  In an isolated West Brom attack,  a free-kick is handled into the Town goal by an Austrian whose name looks like he could be Scotsman, Andi Weimann (Andy Wee-Man), and he is rightly booked, although why keeping the ball out of the net by handling it is a sending off offence, but putting it into the net by handling it isn’t is a mystery; it’s all cheating of the worst kind that could directly affect the result.

A half an hour of normal time remains and at the Sir Bobby Robson Stand end of the ground “When the Town going marching in“ is sung as if someone has died, although a minute or two later a more cheery version is heard.  Meanwhile, West Bromwich have a man down as the Town fans sing “Sky TV is fucking shit”, a point of view with which I concur incidentally, although much more politely. The club golf buggy appears and as the game is put on hold it trundles around the pitch to collect the unfortunate Darryl Dikes and transport him back to the player’s tunnel.  He sits on the back in a pose that resembles Auguste Rodin’s “The Thinker”.  The buggy moves slowly. “Put your foot down” I shout, eager for the match to resume; the driver takes no notice.  The bloke behind me suggests this has been the highlight of the whole match.

In due course the match resumes as before with Town actively seeking a goal and West Brom hoping for one. Marcus Harness and Omari Hutchison replaces Conor Chaplin and Wes Burns. Murphy announces today’s attendance as 29,016 including 1,670 Baggies fans. The scoreboard operator, seemingly unable to resist the joy of mental arithmetic, shows the attendance as 30,686.  “They’re there for the taking “ says the bloke beside me.  Moments later West Brom’s number 19, John Swift shoots from outside the Town penalty area and scores, the ball somehow evading the outstretched hands of Vaclav Hladky, who looked all set to save it. “Wasn’t expecting that” says the bloke behind me, and indeed there had been no indication whatsoever that the next goal would not be in the West Brom net.  It feels a lot like fate has been conspiring against us lately.

As Town get back to staying in the West Brom half, the visiting fans come over all religious and start singing Psalm 23, and indeed divine intervention would seem to be the only plausible explanation for their team once again being ahead.   Town win consecutive corners but a lot of time is taken up with West Brom goalkeeper Palmer catching Town crosses.  Seven minutes of normal time remain and Massimo Luongo and Nathan Broadhead make way for Ali Al Hamadi and Jeremy Sarmiento.  Seven minutes later and there will be at least another eight minutes to play.  Two minutes in and Town win another corner before a game of bagatelle ensues with crosses and shot being blocked before the ball drops to Omari Hutchison. At first it seems he hasn’t controlled it, but then as it drops for a second time he strikes it through a crowded penalty area, past Palmer’s palm and on into the goal and Town have equalised again, and deservedly so.

The relief is palpable, isn’t it always? But Town should have won this game and continue to want to do so.  A shot, a save, another corner; almost another minute over the eight, but there is no third goal, and the game ends as a draw.    At least we haven’t lost.   As I leave for the railway station, I think how, much like waking up on Saturday mornings, football often isn’t as good as it should be, but then again I think I might be wrong.

Ipswich Town 1 Maidstone United 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

As working weeks go it’s been a good one, I had Friday off and only worked until a smidgeon after half past two on Thursday, and all week long I’ve been looking forward to Saturday and the FA Cup fourth round, a ‘straightforward’ home tie versus non-league Maidstone United.  On Thursday night I dreamt of Kieran Mckenna. As is often the case with dreams, I don’t really remember much about it,  but I know I  was left with the sort of sensation of calm and well-being you might expect if you’d just had a chance encounter with Jesus or Mohammed, or George Harrison. I had never dreamt about a Town manager before, and the only ‘celebrities’ I can ever recall  entering my dreams previously are Sid James and former Liverpool City Council leader Derek Hatton.

One of two flies in the ointment today however is that the match begins at half past twelve because it is being televised by the BBC and then transmitted on by BEIN Sports, ESPN, SPOTV ON and Supersport MaXimo 1 amongst others; not that I begrudge those Town fans in Eritrea, Guadeloupe, South Korea and Weymouth the sight of our wonderful team in search of FA Cup glory.  But at least there’s no hanging around waiting to set off the match as there’s not much time to do anything more than fall out of bed, have a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, prime the breadmaking machine and fill up the garden bird feeders before I’m smoothly and quietly driving away in my planet saving Citroen eC4 to collect Gary.  There don’t tend to be many flies about in Northern Europe in January but the second one in the ointment today is that there are no trains to Ipswich from the direction of Colchester, only replacement buses and whilst it is possible to travel on these free of charge because no one ever checks your ticket on a rail replacement bus, that would be as dishonest as charging for a rail fare and then providing a bus ride, and then where would we all be?

We park up and stroll across Gippeswyk Park under what approximates to clear, azure skies in Suffolk in winter.  The roads were busy, but the streets are not and in Constantine Road there is still the odd parked car.  We pass by the entrance to the fanzone and I ask Gary if he’d like me to take his photo with Bluey, Ipswich Town’s Suffolk Punch mascot.  He wouldn’t, but was going to ask me the same thing, and I am tempted because it would make a fine addition to my collection, which sees either me or my wife Paulene in the company of Ri-Ri the Nantes canary, Bouba the Monaco elephant and Merlux the Lorient hake, amongst others.  Instead, Gary buys me a programme (£3.00) by way of payment in lieu, for my electricity and chauffeur fees.  Turning away from the programme booth, Gary attempts to hand the programme to the man in the queue behind him, thinking it is me,  but quickly regains his bearings and we amble on towards the ‘the Arb’, after I have tucked the programme away in my coat pocket.

Bursting in the through the door with a raging thirst after our walk, we find ‘The Arb’ is surprisingly quiet, and we also find Mick sat at a table in the middle of the room before he lithely slips off his stool and heads to the bar to buy me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and Gary a pint of Lager 43. Beers in hands we head out into the cool of the beer garden where there are no other drinkers until a couple arrive about fifteen minutes later and sit a polite distance away.  I think Mick would have preferred to stay indoors, but I’m having none of it, sitting outside for pre-match  beers feels to me like the most natural thing in the world.  We talk of the operation Mick is to have on his foot, of police identity parades, the locations of the Mauldon’s and Nethergate breweries, the Golden Hind pub quiz team, today’s team selection, the work ethic and how lazy and unpleasant some people are, and the 1978 FA Cup final. Gary kindly buys me another pint of Mauldons’ Suffolk Pride, a Jamieson’s whisky for Mick and another pint of Lager 43 for himself.  I hand Gary and Mick their tickets which I have printed off because I thought it would be easier than the three of us having to pass my mobile phone between us and open each ticket up from the e-mail confirming their purchase.

