Ipswich Town 0 Queens Park Rangers 0

December 30, 2023December 30, 2023 / 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 13^th; 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

December 3, 2023December 4, 2023 / 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

November 12, 2023October 13, 2024 / 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 7^th 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.

Ipswich Town 1 Fulham 3

November 6, 2023August 30, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I have been at work all day today, since before eight o’clock; not working at home as I usually am, but in ‘the office’, experiencing first-hand the sounds and smells of my fellow human beings and colleagues. It’s been a long day, but now at nearly five o’clock I can release myself from the yoke of gainful employment and look forward to knocking off early tomorrow afternoon because I have clocked up an unseemly amount of flexi-time. But I strive to live more in the moment, and before tomorrow afternoon’s idleness comes the hopeful pleasure of League Cup football at Portman Road, as second division Ipswich Town confront first division Fulham.

It was almost exactly fifty years ago to the day that I first saw Ipswich Town play Fulham, and uncannily, or more probably just by mere coincidence, it was also in a League Cup tie, albeit a replay. Like today, Ipswich were riding the crest of a wave, enjoying a season in which we would go onto beat Southampton 7-0 and win both legs of the Texaco Cup final against Norwich City, and in which we had already despatched Real Madrid and Lazio from the UEFA Cup and the then mighty Leeds United from the League Cup. Town were the only domestic club to beat Leeds United in the 1973-74 season before late February when Stoke City inflicted upon them their first League defeat of the season, and how everyone cheered, because everyone hated Leeds United back then; even Leeds United hated Leeds United back then. Fulham would be the first second division team I ever saw. Town won 2-1 that night, but as I recall, and as the scoreline hints, it wasn’t an easy win. My father was in the Royal Navy back then and was able to get his hands on the complimentary tickets to the director’s box that the club provided for the captain of HMS Ganges at Shotley. We had those seats in the directors’ box for that match and as Town struggled to get the better of Fulham, I remember drawing disapproving glances from people who must have been Fulham officials as I shouted out “Come on Town, you can beat this lot, they’re only second division”. Tonight, fifty years on, the tables are turned.

It’s not much past six o’clock when I enter ‘the Arb’ and order a pint of Wolf Brewery Howler (£3.70 with Camra discount). After a delay to look at a menu, I also order chips with chicken and chilli (£8) before retiring to the beer garden in which there only four other people, two young blokes, and a large woman who swigs beer from a bottle; she is with a smaller man who has a glass of fruit juice; they are a drinks-based version of Jack Spratt and his wife. Later, the man and woman will leave to be replaced by two couples and another man on his own. Not unexpectedly for the first night of November, it’s not warm, and it’s breezy too. I drink my beer and eat my food and try to read the programme (£3) that I had bought earlier in the club shop. But the light is dim, and I find it hard to read the small typeface. I cannot find any mention of the match of fifty years ago in the programme, only the less specific reminiscences of Simon Milton, who before becoming famed in the writings of Dave Allard of the Ipswich Evening Star as “the former paintsprayer and van driver from Thetford”, lived with his parents in Fulham. I buy another beer, this time a pint of Nethergate Compete Howler (£3.87 with the Camra discount). The two blokes beside me talk about television programmes they have seen. One of them has seen a programme about prison inmates and says “One of them was a serial kidnapper and torturer, so he kidnapped people and tortured them.” They ramble on to discuss cold hands and wearing hats and thermals, and a television character who had a “New York twinge” to his accent.

With no Mick with me tonight, because he has to attend his daughter-in-law’s birthday celebration, I sup up my beer and leave for Portman Road a bit earlier than usual. Portman Road is busy and my path along it is regularly blocked at ninety degrees by queues for the Cobbold Stand. The mass of people at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stands is so dense that I don’t even attempt to negotiate it and instead walk around the old Churchman’s building and approach from Russell Road, which is much easier, although I still have to queue for a few minutes to get to my beloved turnstile 62. I feel a sense of achievement as I successfully pass through the turnstile using the QR code on the e-mail on my mobile phone, and to think, I failed my Physics ‘O’ level. Tonight, by way of a change, but mainly because the flat rate ticket price of £20 is an opportunity to sit somewhere ‘better’ than the cheap seats where I usually sit, I have purchased a seat in the upper tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand. Thinking of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand as Sir Alf’s face, if my usual seat is somewhere on his chin or at the corner of his mouth, tonight I am up on his left cheek, at the corner of his eye, where in the days before Kieran McKenna the seats were probably always damp with Sir Alf’s tears.

