Ipswich Town 0 Charlton Athletic 3

October 22, 2025October 23, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

The waking hours that fill most of the time before a mid-week evening fixture are a bit odd. I’m ‘at work’, albeit at home but my thoughts are mostly of knocking-off and travelling to Ippy, of pre-match pints and the match itself as I wish the day away waiting for the main event, the floodlight beams and the darkened streets.

It’s been a miserable day of showers and grey, threatening clouds and just as I walk out of my front door a heavy squall sends me back indoors looking for an umbrella. The train is on time however, and even though kick-off is not for nearly another three hours blue shirts bearing the mysterious word ‘Halo’ are out in force. Gary is soon sitting next to me having negotiated the assault course of the narrow aisle between the carriage seats. We see a polar bear through the deepening gloom outside as we settle into our familiar pre-match world.

In Ipswich the streets are wet and shiny as the traffic swishes up Civic Drive and what I still think of as a corporation bus lurches round the roundabout by the spiral car park, all glowing interior, rain-dappled windows and blurry faces heading home for tea. Low, setting sunlight shines onto the plate glass windows of the abandoned Crown Court building as Ipswich slips towards darkness. I remark to Gary how beautiful it all is, but I’m not sure he’s as moved as I am. At ‘the Arb’, homely electric light spills out into High Street, a welcoming beacon for the pre-match drinker. I buy a pint of Suffolk Pride for myself and a pint of Estrella lager for Gary (£10.21 with Camra discount) and we choose what we are going to eat before heading out the back to the beer garden, where we get out from under the spits of rain in the long rustic shelter that backs onto the road

By the time Mick arrives Gary and I are about to tuck into pulled pork and Haloumi chips respectively, and we talk of boycotting the World Cup in the USA, Mick’s work and who saw Ipswich lose at Middlesbrough on the telly last Friday. Because he bought me my Haloumi chips, I buy Gary another pint of Estrella, and a Monkey Shoulder whisky for Mick and more Suffolk Pride for myself, before Gary then buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride and another Monkey Shoulder for Mick, and I tell him I fancy mooching around Europe for a bit when I retire. All the time our conversation has to compete to be heard above that of the half dozen blokes at the table at the other end of the shelter. I can’t quite decide if they’re loud or if the tin roof makes for unhelpful acoustics.

As ever, we are the last to leave for Portman Road, probably because we are the coolest over-sixties in the pub, me in my dark overcoat, Mick looking like a mature student revolutionary and Gary in his tan puffa jacket, like a lost ski instructor. We join the gathering crowds as we cross Civic Drive again and part ways beneath the dead gaze of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue. The queues for Sir Alf’s stand are long again tonight, possibly because there are now rows of barriers funnelling us towards trestle tables and then the turnstiles, although I eventually make my entrance via the side entrance as Mr Benn might have done had the shopkeeper given him a blue a white scarf and a bobble hat one day. It’s strange how often I think of Mr Benn.

By the time I emerge onto Sir Alf’s lower tier the teams are on the pitch, I have missed the antics of the excitable young stadium announcer, his suit and his Basil Fawlty style contortions, and everyone is shaping up for the kick-off. The man from Stowmarket (Paul), Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood are all here of course, but sadly Pat from Clacton is not; she’s in Clacton where, following her week playing whist in Great Yarmouth she has contracted Covid. I learned this through social media where it’s possibly the only thing I have ever believed to be true.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball tonight, kicking it towards me and my fellow ultras and wearing our signature blue and white, whilst our opponents Charlton Athletic sport sensible, plain red shirts and white shorts, a sight which has me reminiscing about my Continental Club Edition Subbuteo set and its anonymous and strangely posed red and blue teams. Town quickly win a couple of corners and I’m singing ‘Come On You Blues’ before I get a chance to work out who are ‘the Blues’ tonight; it takes me a while because it seems like another team and it’s going to be nearly half-time before I work out that number 29 is Akpom, and realise Philogene our top scorer isn’t even in the starting line-up.