It’s gone ten past twelve when we leave for Portman Road, but it’s a slightly disappointing walk to the ground because there isn’t the usual gathering excitement of an increasing and purposeful crowd like it must have been marching to the barricades of the Paris commune. There are however queues at the turnstiles in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, although as usual the further we walk, the smaller the queues become, as if most people, like myopic lemmings  just join the first queue they come to. Mick, Gary and I also voted ‘Remain’.

A visit to the toilet facilities to drain off excess Suffolk Pride is required before we take our seats, and from my position in front of the urinal I hear Murphy the stadium announcer reading out the teams and no doubt failing hopelessly to synchronise with the players’ names appearing on the electronic scoreboards.  It’s a pity to miss out on trying to behave like a French football fan by bawling out the players’ surnames, but Murphy would doubtless have ruined it with his lack of co-ordination, so it’s probably best for my mental health and future comfort that I am down here in the toilet.

Up in the stand, our seats are fairly central and at the front of the middle tier of what to people of our generation is still the Pioneer stand; they are in row B, but there is no row A, so our view is only obstructed by passing late comers, people with weak bladders and the interminably hungry who flit back and forth before us annoyingly on their way to and from the facilities under the stand.  With all the hand shaking malarkey out of the way the game begins; Ipswich getting first go with the ball and sending it in the direction of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. Ipswich are in their standard blue shirts and white shorts whilst Maidstone sport yellow shirts and black shorts, although apparently their shirts are actually ‘amber’, but they don’t have fossilised insects encased within them, Maidstone’s oldest player Gavin Hoyte being only 33 years old.

“We’re the something Army” ( I can’t make out the third word) sing the Maidstone supporters, who occupy the whole of the top tier of the Cobbold stand and cheer every throw-in that their team win and every tiny perceived mistake by an Ipswich player. They’re clearly not expecting any bigger victories than these and are getting their kicks where they can. Eventually, the home support in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand chips in with some random “Ole’s”. Portman Road is noisy this afternoon but it’s mostly Kentish noise.

Ipswich are dominating possession and with no more than two minutes played a Nathan Broadhead shot is blocked. It’s the fifth minute and Jeremy Sarmiento shoots on goal and hits a post. “ Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” chant the North Stand raising the spectre of Boney M of Christmas past. A minute later Omari Hutchison runs in on goal from the right; he shoots and the ball is deflected onto a goal post before George Edmundson sends the rebound wide. It’s an exciting start to the match and in a parallel universe somewhere, perhaps one where Boris Johnson was never Prime Minister and beer is still 25p a pint,  Town are probably  a couple of goals up already.

“Your support, your support, your support is fucking shit” sing the fans of the plucky underdogs, revealing that they are just as unpleasant and lacking in imagination and vocabulary as supporters of the ‘big’ clubs, even if what they sing has the ring of truth.  “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” they continue generously, taunting the pensioners who populate the Sir Bobby Robson stand but who tell people they sit in Churchman’s. Fifteen minutes have passed and Town win a corner. “Come On You Blues” I bellow before looking around me to check for signs of life amongst my fellow silent Town fans.  Sam Morsy shoots, the Maidstone goal keeper saves, Town have another corner and the process repeats.

Town continue to dominate completely, and Maidstone aren’t getting a kick as their coach driver apologises to manager George Elokobi for not having been able to manoeuvre his vehicle down the players tunnel.    The Maidstone fans repeat their kind offer to sing a song for us and then chant what sounds to me like “We’re the black pepper army”.  Omari Hutchison shoots and wins another corner before George Edmundson heads past a post.”

In the Cobbold Stand, the Kentish equivalents of Lennon and McCartney, and Rogers and Hammerstein have been thinking furiously, but can only come up with “Doo, Doo, Doo, Football in a library”. Mick asks me what they’re singing and having told him I add that I have e-mailed the club to suggest they paper the walls of the inside of the away  end with that wall paper that looks like the spines of books; I don’t know if they have  taken any notice because all they said in their reply is that they would pass it on to the relevant department – the wallpapering department presumably, who knew?

Jeremy Sarmiento shoots over the cross bar prompting rare chants of “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” from the home support and as the game reaches the point where only two thirds of it remains unknown the Maidstone number ten collapses to the ground, receives treatment and everyone else has an impromptu drinks party by the touchline.  The two-thirds milestone is also the prompt for the Maidstone fans to sing “Championship you’re ‘aving a laugh”, a disarmingly honest admission that if a team hasn’t scored against them after thirty minutes they can’t be much good.  It’s at times like this when one most regrets the overblown, puffed-up  marketing ruse of using the term ‘Championship’ as opposed to plain old ‘Second Division’ .  Singing “Second Division you’re ‘aving a laugh”,  doesn’t quite sound so damning.

On the touch line, Kieran Mckenna signals obscurely with his hands as if communicating to the players that the odds on a draw are shortening if they want to place a bet now.  Being as close as I’ve ever been to Keiran Mckenna feels a little odd having dreamt about him the other night; it’s a bit like when you’re a teenager and the shock of finding yourself sat on the bus next to a girl you really fancy.  Jeremy Sarmiento has another shot and Town win yet another corner; minutes pass and another corner follows a deflected Jack Taylor shot. From the corner Maidstone break, it’s the first time it’s happened, it’s almost the first time Maidstone have been close to having possession in the Ipswich half as the man with his team’s most exotic sounding first name and prosaic surname, Lamar Reynolds bears down on goal and then clips the ball over Christian Walton and into the Town goal net. The Maidstone supporters are understandably very excited, but not it seems as much as the collection of people in the peculiar car seats allocated to Maidstone which pass for a substitute’s bench nowadays.  They race onto the pitch to form a human mound with the team and most impressively substitute Chi Ezennolim gets booked by referee, the completely hairless Mr Anthony Taylor, even though he will not end up getting to play any other part in the game.  Somewhat bizarrely, Maidstone lead one-nil, but Ipswich will surely soon equalise and then win comfortably.

Two minutes of added on time are announced by Murphy as the Maidstone fans channel the clean-living optimism of Doris Day and sing  “ Que sera, sera, Whatever will be, will be, We ’re going to Wem-berley, Que Sera, Sera.”  With the half-time whistle it’s time to discharge more excess Suffolk Pride and as Mick queues for a vegan pie I return to our seats to enjoy the names on the list of one-hundred people, mostly children I imagine, who are attending Portman Road for the  first time today.  Perhaps I shouldn’t, but  I can’t help laughing at the names Ember, Maverick and Rogue, and pine for the days of Moon Unit and Dweezil;  it’s probably my age.

At twenty-six minutes to two, the match re-starts and Mick returns, pie-less, I guess they ran out of vegans.  As the Maidstone fans resume their chants of “Black pepper army”  Gary explains that they are actually singing “Black and Gold Army”, which makes me think I should perhaps get a hearing aid like his. Ten minutes of Ipswich domination pass and then Jeremy Sarmento cuts in from the left, shoots, and scores. I leap up and wave my arms about like a man with only a sketchy understanding of semaphore and receive a text message from a friend in Weymouth that reads “That’s more like it”. Town have equalised and will surely soon score a second, third and probably a fourth goal as the Earth returns to its normal orbit around the sun and the clocks stop going backwards.