I am in good time to see the teams parade onto the pitch tonight and hear stadium announcer Murphy attempt to enthuse the crowd with mention more than once of “being under the floodlights tonight”. Murphy proceeds to make a complete hash of reading out the teams, hurrying through the names like they’re a shopping list, failing to synchronise with the big screen as the faces of the players appear on it and failing to pause at all between first and second names so that the crowd can bawl out the surnames as if we were French. I do the best that I can to shout out those surnames, to the amusement of the two young men next to me, but Dom Ball is a step too far and in the mouth of Murphy sounds like Doughball. Murphy then reads out Elkan Baggott’s name and number twice; if he read a bit more slowly, perhaps he wouldn’t make so many mistakes. “Murphy, you’re bloody useless” I call out and the blokes beside me laugh again.

The game begins and Fulham get first go with the ball, kicking it to their best of their ability in the direction of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, Handford Road and Akenham and Barham far beyond. Ipswich are wearing their traditional blue shirts and socks and white shorts and it’s pleasing to see that Fulham are also wearing their signature kit of white shirts and black shorts, just like they did back in 1973, although this year they have black sleeves also. “Super Fulham, Super Fulham FC” sing the visiting supporters up in the Cobbold stand. The opening action on the pitch is muddled and uncertain. It’s as if the teams know not everyone has taken their seats yet, so they’re waiting a bit until we’re all in before beginning in earnest. The seats behind me and in front of me are empty. In the dullness of the early minutes, I notice how the bottom tier of the Cobbold Stand is painted matt black, like the interior of a 1980’s theme pub. The Ipswich supporters in the other end of the Cobbold Stand and the Sir Bobby Robson stand are singing, but sound like they’re in the next room. “Go on!” says the bloke next to me suddenly as a Town player gets the ball, and several in the crowd clap in time to the Sir Bobby Robson stand supporters singing “Addy, addy, addy-O”. The row in front of me is being filled with small children and their parents along with three teenage girls with very long straight hair, lots of make-up and hands grasping polystyrene containers full of chips.

Nine minutes have gone and as Fulham push forward Ipswich suddenly seem to have no left-back. Fulham exploit the oversight and the fulsomely named Bobby Decordova-Reid provides the wide pass that allows Harold Wilson time to take off his Gannex raincoat and light his pipe before taking the ball around Christian Walton and rolling it into an unguarded goal net. Fulham lead one-nil, which wasn’t expected. “Que sera sera, Whatever will be will be, We’re going to Wemb-er-ley” sing the Fulham fans joyously, and the two blokes next to me laugh.

“Here for the Fulham, You’re only here for the Fulham” sing the Fulham fans partly gloating and partly realising that they can’t see many empty seats, but more probably ironically acknowledging that no one other than a Fulham supporter would normally go anywhere to see Fulham. Twelve minutes have gone forever, and referee Mr Lewis Smith awards the first free-kick of the game, to Fulham. I notice that the name on the shirt of the Fulham number three is Bassey, and I wonder if he’s known as Shirley. Ipswich now lose their right-back somewhere and in the aftermath Janoi Donacien deflects a Fulham shot onto the Town cross-bar.

Ipswich haven’t done much so far by way of creating goals of their own, but Kayden Jackson has a shot deflected past the post for a corner after Fulham generously give the ball away. “Come On You Blues” I chant four times making the blokes beside me laugh, but no one else up here makes a sound. Janoi Donacien heads over the crossbar. “We’re on our way” sing the Sir Bobby Robson Stand alluding to hoped-for promotion, which seems an odd thing to sing at a League Cup tie. These millennials eh? From where I am sitting, I can see the top of the roof of the West Stand and forty years of accumulated lichens and grime; the stand looks quite old-fashioned and industrial from here, I rather like it.