In the Cobbold stand, the Charlton fans are singing “ I want to go home, Ipswich is a shit-hole, I want to go home” and whilst I will admit I am ignorant of the attractions of beautiful downtown Plumstead, I surmise that they couldn’t have seen the fading sunlight on the plate glass windows of the old Crown Court or that glowing corporation bus. Meanwhile, I notice that the Charlton number six has the unusual surname of Coventry, which I mention to Fiona but we quickly decide there aren’t any potential quips and anything about being sent to Coventry wouldn’t really work.

Ipswich are dominating possession but in a somewhat dull manner devoid of decent shots and it’s no surprise when the Charlton supporters make the traditional “Is this a library?” enquiry and Fiona suggests it probably isn’t a library because as Ipswich fans we can’t read or write, only drive tractors. Such is fan “culture”. Non-plussed by everything, my eye is caught by the electronic advertisements on the Sir Bobby Robson stand which are thanking “today’s programme sponsor Cambridge Windows” before the words “Doors” and “Conservatories” flash up in neon blue and I wonder if this isn’t subliminal advertising. “Your support is fucking shit” chant the Charltonites and I like to think they mean Cambridge Windows’support, because if the programme is sponsored why does it cost four quid?

Town win another couple of corners and I chant “Come On You Blues”, but as usual to no avail although the bloke beside me concludes “They’re there for the taking “ meaning Charlton, and I tend to agree that they look pretty useless, I just can’t understand why their goalkeeper hasn’t had to make a save yet. The half is half over when there is a break in play as Town ‘keeper Alex Palmer is mysteriously stranded about thirty yards from his goal and receiving treatment, whilst the other twenty-one players all congregate by the dugouts for drinks, chit-chat and possibly nibbles and the exchange of phone numbers. The upshot is that Palmer retires hurt and Christian Walton takes his place.

When play resumes ,Town continue to accumulate corner kicks and with no football to cheer from their own team the Charlton fans resort to chanting “Ed Sheeran is a wanker”, and who wouldn’t? Ipswich accumulate a still larger stack of corner kicks as the first third of the match passes into forgettable history but experiencing a flashback from the ‘high’ of the last home game against Norwich, Town fans reprise The Cranberries’ “Zombie” singing “Nunez, he’s in your head” even though there are no Norwich fans here to fall victim to our untamed wit. The Norwich baiting continues with chants of “He’s only a poor little budgie” as the Sir Bobby Robson standers dredge up the euphoria of the last game to compensate for the lack of euphoria from this one. It’s a ploy that almost works however as Akpom strikes a fierce shot against the Charlton cross bar, although then soon afterwards weak defending by Leif Davis results in Christian Walton having to make a fine save from Olaofe who is left free to run at goal.

The half concludes with four minutes of added time, Nunez shooting wide and firing a free-kick over the bar, Town getting a final corner of the half, Charlton’s Docherty being the first player to be booked and Charlton getting two corners of their own, which are enthusiastically greeted by sonorous chants of “Come on you Reds” and also a header wide of the goal.

With the break for half-time, after venting spent Suffolk Pride I join Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand where Ray and I express mild dissatisfaction that Town are not several goals up against what appears to be the worst visiting team to rock up at Portman Road since our time in the third division. More optimistically, Harrison predicts a final score of 4-0 and I predict 3-0, although with unintended foresight I don’t say who to, or even to whom.

The match resumes at nine minutes to nine and within seven minutes Charlton score as the childishly named Sonny Carey easily runs at and past Dara O’Shea and shoots under Christian Walton. A man somewhere behind me becomes very sweary and the Charlton fans get so carried away that they start singing about being on their way to something called the Premier League. Two minutes later it’s almost 2-0 to Charlton from a corner and a minute later it is as Christian Walton dives low to spring the ball up in the air for an unmarked player with the possibly misspelt name of Gillesphey to head it unchallenged into the gaping goal. Charlton’s supporters are suddenly very loud indeed, and I begin to wonder if Keiran McKenna’s half time talk hadn’t included the ritual slaughter of a black cat.