A mass substitution follows shortly after the goal as Sone Aluko, Dominic Ball and Cameron Humphreys bow out in favour of the superior Conor Chaplin, Harry Clarke and Leif Davis.  “You’re not singing any more” gloat those Town fans who know the tune of Cwm Rhondda and can be bothered to sing at all. Not to be outdone,  Maidstone make substitutions of their own, but only two of them, and then chalk up another yellow card in the form of the ageing Gavin Hoyte.

As chants of “Championship, you’re ‘aving a laugh” resurface, Town fans retaliate with “Sunday League you’re ‘aving a laugh” and the wit and ready repartee of the football crowd reaches its peak for the afternoon.  Town still dominate of course, but just as it seems travellers might be able set up camp in the Town penalty area, or sheep might safely graze, Maidstone break away for the second time in the match and lightning strikes again as Sam Corne, who sounds like a character from rustic folklore, smacks the ball into the Ipswich goal net with aplomb, and Maidstone are leading for an improbable second time.  “Who are ya?” ask the Maidstone fans, temporarily losing their memories in the excitement of it all and capable of only following this up by stating the obvious with “ You’re not singing anymore”.

There are still twenty minutes left so there is no need for Ipswich fans to worry, but just as insurance Town replace Omari Hutchison with Wes Burns, and Jeremy Sarmiento with Gerard Buabo although a little alarmingly Wes Burns has had his hair cut.  Nevertheless, Town pretty much instantly win a corner as the afternoon’s attendance is announced as 27,763  of whom a stonking 4,472 are from Maidstone,  despite Maidstone’s largest home attendance this season being only 4.024. Not to be outdone, Maidstone again try to show that they can make double substitutions too and introduce Perri Iandolo for Sam Bone and for Lamar Reynolds a man who sounds like a block of Council-owned flats, Riley Court.

Town continue to keep possession of the ball except when Maidstone boot it away. George Edmundson appears to be fouled in the penalty area but is booked for just pretending by the overly suspicious and imaginative Mr Taylor.   Conor Chaplin has a shot saved and corner follows corner follows corner.  Harry Clarke has a shot saved, a Conor Chaplin header is saved, a Wes Burns header is saved and before we know it, time is being extended by eight minutes. In the netherworld of compensatory time a Jack Taylor shot is blocked, corner follows corner again and Nathan Broadhead shoots wide; a Jack Taylor header is saved, a Nathan Broad header is saved and then that’s it. Ipswich haven’t won at all and we’re out of the FA Cup despite a ‘straightforward’ comfortable home tie to a non-league team. 

I’m a little shocked, I thought I’d seen it all in fifty years of coming to Portman Road but there’s no denying I hadn’t seen this before and in truth I  didn’t really want to. I hope I dont see it again. As we leave the ground Gary says he expects we’ll wake up in a minute and it will all have been a bad dream.  I’m still waiting.

Ipswich Town 0 Queens Park Rangers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Matches between Ipswich Town and Queens Park Rangers don’t register very high, if at all, on my imaginary list of the memorable events in my life.  I don’t recall anything about the first time I witnessed the fixture back in April 1974 (a one-all draw), nor do I remember the most recent fixture at Portman Road in October 2018, when QPR won 2-0.  The only thing I recall of any of the near thirty games I’ve seen between the two teams at Portman Road is some mild crowd trouble back in the 1980’s, when some youths with their jumpers fashionably tucked into their stonewashed jeans spilled onto the pitch to goad and then run away from each other before anyone could say anything derogatory about their ‘girly’ haircuts.

Tonight is a rare Friday evening fixture at Portman Road, and happily, after the debacle of Boxing Day, public transport exists again and I can catch the busy, stiflingly hot train to Ipswich.  A bloke sits next to me who talks to his friend across the gangway; he has a deep voice and an estuary accent, but he doesn’t say much, mostly “yeah”, which he elongates rather weirdly, a bit like a less well-educated Jeremy Paxman. Their conversation is about football.  I would switch off and look out of the window, but it’s dark outside.

Arriving in Ipswich, it’s a Raymond Chandler evening and the pavements are all wet.  It must have rained recently and large drops of water cling to car bonnets and windows, held there by pre-match surface tension.  On Portman Road the ground is not yet open but the club shop is, I venture in to buy a programme for the Norwich match (£3.50) , which I didn’t do at the time, and one for tonight’s game too (also £3.50); I am told I have £1.75 on my club card, so I ask that it is deducted from the total.  As I thank the sales assistant, pick up the programmes and turn to leave he entreats me to enjoy the match, which is nice. As I head off towards ‘the Arb’ I feel my heels rubbing painfully against the backs of my shoes, which is very odd as the shoes aren’t new and it’s never happened before. 

Arriving at the Arb, I find Mick already here and waiting to be served at the bar. He buys a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for himself and very kindly, a pint of Nethergate Blackadder for me.  I had originally asked for a pint of Suffolk Pride too, but changed my mind as I do enjoy dark beer in the winter. The bar is warm and quite noisy, and we retire to the cool and calm of the beer garden where fortunately there is a single free table in the shelter where we sit and talk of houses of multiple occupation, rogue landlords, television comedy, my impending trip to see Town play Wimbledon in the FA Cup, the dip in the number of funerals over the Christmas period and what we did on Christmas Day.  I buy a further pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a Jameson Whisky for Mick and we talk some more, this time about tonight’s match and Town’s weakened team.  By the time we depart for Portman Road the bar has emptied out, leaving only those people not going to the match.

Mick and I bid one another farewell at the junction of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, until the next match, the awkward five-thirty kick off on January 13th;  I might have to have dinner at about 9 pm that day. There are queues at the turnstiles in Portman Road, but no queue at all at my beloved turnstile 62, where I wave my season ticket about in the usual confused manner and walk right in.  After syphoning off excess Suffolk Pride, I find myself at the portal to another world, at the foot of the steps up into the stand.  Of course, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul), ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his son Elwood are all here already; if I didn’t see them leave at the end of each match I might think they were here all the time.  Apart from the blisters on my heels, things have been going well but then I hear stadium announcer Murphy is back after not being here for the Boxing Day game; like Wizzard I wish it could be Christmas everyday.  Murphy makes his usual botched job of reading out the team, failing hopelessly to synchronise with the images of the players on the electronic scoreboard as he races to his climax like an inept lover; and I give up being French for another day.