Back on the pitch, and Town’s passing isn’t always reaching its intended recipients, there is a degree to which these players don’t look as though they have played very much together before tonight. “What’s going on here boys?” calls a bloke behind me, whilst another just says “Fucking shit”. The Fulham fans meanwhile enjoy themselves with a snippet of opera to which they sing the words “Is this a library?” and indeed, the Ipswich crowd is doing what it does best, keeping quiet in adversity. Sone Aluko draws some appreciation however, with a fine cross-field pass to Kayden Jackson and Mr Lewis then gives a free-kick to Fulham, the bloke behind me exclaims “ That’s bloody bollocks that is”.

As the game enters its middle third, Mr Lewis suddenly remembers his yellow cards and books Marcus Harness, Fulham’s Sasa Lukic and Town’s Jack Taylor, although none of them had done anything particularly heinous. If it was an attempt by Mr Lewis to get the crowd to sing about him it worked, and he is treated to numerous renditions of “Who’s the wanker in the black?” which many a Welsh chapel or colliery choir would surely be proud of. The young blokes beside me laugh, twice.

Half-time draws ever closer and both sets of fans have gone quiet, it’s that kind of a game. Four minutes until half-time and the Fulham fans blink first and blurt out a song of encouragement, albeit just “Come on Fulham, Come of Fulham” which sounds more forlorn and desperate than it does inspiring, as if the words “Oh for God’s sake” have somehow been edited out. Just a minute before the first half is due to expire, and following a corner, Christian Walton has to make a save from a shot by Shirley Bassey. Three minutes of added on time are announced by Murphy, although I doubt he’s got it right, and Town have the ball for a brief period. “Now we go, now we break” says a bloke behind me, but he’s wrong, and we don’t. Half-time comes as a relief when it arrives and so I go downstairs to drain off some surplus ‘Howler’ and ‘Complete Howler’.

Having returned to my seat, there’s not much to enjoy about half-time. Murphy interviews some local boxer and makes an arse of himself by speaking like a boxing bout compere, but when that’s over I enjoy the fountain-like pitch sprinklers and the odd names of what I assume are children attending their first matches tonight; I hope Jonah doesn’t live up to his name and wonder about the origins of Beau and Guinea. If I have a dull moment before the Swansea City game I think I might write to the club claiming I shall be attending my first match and that my name is Kermit or Beaker. I always liked the Muppets.

At nine minutes to nine, according to my mobile phone, the football resumes. Five minutes in and Fulham lead two-nil as a well angled cross from the Fulham right is tucked into the Ipswich goal from about seven metres out by a Brazilian called Rodrigo Muniz. If there is anything wrong with the Ipswich Town squad at the moment it is that we don’t have enough foreign players. As World Cups repeatedly show, teams of players who aren’t from Britain are invariably better than ones who are from Britain. Impressively the Fulham starting eleven fields just a Welshman and a Scot as the only representatives of the British Isles. “Who are ya, Who are ya?” chant the Fulham fans inquisitively, as if to say “you can’t be anyone special because you’re losing to us”, which is a fair point.

Whilst Town came back from two-nil down to beat First Division Wolverhampton Wanderers in the previous round of the League Cup, what has happened so far tonight does not suggest such a comeback will happen again this evening and indeed Fulham continue to pass the ball amongst themselves most of the time and Ipswich don’t. Much of the remainder of the game belongs to the Fulham supporters whose chanting is as close to witty as football chants ever get. “We love you Fulham” whilst not witty sounds heartfelt, but the singing of the Internationale with words altered to speak of shoving “your blue flag up your arse” is amusing both because it is directed at Britain’s greatest poseur football club Chelsea, and because it resurrects memories of Fulham’s most famous fictional fan, Citizen ‘Wolfie’ Smith.