Hopes are raised as a Leif Davis shot, or may be a cross, hits the Charlton net, but these hopes are then dashed on the lineman’s raised flag. Substitutions naturally follow with thirty minutes to go as they nearly always do, but tonight they need to be game changers. In a way they are as two minutes later Charlton score a third, another header into a gaping net after Davis defends weakly again and Walton dives at the near post and no one marks Miles Leaburn who can’t believe his luck from the middle of the goal. Some people leave and the Charlton fans ask “Can we play you every week?”. With perfect timing the illuminated adverts on the Sir Bobby Robson stand read “If you see something that doesn’t look right…”

I sing “We’ll have to win 4-3” to the baleful tune of Rogers and Hart’s song form 1934 “Blue Moon” and as if to show willing Town continue to have the majority of possession and win even more corners. As I tell the bloke next to me however, we look no more dangerous from our corners than we do from Charlton goal kicks. Akpom shoots wide for Town and more substitutions follow, but nothing changes except for the Charlton songs which move on to Tom Hark with the curious words “See the Charlton, then fuck off home” and it’s hard to tell if this is an existential commentary on their lives, ours, or everyone’s, and if so, why?

Ipswich of course win the moral victory as Charlton have another player booked and then another and we also win the corner count and the curious satisfaction of knowing that tonight’s attendance of 28,006 is too large to fit into Charlton’s stadium at The Valley. But sadly, the actual victory, what we showed up to see go the way of Ipswich, is Charlton’s, and I haven’t even had the consolation of knowing what Pat from Clacton had for her tea. “Is there a fire drill?” enquire the Charlton fans as the Town fans head en masse for the exits, and it’s good to know that even if their team has won the match quite comfortably, they remain pitifully unoriginal in their attempts at humour. The four minutes of added on time will prove hopelessly insufficient for Town, but at least I will easily be able to catch the 9:53 train, which in these days of concern about our mental well being will help me ‘move on’, so it’s not all bad.

Of course it hasn’t helped me ‘move on’ , not for long anyway , and after one gloomy day there will follow another. But that’s autumn as one’s early season hopes and expectations wither and fall like leaves from the trees. I’m sure we’ll win on Saturday mind. Up the Town!

FC Lorient 3 AS Monaco 1

October 1, 2025October 3, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

At the risk of becoming extremely boring, my wife Paulene and I have now holidayed in Carnac in Brittany for four years running. There are probably several even more boring reasons for this, one of the less boring however, because it is made up, is that I like to think of myself as being in touch with my Neolithic ancestors on a sort of yearly pilgrimage to see the Neolithic standing stones, cairns and tumuli that abound in Brittany and particularly Carnac, which this year has become a UNESCO World Heritage site as a result. Another more truthful reason is that it’s only a 40-odd kilometre trip up the E60 and along the N165 to the Stade du Moustoir to see FC Lorient play and FC Lorient’s mascot is a hake.

Our holiday is now sadly drawing to a close this year and today is the penultimate day before we must drive home in our planet saving Citroen e-C4. But today, FC Lorient play AS Monaco in Ligue 1, the French version of the Premier League but with a less self-important title. The match kicks off at 5 pm and we park up at the underground Place d’Armes car park about four hours beforehand to give time to explore a little of Lorient and at about 3pm see the Lorient team arrive at the Stade du Moustoir amidst bagpipe playing, banner waving and handshakes from Merlux and Mini-Merlux the FC Lorient mascots, (merlu is the French word for a hake).

I imagine that to a lot of people Lorient is a dull sort of a place. Ninety-five percent of it was completely flattened by allied bombing in World War Two and therefore it consists almost entirely of buildings erected in the second half of the twentieth century. But that’s why I like it; it’s not quaint or olde worlde and harking back to some forgotten or imaginary past, architecturally it’s modern and functional and was built with the optimism of the post-war years, the years before some people started to forget what Fascism did and how it started. Our walk through Lorient is guided by a leaflet we were given in the Office du Tourisme which describes some of the buildings and the art and history of the town.