The game begins and QPR get first go with the ball which they are mainly trying to send in the direction of the goal in front of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.  Town are as ever in blue shirts ad white shorts whilst the QPR team are all dressed as Dennis the Menace.  I look for Gnasher in the dugout but can’t spot him.  The QPR fans are quick to tell us that somewhere, presumably the bit of London where they are from, is wonderful.  According to their song it is “…full of tits, fanny and Rangers”, although I haven’t been able to verify this on visitlondon.com website. 

After just three minutes QPR win a corner. “Come on you R’s” chant their supporters quite a bit more enthusiastically than most Town fans ever sing “Come on you Blues”.  Fortunately, it makes no difference however, and  three minutes later a peachy through ball releases Freddie Ladapo into the QPR penalty box. But in the time it takes for Freddie to think “ooh, this is good, just the goalkeeper to beat, now where shall I aim the ball” a defender blocks his view and he has to lay it back for Marcus Harness to shoot straight at goalkeeper Asmir Begovic, who I seem to remember once played a few decent  games on loan for Town back in 2009 and is the only member of the QPR team who hasn’t come in fancy dress as Dennis the Menace.

Eight minutes have passed and the QPR fans are singing “You’re support is fucking shit” in the time honoured fashion and then Freddie Ladapo is through again thanks to a precision through ball from Marcus Harness. This time Freddie shoots but the ball strikes Begovic and balloons into the air descending to earth just the netted side of the cross bar. From the corner Dominic Ball shoots at Begovic.  With less than ten minutes gone, Town have possibly already had their two best chances of the game although no one yet knows that  yet, which is just as well because knowing what people are like, a lot of them would probably clear off home.

 QPR win another corner; their fans ask “Is this a library?” and “Where were you when you were shit?” All these questions, it’s like watching a game in front of a stand full of toddlers.  QPR win another corner and are selfishly keeping the ball to themselves much of the time, although without ever managing a shot at goal.  Omari Hutchinson runs down the wing when he can and pockets of Town support sing an overly wordy song that ends in Ole, Ole, Ole  but doesn’t provide the inspiration the team seems to lack.  We need a Marseillaise, but all we have is God save the King.

On twenty-two minutes there is applause and I wonder why. Fiona tells me it is for a Town supporter who has died; he was just twenty-two years old. “Oh” I say, and Fiona tells me that there will be another applause in the sixty-sixth minutes for another Town fan who has died, who was sixty-five.   As sad as death is, I find these applauses mawkish and a bit weird, I also worry that when my mother dies we are going to need extra time, because she’s already ninety-eight.  Fortunately, she’s not a football fan, so I don’t think she’ll be too bothered.

Three minutes later and the QPR fans are taunting the Town fans with chants of “No noise from the Tractor Boys.”  The Town fans’ response is a stony silence. Then Hutchinson breaks down the left again, Williams makes a run in to the box, but Hutchinson is tackled. “I hope Williams didn’t swear then” says Fiona. “I think he did” says the man in the row in front, whose name is Kevin.

QPR win yet another corner and from my vantage point over 100 metres away it looks very much like Town almost concede an own goal, although QPR might have hit a post, but either way I’m not too bothered because the QPR score remains ‘nil’, although so does the Town score, and an Omari Hutchinson shot being tipped over the cross-bar by Begovic for a corner does not alter matters.  Only ten minutes of the first half remain and I bawl “Come On You Blues” for all I’m worth.  “Three of us singing, there’s only three of us singing” sings Pat from Clacton sotto voce.  The corner is cleared and Conor Chaplin is the first player to be booked by referee Mr David Webb, who I think I remember playing for QPR in the 1970’s.  The booking is probably for a well-conceived foul, although as Fiona points out Chaplin seems to be the only player on the pitch who is shorter than Mr Webb, so it might just be bullying.

The teams exchange more corner kicks to more chants of “Come On You R’s” and I once again bawl “Come On You Blues” raising the fever pitch in the lower tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand to something  like  sitting in a bucket of cold custard.  The corners come to nothing as ever, and then as Hutchinson is flagged offside, a QPR player applauds the linesman, I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic or if this is genuine expression of appreciation of a job well done, in which case he’s being patronising.

A minute of additional time is added in which the QPR fans sing cheerily of football in a library and people start to leave their seats for the underworld beneath the stand.  “Dire that, innit” says a bloke as he passes by. “Not good” says his companion, possibly commenting on his friend’s grammar as much as the match.  With half-time, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and I agree that we haven’t played as we would have hoped, and I then nip to the front of the stand to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison about what I was given for Christmas.  When I return to my seat I eat a Nature Valley Oat and Chocolate Crunchy bar, but the start of the second half is delayed for some time by what Murphy tells us is a ‘medical emergency’ in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand lower tier, and in due course the crowd applauds the team of paramedics and the sight of a departing stretcher party, which is thankfully, but somewhat chillingly screened from our gaze.

When the match resumes at about ten past nine it is with added gusto, both on and off the pitch, as if the events of half-time have sharpened our appreciation of, and our lust for life, as well they might.  “Blue and White Army “chant the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand a good four or five times in succession, and then, after not too long a delay, they do it again.  A couple of minutes later they do it yet again. “Sit down if you shag your mum” respond the QPR fans, boldly recycling humour popular in year seven throughout the comprehensive schools of West London.

The first half was lack lustre, but now the match is fast and furious, which makes it more exciting but no easier to watch.  If I could lip read and knew what ‘purists’ looked like, I am sure I would see them saying to themselves “this isn’t the game for me”.  Luke Woolfenden is booked for a doomed attempt at winning the ball and Freddie Ladapo heads wide of the QPR goal. The QPR supporters tell us that QPR are “by far the greatest team the world has ever seen”, but I’m not inclined to believe them any more than I would Boris Johnson.   “Come on Blue Eyes” says Pat to the dreamily blue-eyed Marcus Harness, and he almost obliges with a shot which looked to me like it was saved, but for which QPR get a goal-kick.

“Come On Ipswich, Come on Ipswich” chants the crowd sounding increasingly desperate and as if sensing this a triple substitution follows with Harry Clarke, Kayden Jackson and Jack Taylor replacing Williams, Ladapo and Ball.  “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand possibly having heard the question on last night’s University Challenge about the Harry Belafonte and Boney M recordings of Mary’s Boy Child.  Town win a corner and twenty-five minutes of the match remain plus any time added on for bad behaviour and injuries.

Tonight’s attendance is 29,100, with 1,698 supporting QPR we are told. Thank you for your “magnificent support tonight and all year” announces Murphy, toadying to the public. “Ere for the Rangers, You’re only ‘ere for the Rangers” chant the QPR supporters as if singing about Vincent Van Gogh. Twenty minutes remain and things are so desperate Pat from Clacton gets out the masturbating monkey charm along with several others that she carries in her purse, including a random owl and the Hindu deity Ganesh. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.