“One of ya!” bawls a bloke behind me as Kayden Jackson and Sone Aluko both go for the ball at once and both miss it, and then the increasingly creative Fulham fans begin to sing about their former, but now deceased owner Mohamed Al-Fayed, although I guess they could be singing about his son Dodi. I have no idea what they’re singing, but I imagine it’s fun. With time running down, Town bring on Elkan Baggott, a young man who apparently has nearly as many Instagram followers as the club itself. With their team comfortably two goals up the Fulham supporters surpass themselves with the surreal chant of “Shit Leyton Orient, you’re just a shit Leyton Orient” to the Latin strains of Guatanamera. The young blokes beside me laugh, and so do I at what I think might be the first genuinely funny football chant I have ever heard.

There are twenty-one minutes of normal time remaining as George Hirst and Omari Hutchinson step forward onto the pitch charged with the task of pulling back two goals, and Freddie Ladapo and Janoi Donacien sink back into what look like knock-off sports car seats where the dugouts used to be. “Blue and White Army” chant the home crowd, digging deep for some optimism and Murphy announces tonight’s attendance “here at Portman Road”, just in case we wondered where we were, as 28,221 including 1,685 Fulham followers.

“We can still do this” people are surely thinking to themselves drawing on the spirit of Escape to Victory, but then Fulham break down the right and Tom Cairney scores from about 12 metres out shooting at and through Christian Walton. A legion of faithless, soulless, part-time Town supporters get up and leave, the clatter of their tipping up seats sounding like sarcastic applause to the imaginative ear. The game is lost it seems, but hope springs eternal, and consolation and a large two-fingers to the receding backs of all those who have just left the stadium comes just two minutes later as Town win a free-kick and Elkan Baggott stoops to head the ball into the Fulham goal and Town once again trail by only two goals, not three. The last ten minutes of the match runs down with barely renewed hope, but the home chants suggest we don’t care anyway because “E-i, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football League We Go”, and apparently that’s more important than getting to the next round of the sort of trophy Norwich City were once capable of winning. We only came out tonight for a laugh, or the blokes next to me did, and they leave early too.

The last minutes of the game are some of Town’s best, but Fulham don’t look likely to give up the ghost just yet and Hallowe’en was last night anyway. A stonking eight minutes of time added on give us incurable romantics another dollop of hope, but whilst Omari Hutchinson, Dominic Ball and Kayden Jackson all manage shots on goal, none of them realises the prize and Town’s League Cup run is over yet again.

Ultimately, it has been a disappointing evening. It’s not been a great match; it was okay, but Fulham were too good for Town’s second- best team, who never really did much, but we knew it had to end at some time or other. At least we can’t lose at home to Birmingham City in the next round like we did in 1973.

Ipswich Town 3 Plymouth Argyle 2

October 29, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

All of a sudden, summer turns to winter overnight, and it happens today, well tomorrow morning at 2 am to be precise, but as Brexit proved facts aren’t really important anymore. Looking forward to another hour in bed or staying up late without really staying up late, I kiss my wife goodbye, step out of my front door and head for the railway station. The pale autumn sun shines down upon me. As I cross the bridge over the railways tracks a man in pale grey trackie bottoms, pale grey sweatshirt and pale grey adidas baseball hat engages me in conversation about Ipswich Town’s remarkable start to the football season. Damn, he must have noticed my blue and white scarf, which I donned thinking the weather is cooler than it is. I don’t really know what to say to him, I don’t talk about football if I can help it, but nothing surprises me in football anymore. After fifty-two years watching mostly Ipswich Town, but with sizeable dollops of Colchester United, Brighton and Hove Albion and Wivenhoe Town, I’ve seen it all, haven’t I?

As I sit and wait for the train, which is a minute late, two ladybirds are also seemingly attracted by my blue and white scarf, but thankfully they don’t ask me any questions, they just settle on it until I blow them away and tell them their houses are on fire. The train arrives, I get on and am unfortunate enough to sit where I can only see out of half a window, whilst on the other side of the gangway three men, a woman and two children discuss blood pressure, although to be honest the children don’t have an opinion, they just witter and gurgle as children do. I move to a seat that is situated with a full window view. The carriage smells of whatever it’s been cleaned with and I’m feeling very warm indeed. Behind me a man says “Is it a glamorous building?” The woman with him replies “Well, it’s nice”. I remove my jacket, scarf and jumper and reflect on what has gone right and what has gone wrong with my day so far.