Around three o’clock we interrupt our walk to be at the Stade du Moustoir for the arrival of the Lorient team off the team bus in their Breton-style, stripey, pre-match shirts. I make the obligatory visit to the club shop and buy a postcard of the stadium, and whilst Paulene then enters the Tribune d’honneur to find our seats, I make a detour up the road to find Les Halles de Merville, the town market hall, which is featured in the leaflet from the Office du Tourisme and is described as a “concrete and metal ring built in 1964”; it looks like a flying saucer that is no longer flying, perhaps because it is weighed down with fruit, veg, meat and fish. On my way back from Les Halles I cross the path of a bunch of FC Lorient supporting youths who are making their way to the Stade du Moustoir whilst chanting, banging drums and waving flares. A few bemused bystanders look on, as do two gendarmes in a dark blue Renault, but these young ultras are largely left to their own devices, as if being on a ‘demo’ is a sort of rite of passage.

Back at the Stade du Moustoir, I make my way past the security where a man perhaps as old as me pats me down and wishes me ‘bon match’ and another then scans the bar code on my ticket with what looks like a toy ray gun and then says the same. Our seats are once again in the fabulous Tribune d’honneur, a small, seated, stand of vaulted, shuttered concrete dating from 1959 with metal struts to ensure the cantilever roof remains cantilevered. After locating my seat, I set off to find Breizh Cola for Paulene and beer for myself and to check that it is still possible to walk all the way around the stadium and back to my seat; it is, and this is because the away supporters access their seats over a bridge. As before, different food counters are serving different types of food and feeling a little hungry at the thought of this I buy a Croque Monsieur (8 euros 50) from the ‘Parisienne’ counter, thinking that when Paulene reads this it will be the first she knows of it. I don’t buy Paulene any food because her intolerances to wheat, dairy, and rapeseed oil make it highly unlikely there is anything on offer that she will be able to eat. Sated with ham, bechamel sauce, melted cheese, toasted bread and a couple of squirts of mustard I return to Paulene with just a re-usable 40cl plastic cup of Breizh Cola (pronounced Brez, not Breej I learn from the young bloke who serves me before he wishes me ‘good match’) and a re-usable 40 cl plastic cup of Breton-brewed Lancelot IPA (10 euros 50 for the two).

An hour, a half an hour and ten minutes before kick-off (coupe d’envoi in French) a foghorn (corne de brume in French) sounds, a bit like the bell at the end of the interval in the theatre, but appropriately for coastal Lorient, a bit more nautical, and louder. It adds to the pre-match build-up, which eventually reaches a climax with the Breton anthem on bagpipes with karaoke style words in the Breton language on the big screen in the corner of the stadium, then a second Lorient hymn is played and the bloke next to Paulene joins in, which isn’t a good thing because as Paulene says, his voice sounds out of tune when he’s only speaking, “Allez Les Merlus” chant the crowd as the teams process on to the pitch, youths wave banners, and a series of not particularly impressive Roman Candle style pyrotechnics ejaculate onto the grass,

Once everything cleared away it is Lorient who get first go with the ball, which they are mainly passing in the direction of the club shop, hotel de ville, docks and Office du Tourisme. Monaco meanwhile point themselves towards the far-off towns of Quimper and Brest. This season Lorient sport progressive looking shirts of orange and black check, which leans to one side like italics, and black shorts. Monaco are wearing an away kit of all purple with gold trim, like you might imagine a team of footballing Catholic bishops to wear.

It is a bright, sunny afternoon but the blue Breton sky is ruffled with high white cloud. Within two minutes Lorient win a corner and two minutes later they get another. After nine minutes the joyfully monikered referee Monsieur Ruddy Buquet records his first yellow card (carton jaune) of the evening in the shape of no less a player than the Monaco captain Thilo Kehrer who carelessly, even negligently sends Lorient’s Arthur Avom Ebong up into the air with a supposed tackle. Oddly, however, Monaco are dominating possession, although it takes another ten minutes before we see what can reasonably be called a decent shot on goal, and that is from Lorient’s number eleven, the short but enthusiastic Theo Le Bris, whose uncle Regis used to manage Lorient but is now manager at Sunderland.