Thirteen minutes remain, and QPR’s appropriately named Ilias Chair sits down near the far touchline; he is ignored, and the game carries on before he is eventually substituted.  “Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” chant the home crowd. “Fuck off Ipswich” reply the away crowd, employing what possibly passes for an exchange of pleasantries in places like Willesden.  “Lovely feet” says the bloke behind me as Vaclav Hladky checks his stride to fool an opponent and then clears the ball.  Begovic is booked for time wasting and QPR win two more corners in a rare second half attack. “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna…” chant the home support, relieved that the ball has been cleared, before a final switch sees Blue Eyes and Hutchinson replaced by Sone Aluko and Gerard Buabo, who nobody seems to have ever heard of.

The announcement of eight minutes of added on time comes as a bit of a welcome surprise; Fiona thinks it’s because of QPR’s time-wasting ‘tactics’. The added time passes all to quickly however and despite angry, desperate calls and shouts Town cannot score, although more happily they don’t concede either.  After such a marvellous twelve months at Portman Road it is a disappointing match with which to end the year, the only home league game in which we haven’t scored since October 2022, but it is also the only match in which all five of our five best attacking players have not been available to play; it has been the sort of team selection we would more usually expect if playing a first round League Cup tie against Sutton United or Crawley Town.  

Disappointed, but not downhearted, or even that bothered I leave the stadium and hobble to the railway station.  It feels like old times, comfortably yet uncomfortably familiar. This is what football used to be like before we started all this winning malarkey, this is what real football is about, as lovely as the success is.  I’m sure we will return to winning ways when the missing players return,  but for now I’m going to enjoy listening to and smiling at the wailing and gnashing of teeth of supporters who haven’t benefitted from having had a season ticket every year since 1983.

Ipswich Town 2 Coventry City 1

/ martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

Some Saturdays, when I wake up early in the morning, I am full of enthusiasm and ideas about how to fill the time before I set off for Portman Road.  On other Saturdays however, I simply can’t be bothered, I just want to turn off my mind, relax and float down stream.  When I go to bed on a Friday night, I rarely know what my state of mind will be when I awake.  Today, I am proud to report, is one of the enthusiastic Saturday mornings and I proceed to clean the kitchen shelves, top up the bird feeders in the garden, separate the recycling, put the week’s vegetable peelings on the compost heap and try, but sadly fail to mend a roller blind. It may not sound a lot, but to me it’s like a lifetime’s achievement.

By the time I bid my wife farewell and leave for the railway station I feel flushed with success and optimistic for this afternoon’s match versus Coventry City, a fixture which always conjures distant memories of disappointing low scoring draws and floodlight failure.  The train is on time despite the app on my mobile phone telling me it is delayed; it is also quite full, and I end up in one of those annoying seats which only has a half a window to look out of.  I spend my time trying to avoid staring at a man on the opposite side of the carriage who sports mutton chop whiskers and a tweed flat cap of a type you might expect to see on the heads of drivers in the London to Brighton veteran and vintage car run.  Unhappily, the name Rhodes-Boyson also pops up in my unfortunate mind.  More fortunately however, I know that Gary will be getting on at the next station and I text him precise instructions of where to find me on the train (in the middle of the third (middle) carriage). 

Once the train has stopped and moved off, it’s a little while before Gary appears, a vision in orange at the far end of the carriage, tottering between the rows of seats towards me.  As he sits down, he questions whether I am not actually in the fourth carriage. “Bloody cheek” I tell him and draw his attention to the display directly above us which helpfully says ‘you are here’ in the middle of a diagram of five railway coaches.  We don’t let it spoil our friendship of about thirty years however, and we are still talking merrily as the train draws into Ipswich station and we become small particles in the mass of humanity that squeezes over the footbridge, through the ticket barriers and spills out onto the plaza in front of the station.  I tell Gary that I think the progress through the station was particularly slow today because everyone is wearing big coats.

We head up Princes Street and Portman Road, pausing only for me to buy a programme (£3.50),  and  we discuss how the club could offer supporters a deal, much like the East Anglian Daily Times ‘goody- bag’, of a programme and an ice cream for four quid.  In due course we arrive at ‘the Arb’ where I buy a pint of Lager 43 for Gary and by way of a change a pint of Nethergate ‘Black Adder’ for myself. As I am about to pay, Mick appears and I buy him a pint of his ‘usual’ Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride.  (£12.54 for the three including Camra discount).   Gary tells us that Lager 43 is much better than Lager 42, and we retire to the beer garden to sit in the cold and talk of Henry Kissinger, Terry Venables and Shane McGowan, cheap rail travel for the over sixties and bus passes. Before we talk more of counting the carriages on trains and eventually leave, Gary buys another pint of Lager 43 for himself, a pint of Suffolk Pride for me and a Jamieson whisky for Mick.

The beer garden has cleared by the time we depart for Portman Road and we soon join the gathering masses as we cross Civic Drive and make our way across the Portman Road car park before Gary and Mick break away down Sir Alf Ramsey Way towards their seats in the West Stand and I continue towards the Sir Alf Ramsey stand.  Turnstile 62 has a slow-moving queue, and I would probably do better to jump ship to turnstile 61, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Happily, my life proves long enough to stand some queuing and I am soon edging past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat.  Of course, ever-present Phil who never misses a game is already here, but absent today is his young son Elwood and most surprisingly, Paul, the man from Stowmarket.

The names of the teams are read out by Murphy the stadium announcer, and unusually he does okay today, for a while anyway, until he gets to  “Conor Chaplin”, which he announces as if it’s all one word, wrecking all attempts by people trying to be French and bawling out the players’ surnames as they are announced. I might have to write to the club about Murphy, he’s certainly no Stephen Foster.   Disappointed, but not surprised I await the start of the match and enjoy some magnificently fulsome “Na-na-nas” as the crowd joins in with “Hey Jude”.

The game begins and Town get first go with the ball. Coventry have their backs to us and wear shirts of black and green halves and black shorts; a kit which harks back to the Coventry City of the 1960’s and 1970’s, although it was in stripes back then.  Town of course are in blue and white.  It’s a gloriously grey afternoon, which is oddly how I remember the 1970’s, but the strains of the Eton Boating Song emanating from the Coventry supporters in the Cobbold stand give it a somewhat surreal edge.  “Wolfy at the back, Ladapo in attack” sing the North Stand uninterested in facts.  “Wolfy” appears to have had his hair bleached again, which might explain why he didn’t play on Wednesday.  Mist and fog swirls around above the pitch like wraiths, the ghosts of Saturday afternoons long past come to see the best football at Portman Road in almost a generation.