The train arrives in Ipswich and I make swift progress down Princes St into Portman Road, where I purchase a programme (£3.50) at one of the blue booths that looks to me like they should also sell ice creams. The programme today has a picture of the excellent Massimo Luongo on its cover, he is clenching his fists and thrusting forward his groin whilst lifting one foot off the ground as if he might be ostentatiously breaking wind. Middle-aged men and older sit on the rail fence to the nearby car park and eat packed lunches. It’s one of those days when people catch my eye and half smile as if they know me. I check to see if the zip on my trousers is undone, it’s not, but it was on Thursday morning when I took in a parcel for my neighbour from the DHL delivery man.

In time I inevitably reach ‘The Arb’, which is very busy, and I join a queue at the bar. An obese man with shiny pink lips and waxy complexion annoys me a little by “cutting the line”, as Americans say, and getting served before me. Behind the bar the one female member of staff has brightly coloured hair, and for one fleeting, fanciful, enjoyable moment I imagine it’s TV’s favourite physical anthropologist professor Alice Roberts, but of course it’s not. When it’s my turn, I order a pint of Wolf Brewery Werewolf (£3.87 with Camra discount) before retiring to the beer garden where I look at my mobile phone and notice that Mick has tried to call me, twice. I call him back and he explains that he is late because he has been called out to Felixstowe to collect a dead person. He’ll be with me later. I have drunk my first pint of Werewolf and started a second when Mick arrives at about a quarter past two with his own pint of Werewolf. We talk of the bottles of Lancelot organic beer I brought Mick back from Britanny, of Lorient and Brest and bowels, prescriptions and mutual friends. At about twenty to three we leave for Portman Road, exiting through the back gate.

Portman Road is clogged with queues for the Cobbold Stand and there are queues at the turnstiles for the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand too. Happily, the queue at turnstile 62, my favourite turnstile because 1962 was when Ipswich won what is now called the Premier League, is a bit shorter than most. I wave my season ticket vaguely in front of the screen-thing, unable to remember which bit makes it work. The bloke behind me says it’s the bit on the left, or he may have said it’s the bit on the right, I can’t remember now and will do the same thing again when I come to the next game. Either way, I pass through the turnstile and having vented some surplus Werewolf, join Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood, who are as ever already in their seats and applauding the teams as they process onto the pitch. Pat from Clacton is absent today, she’s playing whist in Mauritius. Murphy the stadium announcer reads out the names of the teams, but he is no Stephen Foster and hopelessly fails to synchronise himself with the scoreboard as it displays the names of the Town players, which he garbles leaving insufficient space between first and second names to facilitate the bellowing of the players surnames by the crowd as if we were French.

The game begins with today’s opponents Plymouth Argyle getting first go with the ball, which they aim mostly in the direction of me, the river and railway station. Town are inevitably in their signature kit of blue shirts and socks with white shorts. At first, I think Plymouth are wearing white shirts and black shorts, but a less cursory glance reveals that their shorts are a deep grey, and their shirts are a very pale, washed-out pink. I can’t decide if this is a tribute to prog rockers Caravan’s 1971 album ‘In the Land of Grey and Pink’ or if Plymouth had accidentally put their shirts in the wash with Exeter City’s. There could of course be a sensible explanation like the kit being dedicated to breast cancer awareness month, and for readers who like ‘boob jokes’, the city of Plymouth is coincidentally twinned with Brest in France.