Monaco’s confusing approach to the fixture is further shown just two minutes later when Vanderson also gets to smell Monsieur Buquet’s yellow card after he fouls Arsene Kouassi, who rolls and rolls and rolls about on the ground and appears to go into spasms before incredibly, getting up and carrying on. Another two minutes dissolve and Lorient’s Mohamed Bamba shoots over the cross bar. Despite Monaco’s hogging of the ball for much of the game so far almost a third of it is history before they record a proper shot on goal as Takumi Minamino bounces a somewhat weak snap-shot past a post after what had looked a promising series of passes.

Meanwhile, in the Kop Sud there is a sudden outbreak of orange streamers and the chants of “Allez, Allez, Allez” seem inexplicably louder as if brightly coloured crepe paper has unexpected acoustic properties. The additional orange on an orange background seemingly also causes problems for Lorient goalkeeper Yvon Mvogo who a short while later surprisingly boots the ball out to Minamino who, whilst looking confident and composed only manages to chip the ball over and wide of Mvogo’s goal whilst the Lorient supporters amongst whom I include myself and Paulene all hold our breath as one.

As if a punishment for such profligacy with gifts from fate, a minute later Monsieur Buquet adjudges that Thilo Kehler has fouled Lorient’s Dermane Karim (Dermane to readers of the back of his shirt), and sufficiently badly for him to show him his yellow card for a second time and consequently his red card too. From the subsequent free-kick out on the Lorient left, the ball is crossed in, falls to Mohamed Bamba and he scores from very close range to give Lorient an unexpected lead. “BUT!” announces the electronic scoreboard colourfully as the stadium announcer bellows Mohamed and we all shout “Bamba”, not just once but three times before signing off by shouting his full name just in case anyone was still in doubt about the goalscorer’s identity.

With a one goal lead and an extra player Lorient start to dominate . Bamba is set up well but shoots straight at the Monaco goalkeeper Philipp Kohn and a minute later Kohn is stood in the right place to catch a spectacular overhead kick from Tosin. Monaco win a late corner to raise spectres of those horrible goals against the run of play and do it again inside the four minutes of added-on time, but the Kop Sud remain buoyant, bouncing up and down in the central terrace (safe-standing area to FFF and UEFA officialdom) and singing “Lorientais, Lorientais, Lorientais” like it was going out of fashion.

Half-time is a time of applause and an invasion of the pitch by players of mostly very youthful appearance, although one has a beard, who try to score “one-on-one” with the goalkeeper. The players in green shirts seem to win out over those in blue, and Merlux and Mini-Merlux look on feigning acute excitement or deep frustration and remorse according to whether players score or they don’t. The French version of RADA for people dressed as outsized and vaguely cuddly fish seems to be doing a good job.

The proper football resumes at five minutes past six and Monaco have made some half-time⁹ substitutions; their manager or Prince Albert having presumably realised they need someone on the pitch who is the equivalent of two players. The half starts strangely for Lorient, who appear to be trying to emulate Monaco’s first half display as they have two players, Dermain Karim and Mohamed Bamba booked in quick succession in the early minutes. The sky has clouded over since the first half and its feeling cooler, so I put on my coat, covering up my orange and black Ipswich Town shirt, which was offering chromatic support to Lorient and badge-based support to Ipswich, both successfully as it turns out because both teams are currently winning.

As sure as night follows day, after half-time at Lorient comes the fifty-sixth minute, which is when the foghorn or ship’s siren sounds again, and the scoreboard entreats us all to make a noise. This phenomenon is explained by the facts that Lorient is in the departement (like an English County) of Morbihan and in France each departement is numbered, more or less alphabetically, and Morbihan’s number is fifty-six. After the relaxation of half-time, the fifty-sixth minute seems an ideal time to wake everyone up to shout “Allez les Merlus!” and the encouragement nearly works as the minute ends with Tosin Aiyegun shooting over the cross bar at the far post just as the noise subsides. Meanwhile, Lorient fans are probably thankful their town is not located in Val d’Oise, (departement number ninety-five) .