“Football in a library, der-der-der” chant the Coventry-ites jealously and, for the time being, slightly mysteriously.  Five minutes pass. The ball is played out of defence, Nathan Broadhead jinks past an opponent and slips a precision pass through for George Hirst to chase, he steps across his pursuer, slowing him down and creating the space and the angle to shoot perfectly beyond the Coventry goalkeeper. Yet again, a goal, a thing of beauty.  Town lead one-nil and immediately look to increase their advantage, earning a corner almost directly from the re-start. “Come On You Blues” I chant repetitively, along with  ever-present Phil and no one else at all.

“Addy, Addy, Addy-O, ITFC, they’re the team for me” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers and the volume seems to rise a notch as Town regain possession. Fourteen minutes have gone and Nathan Broadhead materialises in the penalty box, ghosting out of the miss, but  as I tense my leg muscles ready to leap from my seat he sends the ball inexplicably wide of the far post.  I had the faith, why didn’t he score? May be he’s not the Messiah after all.

It takes nearly twenty minutes for Coventry to win a corner and then shoot over the cross bar.  “Carrow Road is falling down” they chant at the far end of the ground and through the fog the tops of St Clare House and the AXA buildings peak over the Cobbold Stand as if taking a look at what’s going on.  The Eton boating song is heard again; who knew so many Coventry fans went to public school?  Time rolls on. Wes Burns shoots over the Coventry goal, Nathan Broadhead heads over it from a corner.  The Eton boating song is aired again and Coventry put the ball in the Town net, but the ‘scorer’ was offside. Half-time creeps nearer,  Massimo Luongo is booked for an innocuous looking foul and the fella in front of me informs us that he’ll be suspended for next Saturday’s match, Luongo that is, not the bloke in front of me.

There are four minutes until half time. Town should have scored more goals and I’m beginning to wonder if a one-nil home win could be a reality. Conor Chaplin produces a majestic cross field pass to Leif Davis.   Leif Davis does the same, but to Wes Burns.  For a bit of variety, Wes Burns doesn’t attempt to go past the full-back and cross the ball, but instead he cuts inside on his right foot and drifts past two surprised Coventry players. Burns is still 20 metres out but there’s a gap, but the ball is to his right, he can only hit this on the outside of his right boot, surely not.  Town lead two-nil and it has to be the best Town goal of the season so far, it might be the best this century. Wow.  “Burns, Burns will tear you apart again” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand delving into their parent’s and grandparent’s record collections.

Murphy announces three minutes of added on time and the otherwise joyful mood is brought down by the usual dirge-like rendition of “When the Town going marching in”, the miserable, plodding tempo of which suggests that when the Town do go marching in we’re all gonna jump off the Orwell bridge.

Half-time is a glorious release from the misery of the Sir Bobby Robson stand song book and it’s time to siphon off some excess Suffolk Pride and have a chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison about nothing in particular, except of course that goal.

With the start of the second half I eat a Nature Valley cereal bar and Pat from Clacton takes a selfie with Fiona, I think to show how wrapped up against the cold they are today, and indeed they do look as if they will be going back to their igloos after the match.  On the pitch, Coventry’s Sheath shoots over and then Vaclav Hladky has to perform a decent save, which prompts more boating for the Eton old boys up in Cobbold stand.  Jimmy Hill has a lot to answer for, although he’s probably not responsible for what follows next which is the singing over and over again of the 1961 song, Twist and Shout, although this does at least explain why, when the Beatles covered it on their “Please, Please Me” album, they kept it down to a listenable two minutes and thirty-three seconds, clearly understanding the maxim ‘leave them wanting more’, not less.

Coventry are having the better of the second half in terms of possession and they have succeeded in preventing Ipswich from looking like scoring whenever they go forward.  A Coventry corner is headed wide and with the game two-thirds over the first Town substitutions are made.  “Na-Na-Na-Sky Blues” sing our guests before justifiably pointing out “ Two-nil and you still don’t sing”.  Coventry gain another corner and the atmosphere can best be described as tense amongst the preternaturally pessimistic Town fans.  It’s hard to sing when you feel sick.  Pat from Clacton is so worried she’s thinking about releasing her Cambodian masturbating monkey charm.  I tell her it’s a bit too cold for anyone to have their trousers down today, and together Fiona and I question whether he’s a brass monkey.

Murphy announces this afternoon’s attendance as 29,378 with 1,970 being from Coventry.  He thanks us for our support but happily doesn’t describe it as ‘amazing’ or ‘incredible’, so he is improving, if only very slowly. Coventry win yet another corner and then, more worryingly, a penalty as Harry Clarke’s foot accidentally makes contact with the shin of Tatsuhiro Sakamoto who inevitably then makes contact with the pitch as if hit by a tram.  “Miss it, miss it, miss it, miss it, miss it “I chant to myself and the mantra works as Godden smacks the ball against the cross bar.  The penalty miss seems to shut the Coventry fans up and Massimo Luongo has a shot saved as the fates smile on Ipswich again giving Kieran Mckenna the confidence to make two more substitutions. “Blue and White Army” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand sensing the need for a moment’s support.

The final ten minutes of normal time find Pat from Clacton looking forward to her baked potato when she gets home as well as some sticky chicken drumsticks; Marks & Spencer were out of the usual ones. Coventry have another corner and their number twenty-two Joel Latibeaudiare shoots hopelessly over the cross bar.  Five minutes of added on time are to be played and our thoughts are turning to the next match at Portman Road, which is the Norwich game.  Pat from Clacton hates the Norwich match. “You get that lot up in the Cobbold singing their stupid On the Ball City song” she says, and she’s right, it’s not a pleasant experience, unless Town win of course, but the match has to be endured before that.  The fifth additional minute becomes the sixth and the ball is crossed into the Town penalty box where Brandon Williams looks to be shoved by the hefty Ellis Sims causing the ball to bounce off Williams’s torso and inside the far post to gift Coventry a goal that they seemed incapable of scoring by the usual, conventional means.  The goal however,  is the last but one ‘kick’ of the match, as time is called as soon as the game kicks off again.

Town have largely had to defend their lead in the second half, but they did it quite comfortably and overall the game was just the latest in the steady procession of Town victories since the start of last season.  But the special ingredient today was ‘that goal’.  No one here today will surely ever forget that,  and I can only  guess that when Wes Burns woke up this morning he was definitely feeling enthusiastic for the day ahead, just like me.