With tickets sold out, Portman Road is loud just from people talking, but there is singing too and Christmas soon arrives with a burst of “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” quickly followed by a rendition of “ We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, He knows exactly what we need…” and it’s just as well he does because the match is not seven minutes old and Plymouth’s Morgan Whittaker plants a curling shot into the top right hand corner of Vaclav Hladky’s goal and Town are trailing one-nil. It’s a goal that inspires mass gloating from the Devonians up in the top tier of the Cobbold stand as the Argyle fans go inexplicably Spanish and start to sing “Championes, Championes, Ole, Ole, Ole” as if trying to convince us that they’re all linguists as well supporting the team that somehow pipped Town to the third division title a few months back. My inner superstitious pessimist is unexpectedly awoken by the noise, and I start to think to myself “Oh no, it’s game thirteen and we’re going to lose”. But I soon snap out of it and as Town respond with a corner, I repeatedly sing “Come on You Blues”, although solo. “No noise from the Tractor Boys” chant the Argyle fans, which, as I tell Fiona, is harsh on me, but not untruthful otherwise. Fully in character as vainglorious bastards, the Argyle fans proceed to sing “One-nil to the Champions”, and plagiarise the Pet Shop Boys in the process.

Town win a second corner and a third and Conor Chaplin has a shot blocked. A Plymouth man goes down and whilst he receives succour, everyone else has a drinks break and catches up on the coaching they’ve forgotten since walking onto the pitch twenty minutes ago. Meanwhile the away fans deliver a strangely muffled chant of “Small club in Norwich, you’re just a small club in Norwich” displaying a lack of wit normally only associated with supporters of small clubs genuinely in Norwich. Plymouth make the first substitution of the afternoon as Ryan Hardie quits when his team is ahead to be replaced with Mustapha Bundu. “Substitution for Leeds United” announces Murphy over the PA, crowning his inept performance so far this afternoon, before just announcing “Plymouth Argyle” with no accompanying word of apology or explanation for those who hadn’t heard his gaff. Bring back Stephen Foster and his best man’s suit and poorly matched shoes I say.

Nearly a quarter of the match is gone for ever and the home crowd is beginning to sound and feel fractious, like toddlers who have been up too long and need a nap. “A bit sloppy there” says the bloke behind me as Plymouth busy themselves around the Town penalty area. “Unlucky” says the bloke continuing his commentary as Omari Hutchison makes a not very good cross. Town win a fourth corner and a fifth. “Come On You Blues” I chant again, and again, and miraculously the rest of the stadium join in. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, he’s phenomenal today, he is” says the bloke behind me of Brandon Williams as the on loan full-back performs a ‘full-blooded tackle’. “He’s on another level”.

Nearly a third of the way through the game and the first airing of referee Gavin Ward’s yellow card is in the direction of Plymouth’s Mikel Miller, whose name reminds me of probably the most famous racing greyhound of all time. “Diana Nicholson, report to the nearest steward” announces Murphy putting on the sort of serious voice that might get used when talking about Jimmy Savile or Rolf Harris. Town win another corner, our seventh? I think I might have lost count. The name of Massimo Luongo joins that of the famous racing greyhound in Mr Ward’s black book. “You don’t know what you’re doing” chant the Sir Boby Robson stand predictably. Town win an eighth corner and a Nathan Broadhead header over the cross bar elicits polite applause. Town win a ninth corner before, with five minutes to go until half-time Plymouth win their first and the away support debuts their rendition of “Argyle, Argyle” a soulless dirge in which the syllables in the word Argyle are elongated to depressing lengths. A minute late the blokes behind me head for the bar.

Two minutes remain before the tea break and Whittaker breaks forward for Argyle and falls to the ground as George Edmundson makes a lunging challenge from behind. Whittaker claims a penalty, well he would, wouldn’t he, but Mr Ward is watching a different match, the same one I’m watching, and whilst it looked like a penalty perhaps, I don’t think Edmundson touched Whittaker at all. It’s soon forgotten as Town claim yet another corner and four minutes of added on time appear before us. From the corner I can’t see what happens as it’s up the other end of the pitch and I’m in the cheap seats. But then a roar goes up and it seems we’ve scored, I’ll take everyone’s word for it I tell Fiona. Massimo Luongo is given the credit and half-time soon follows.

With the break I talk to the man from Stowmarket, and he tells me how his son-in-law is a Norwich City supporter and how he went to a Norwich match with him and was lucky enough to see Norwich lose 6-1 at home to Manchester City. Having syphoned off more spent Werewolf and stared blankly up at the half-time scores on the TV in the concourse below the stand I talk to Dave the steward. We agree that we can’t quite decide what Town need to do to win the match other than score some more goals.