With an hour then gone both sides indulge in double substitutions before Lorient’s number five Bamo Meite sends a spectacularly awful shot from a good 20 metres out high into ‘Agglomeration de Lorient’ stand and a man sat in the row in front of me becomes very excited about a goalmouth scramble which has him bouncing up and down on his seat. The attendance is then announced with the words “Vous etes 15,561 spectateurs et spectatrices” as the French language politely acknowledges that there are both male and female people watching.

The final twenty minutes arrive pretty much on time, as expected, and Lorient manager Olivier Pantaloni chooses this as the time substitutes the trouble-making Derman Karim from Togo for Pablo Pagis. It’s a good move from Pantaloni as within five minutes Pagis is suddenly slaloming through the middle of the penalty area before poking the ball beyond the Monaco goalkeeper, and Lorient lead two-nil. “Pagis” bawls the crowd each time the announcer shouts “Pablo”, and then they finish off the celebration by bawling out his name in full. The sound of the crowd is wonderful; it matches the goal.

Lorient are dominant. Three shots are blocked in the Monaco penalty area in quick succession, Pagis shoots at the goalkeeper and then from the right hand edge of the penalty area Pagis strokes the ball with his right foot into the top left-hand corner of the Monaco goal as if effortlessly creating a beautiful work of art, as if it was naturally occurring, like a rainbow. “Pablo!”, “Pagis!” rings out again. Lorient lead three-nil. Monaco are abject. The bloke in front of me who was excited by the goalmouth scramble is now beside himself with joy. punching the air and hugging the lad beside him, who I imagine is his son, but you never know.

It’s getting on for seven o’clock now and as the natural light fades shadows of the players begin to be cast onto the pitch by the floodlights from atop their concrete pylons; up beyond the floodlights the blue skies and sunshine have given way to cloud. The five minutes of added on time are unexpectedly mostly played in the Lorient half and they win a couple of corners. With the second corner comes a delay and a hiatus of doubt. Monsieur Buquet consults VAR and awards a penalty, nobody knows what for but Monaco’s Ansu Fati scores anyway, giving his team underserved but more satisfyingly, scant consolation.

With the final whistle the Monaco goal is nothing more than a meaningless footnote to the match, a match that is just the frame for the masterpiece that was Pagis’s two goals. Paulene and I head off back through the departing crowds to our planet saving Citroen in the Place des Armes car park, along the Quai des Indes. We will have fish for our dinner, but haddock, not hake. It’s been yet another fine afternoon in Lorient and although we may not return next year, I don’t want to stay away for too long from my Neolithic ancestors and the Stade du Moustoir.

Stanway Pegasus 0 Haringey Borough 2

August 24, 2025August 25, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Pegasus, Wikipedia tells us was a Greek mythological winged stallion, the offspring of Poseidon and Medusa who sprang from the Medusa’s blood when in an everyday incident for the characters of Greek mythology she had her head chopped off by Perseus. After time spent carrying lightning bolts for Zeus, being ridden about by Bellophron and then as a constellation of stars, having been killed by Zeus who presumably then had to carry his own lightning bolts, between 1948 and 1963 Pegasus more prosaically became the name of an amateur football team made up of Oxford and Cambridge graduates obviously keen to mix football with their classical education. Even more prosaically, the name of Pegasus then became that of a youth and then Sunday football team in Colchester and most recently that club has aspired to men’s senior football and for reasons unknown has attached the name Pegasus to Stanway, a suburb of Colchester that some of its residents still think is a village and which already had one senior football team in the shape of Stanway Rovers.

Today, Stanway Pegasus who are now in the snappily titled Thurlow Nunn Eastern Counties League South play Haringey Borough of the only slightly less snappily titled Spartan South Midlands Football League in the first qualifying round of the FA Vase, a competition which, to my shame, I have not witnessed a game in for over ten years. It is for this reason, and it being the closest game to where I live, that today I choose to ignore the ’Town’ -centric draw of Braintree Town v Yeovil Town in the National League and the charming alliteration of Chelmsford v Chippenham in the National League South, and make my way to ‘The Crops’ in West Street Coggeshall home of Coggeshall Town but where Stanway Pegasus currently play their home games too.