Ipswich Town 3 Swansea City 2

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

This morning at about half past one I suddenly awoke from what had been a deep sleep, and as I tried to return to my dreams my mind began to race and I was thinking of the first time I saw Ipswich Town play Swansea City, almost exactly forty-two years ago, on 7th November 1981.  Swansea, enjoying a very good start to their first ever season in what some people now call the Premier League, went on to win by three goals to two.  I was only twenty-one years old, and recall being royally pissed off at what I think was the Town’s first home defeat of the season.  The following March, I drove down to the Vetch Field, Swansea with my friend Tim in his 1968 Morris Minor 1000, and despite the best efforts of referee Clive Thomas, who awarded the home team a highly dubious penalty, we witnessed Town exact revenge as we won by two goals to one.  We stayed the night in Swansea, and spent an evening crawling the city’s pubs. Sadly, all I really recall, apart from correctly pronouncing Cymru Cenedlaethol on the side of a bus,  is playing pool in a pub and leaning down to look along my cue and seeing beyond it and the cue ball and the cushion and up the dress of a young woman sat on the other side of the bar, opposite the pool table. I was a shy, single, young man so I probably blushed, but shamefully I cannot deny that the sight of this young woman’s red pants has stayed with me ever since.  In their early twenties my grandfathers and my father had all been tasked with killing Germans, but I just had to cope with the freedom they helped win.

Since that guilty, intoxicated evening in South Wales, I have seen Swansea City a further fourteen times, but only half of those matches have been against Ipswich Town. The other seven matches were at Manchester City (one), Portsmouth (one) and Colchester (five), and Swansea didn’t win any of them.  In all the intervening years I have never seen another Welsh woman’s pants and even though Ipswich are once again playing Swansea City, I do not expect to do so today as I step from my front door beneath a clear blue sky and head for the railway station.  I have been looking forward to today’s game after no home match for three weeks, and in an early morning trip to the shops even bought two packets of Welsh cakes by way of celebration; I ate a couple for breakfast. I was born in Wales see, albeit in Haverfordwest.

The train is on time and not particularly busy.  At the first stop I am joined by Gary who is wearing a bright orange jacket over his Ipswich Town home shirt. We talk of whether we are sat in a carriage or a car, when Gary is likely to retire, the sort of people who ‘go postal’, and on which train journeys to watch football matches it might be possible to see a Polar Bear from the train window; surprisingly Swansea to Ipswich is one of them.  It seems unlikely there are trains to Svalbard, but hopefully there is football even if only with seal skins for goalposts.  Arriving in Ipswich, my exit from the station is annoyingly delayed by being unable to display my e-ticket on my phone, I eventually manage to create a glimpse of it for a split second and fortunately the ticket collector seems happy with that.  I will later learn of an “update”.

Gary and I stroll up Princes Street and Portman Road towards ‘the Arb’, pausing only so that I may buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the blue booths, the appearance of which tempts me to ask for a choc ice as well, but luckily I resist. At ‘the Arb’, Mick is already stood at the bar about to order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride.  Now aware of our arrival, Mick generously buys two pints of Suffolk Pride, and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary, who to my knowledge never has drunk proper beer.  We repair to the beer garden to talk of the horrible Suella Braverman, the ‘A Load of Cobbolds’ fanzine, the Covid enquiry and the lies of Boris Johnson, and last night’s Ligue 1 encounter between Montpellier Herault SC and OGC Nice, which despite being an open, attacking match, ended goalless. I return to the bar to buy myself a further pint of Suffolk Pride, a Jameson whisky for Mick and a half of Lager 43 for Gary (£10.40 including Camra discount). We continue our conversation, which unusually does not involve reference to death or illness today, although we do talk of remembrance poppies and Mick recalls how his father was responsible for distributing them in the Orford area and how in the days when the ‘stems’ were made of wire the poppies first had to be assembled.  At about twenty-five to three we depart for Portman Road.

The queues at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand are shorter today and seem to be being managed by stewards.  I go to queue at the illustrious turnstile 62 but am ushered towards a side gate where my season ticket is scanned by a woman using a hand-held device which looks like one of those things you use to find hidden electrical wiring in walls. I arrive at my seat moments before the two teams parade onto the pitch. Naturally, the man from Stowmarket, Fiona, Pat from Clacton, ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his young son Elwood are all already here, although it’s Pat’s first game in a while as she’s been in Mauritius to attend a wedding.  Ever-present Phil and I attempt to bawl out our players’ surnames in the French style as stadium announcer Murphy reads out the line-up, but as ever Murphy is in far too much of a hurry and has finished before the players’ faces have stopped appearing on the large screen; he really is useless, bring back Steven ‘Foz’ Foster I say.

After a minute’s silence and the last post and occupation of the centre circle by various personnel from the armed forces, things never seen or heard at football matches until comparatively recently, the game begins, with Ipswich in traditional blue shirts and white shorts getting first go with the ball,  and sending it mostly in my general direction.  Swansea City are today wearing an un-necessary away kit of reddish shirts, shorts and socks.  Unfortunately, the reddish colour of their kit reminds me of the young Welsh woman’s pants from 1981, so I try to imagine them all with just one leg each and no heads, to make them look like a team of Lyons Maid Raspberry Mivvis.

“I do, but I don’t” says the bloke behind me about I’ve no idea what, and after three minutes Town win the game’s first corner. A couple of rows in front of me a young man is topless and the waist band of his Calvin Klein pants is visible to all.  Suddenly I can smell meat and gravy and assume that someone nearby has bought a pie; it’s either that or the Army personnel in the centre circle were from the catering corp.  “Blue and White Army” chant the section of the crowd up in the corner of the Cobbold Stand before a wider congregation strikes up with a chorus of “We’ve got super Kieran Mckenna, He knows exactly what we need…”.   The Swansea goalkeeper, whose name, Carl Rushworth, would be ideal in a match with ‘rush goalies’ is all in orange, so looks like a Wall’s Solero Exotic.  “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, By far the greatest team the world has ever seen” chant some of the crowd and there’s every chance I sang the very same at the Vetch Field back in 1981.

Seven minutes are almost up and rather disappointingly Swansea City score, a dinked cross from inside the penalty area being nodded into the corner of the goal by their number four, a bloke called Jay Fulton. “Who are ya?” chant the Swansea fans having presumably forgotten where they are and being too idle to look at their match programmes or tickets.  “One-nil to the sheep shaggers” they continue, in more revelatory mood, and suddenly I don’t feel quite so bad about having once accidentally glimpsed a young Welsh woman’s pants in a public bar.

Town win another corner. “Come On You Blues” I shout and from a low cross, a shot goes curling over the cross bar. “Der, der, der, Football in a library” chant the Swansea fans imaginatively, getting in as much gloating as possible whilst they still can.   Omari Hutchinson shoots straight at Rushworth and for the third time in the last few minutes a Town player is flagged offside, raising doubts about the parentage of the linesman with the chequered flag.