The football resumes at, I think, six minutes past four and Vaclav Hladky is soon saving at the feet of Plymouth’s Finn Aziz, whilst the blue skies above begin to turn more grey with gathering cloud. But then Town win yet another corner and it seems there has been a change in tactics with the ball being dropped behind the Plymouth defence as well as passed through and around it, but I could be wrong. A meagre fifth of the half has trotted off into he mists of time when Leif Davis sends a through ball for George Hirst and his accompanying marker to chase. Hirst wins and curls the ball beautifully beyond the despairing dive of the Plymouth ‘keeper and perfectly inside the far post. Although I’m in the cheap seats, I doubt my view of the goal could be bettered on this occasion. It’s a goal to prove that going two one up having been a goal down is worth the initial suffering, and the sense of relief is palpable. “Ei-Ei-Eio, Up the Football League We Go” chants the Sir Bobby Robson Stand cheerfully to prove the point.

The home crowd had been quiet and a bit miserable for most of the first half, but we really do only sing when we’re winning. Plymouth win a second corner, but Town win a twelfth or thirteenth; I’m no longer counting. Omari Hutchison has a shot deflected wide when I was convinced the ball was in the net and Conor Chaplin heads over the Plymouth cross bar. Mr Ward the referee does something which inspires the lad who sits in front of me to say “The referee’s a talking point”, previously I’ve mostly heard referees described as bastards.

Three-quarters of the match is now historical fact and I turn to Fiona to tell her it’s about now when Pat from Clacton usually tells us what she’s having for tea. I ask Fiona what she’s having; she’s having fish and chips. I tell her I’m having left over curry. On the pitch, Town make substitutions and Mr Ward produces a rash of yellow cards, mostly directed at Town players, just to confirm his status as a talking point. Conor Chaplin and Omari Hutchison continuously almost link up well down the right, but frustratingly never quite manage it until Kayden Jackson replaces Hutchison with less than fifteen minutes left of normal time. After the substitution, Hladky makes a superb flying save following a meagre third Plymouth corner, and Murphy announces this afternoon’s attendance as 29,028; “Thank you for your continued support” he says obsequiously, sounding like Uriah Heep would have if Charles Dickens had made him a stadium announcer at the weekends.

Into the last ten minutes and Hladky makes another stupendous save, perhaps the most stupendous yet; this time from a close range shot by Joe Edwards. So perfect is Hladky’s performance in the second half that I am beginning to fear he might have sold his soul to the devil during the half-time break. “That’s better than a goal, that is” says the bloke behind me, getting a bit carried away.

Four minutes of normal time remain and Town are looking leggy whilst Plymouth still look fresh; Town are hanging on but somehow retain an attacking threat because of the nature of our players, we simply have a team designed to create and score goals, apart from Vaclav Hladky that is. Sam Morsy sends Leif Davis down the left, he crosses the ball to Marcus Harness who shoots from perhaps ten metres out, but his shot strikes a defender, only for the ball to rebound to him and allow him a second chance, which he takes. These things didn’t used to happen, but now they do, and Town lead 3-1.

There will be at least six minutes of added on time. Hardly a minute of that time expires and Plymouth score again, a low cross knocked in from close range after Hladky apparently renounces Satan, and we’re back where we were. Plymouth won all the points they needed to pip Town to the third division title and more in the closing minutes of games last season, but not today, and Town succeed in closing the game down by passing the ball amongst themselves and thereby draining the hope and possibly the will to live from the Argyle players. Mr Ward is keen to remain a talking point and adds a bit more time onto the six minutes but it doesn’t matter and Town win again.

With the final whistle Fiona departs and so does the man from Stowmarket, but I stay a few minutes to applaud, whilst others seem keen to jeer the Plymouth players, I’m not sure why. It has been a very close game, but Town have won yet again, and without having to rely on penalties or offside goals, or flukes. Summer and now British summer time might have gone, but since Kieran Mckenna arrived it’s been perpetual Springtime in Ipswich.