Town are giving Swansea a hard time, but all of a sudden the world is restored to its axis in truly spectacular fashion as Jack Taylor strikes a magnificent 20-odd metre shot against the inside of Rushworth’s left-hand post and the ball hurtles and spins into the back of the net.  Quel but! (What a goal!) as they didn’t get to shout in Montpellier last night.  From my position in the cheap seats, I have a thrilling head-on view of the ball as it speeds towards the goal.  All the best goals strike the wood work as they go in; that final split-second diversion adding a thump of confirmation to the event, like having your passport stamped or hearing the pop of a Champagne cork.  As Fiona observes, today’s goal is the polar opposite of Taylor’s goal at Rotherham earlier in the week, which spun in off his leg from close range, almost without his knowing it.

Ipswich Town are now almost unstoppable. Conor Chaplin shoots over the bar and Omari Hutchinson has a shot saved despite having seemingly dribbled around Rushworth.  “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand getting all festive and nostalgic at the same time, and just five minutes after Taylor’s goal, George Hirst heads the ball down and Conor Chaplin spins on his right foot and hooks the ball inside the near post with his left from a few metres out. The Town lead two-one.  Presumably, the Swansea fans up in the Cobbold stand now answer their earlier question “Oh, it’s you lot” .

Town now just need some more goals to confirm their superiority, but instead there is a bit of a melee with players either squaring up to, pushing away or pulling apart their team-mates and opponents, perhaps depending on how zen they are feeling today.  Conor Chaplin and Swansea’s Liam Cullen are booked by referee Mr Sunny Singh Gill, presumably as the instigators.  In the stands there is almost the burst of a song, but then it all goes quiet, with even the away fans feeling too crushed by the turn around in scoreline to sing “Two-one, and you still don’t sing”.   If there was a corner of the ground occupied by fans of a musical and literary bent, now would be the time for them to sing “ We all agree,  Britten is better than Thomas”.

With ten minutes of the first half left Omari Hutchinson breaks down the right, but his low cross is just an overly long stud’s length away from being diverted into the goal by Nathan Broadhead.  A couple of minutes later the blokes behind me clear off to the bar, whilst Mr Singh seems to take far too long to allow Conor Chaplin back onto the field after receiving treatment, perhaps he has been influenced by Suella Braverman and sees receiving treatment as a ‘lifestyle choice’.

In the final ‘normal’ minute of the half Sam Morsy gives George Hirst the chance to score, but Hirst’s shot is saved and as we progress into four minutes of additional time Jack Taylor surges into the box and might or might not be tripped and Portman Road reverberates to the sound of the question “Who’s the wanker in the black?  Encouragingly, I don’t hear any references to Gunga Din, Gandhi or corner shops, although Mr Singh is roundly booed as he leaves the pitch.

The half-time break brings a chat with the man from Stowmarket who Pat from Clacton later discovers is called Paul.  I syphon off some spent Suffolk Pride and enjoy the almost theatrical display by the pitch sprinklers before the football resumes at ten past four and Town set about getting the goals that they should have and almost did, but ultimately didn’t score in the first half. Immediately things are different as the seat next to me, which was empty in the first half, is occupied by a woman with obviously dyed hair, who might be the mother of one or more of the blokes sat behind me.  Ipswich quickly win a corner after some argument, and predictably once the kick is taken a free-kick is then awarded to Swansea.

Mr Singh further endears himself to the crowd as Leif Davis is cynically shoved into the advert hoardings as he tries to run past a Swansea defender, but no yellow card is shown.  Seven minutes into the half however all is forgiven, for a while any way, as Mr Singh awards Town a penalty.  No one sat near me has any idea why,  but we’re not too bothered, particularly when George Hirst steps up to score and Town lead three-one.  There is a feeling of contentment around me and it seems like we will be happy if the score stays like this, although further Town goals will not be turned away.

The action on field follows the pattern of a team closing the game down and Swansea enjoy more possession but to little effect. There are however occasional moments of anxiety. Swansea break forward, but Leif Davis calmly first looks for the offside flag, and then realising it isn’t coming makes a perfectly timed sliding tackle inside the penalty area. Five minutes on and the first substitutions are made for Town as Marcus Harness and Wes Burns replace Omari Hutchinson and Nathan Broadhead.  Pat from Clacton shares with us how much she loves Marcus Harness’s ‘lovely blue eyes’ and can’t hold back from telling her that even I had noticed those too.  Harness immediately intercepts a Swansea pass and draws appreciative applause.

There are twenty-five minutes of normal time remaining as Town win a corner and the sky darkens behind the floodlights as one of the first early winter evenings descends and I can feel the chill of the air as I breathe in. “Carrow Road is falling down” chant Town fans in the furthest top corner of the Cobbold stand, but where I’m sat no one can understand what else they’re singing or whether it’s witty, abusive or stupid.  Four minutes later and Mr Singh stops his charm offensive as he sends off Swansea’s Liam Cullen, we think following a second yellow card after a foul on Leif Davis. “Cheerio, Cheerio, Cheerio” sing the Town fans sympathetically.

Surely the three points are now safe with only ten men to play against, and the optimism in the stands   is expressed in chants of “Ole Ole Ole” from those Town fans who just won’t let the memories of holidays on the Costas fade away.  Would that Keiran McKenna, as wonderful as he is, was as colourful, as he stands in the technical area in his dull grey trousers and black car coat.  If promotion to the First Division is achieved, I’m hopeful that the budget will then stretch to a stylist for Kieran.  Town win another corner and the attendance is announced by Murphy as 28,929 with 634 from Swansea, although to be fair to the Welsh it is a very long way from Ipswich; four-hundred and forty-three kilometres in fact.  “Thank you once more for your incredible support” says Murphy, stretching the definition of incredible.

The final ten minutes of normal time see Marcus Harness booked by Mr Singh; the bloke behind me asks “ Is he dead?” of the player Harness fouled. Town win a corner and Mr Singh walks patiently over to the dug outs to raise his yellow card towards someone on the Swansea bench.  Freddie Ladapo replaces George Hirst. Swansea win a rare corner and we are told that there will be a minimum of nine minutes of additional time, which in percentage terms when added to the four in the first half is greater than the Camra discount on beer at ’the Arb’. 

I am thinking that added on time is just something to be endured, until the right-hand side of the Town defence gets a puncture and Jamahl Lowe rather embarrassingly skips past Luke Woolfenden and around the excellent Vaclav Hladky to make the score three-two from very close range.  Pat from Clacton is suddenly nervous, and Hladky makes a late challenge for the title of Man of the Match, even though it has already been awarded to Jack Taylor.  But Town survive and victory is ours yet again, and it’s been yet another rollicking match; Kieran Mckenna and his team continuing to make up for  fifteen years of mediocrity and worse, in fifteen months.

It’s gone five o’clock as Pat from Clacton and Fiona hurry away to buses and trains, but I stay for a short while to applaud, although the game has finished so late that I can’t linger long either, as my train leaves at nineteen minutes past.  When I eventually head into the cold, damp evening I wonder if this afternoon’s match will live in my memory like my trip to Swansea of forty years ago, I hope so.