After a morning breathing in noxious fumes from the white gloss paint I am applying to the banisters, skirting boards and miscellaneous surrounding woodwork of a domestic staircase, standing at a bus stop on the A120 under a grey late August sky feels like suddenly being on holiday. The X20 bus to Stansted Airport via Coggeshall, Braintree and Great Dunmow turns up more or less on time and I cheerily tender the correct fare (£3) in coins to the driver, who wears a peaked cap in the style of the late Sir Francis Chichester. The driver, who does not speak looks at me inscrutably from beneath the peak of his hat as if weighing up this passenger’s likely back story. I look back at him in the same way, imagining I too am wearing a hat, before climbing the stairs to the top deck where I sit behind a man sporting short hair and an earring. Behind us, a girl evidently lacking all sense of self-awareness talks loudly on her mobile phone, broadcasting the other half of the conversation on speaker phone. Leaving the A120, the bus (fleet number 34423) wends its way through Coggeshall’s narrow medieval streets before I alight at the stop called ‘Nursery’ just a couple of hundred yards away from ‘The Crops’.

Arriving at the turnstile I’m not surprised to find there is no queue but am delighted to see a small pile of glossy programmes, which I had not expected. I ask if I should pay by cash or card. “Cash if you’ve got it, please” says the turnstile operator “I’ve started to run out”. This is the first time I have paid on the turnstile at a match since I turned sixty-five, and paying in cash adds something to this auspicious occasion as I tender a five pound note for my concessionary entry fee and a two pound coin for the programme.

Once through the turnstile I head for the bar at the far end of the ground; it is virtually empty, and not liking the look of the fizzy draught beer on offer I warily request a bottle of Adnams Southwold Bitter (£6) from the fridge. Much to my surprise the beer is merely cool not chilled and therefore very drinkable. I step outside to await kick-off amongst a good following of Haringey supporters identifiable from their club colours but also as the only people obviously in the throes of enjoying a day out. Two of them wear pork pie hats and I wonder if they play the saxophone. Except for an old couple sat in foldable chairs the home supporters are rather anonymous. In the corner of the pitch by what passes as the players’ tunnel but looks a bit like a stockade stands a plinth on top of which sits the match ball. The Haringey fans eye the plinth both jealously and with a degree of amusement discussing what design of plinth they might have if they were to have one of their own, they seem keen on something more sculptural.

“Sing if you’re Haringey, Sing if your happy that way” chant the Haringey fans imaginatively to the tune of the Tom Robinson Band’s 1978 hit “Glad to be gay” as the team emerge from the stockade and the plinth fulfils its job of relieving the referee of having to remember to bring the ball with him from the dressing room. The match kicks off at five minutes to three with Stanway Pegasus getting first go with the ball and sending it in the direction of the bus stop from whence I arrived and Coggeshall beyond. “You on a promise Ref?” bawls a Haringey supporter “It’s only five to three”. “That’s close to being abusive, that is” says another Haringeyite. “No it’s not, it’s just a question” continues the first supporter. “A very personal one” is the response. “Alright, do you have something nice waiting for you when you get home, Ref?” Comes the re-phrased enquiry.

Pegasus are wearing a kit of yellow shirts with black trim and black shorts, which weirdly are also the colours of Stanway Rovers. Haringey meanwhile sport a change kit of all over green as their supporters expand on their theme of chants based on ‘new wave’ hits of the late 1970’s and sing the praises of their team’s Matty Young to the tune of “To much too young” by The Specials and then sample the oeuvre of Sham69 with chants of “Come On, Come On, Come on Haringey Come On, We’re going down the pub”.

Back on the pitch, one of the linesmen is attracting a lot of attention to himself both with his offside decisions and his insistence on explaining them to the players. As if that isn’t enough, he is very bouncy on his feet and, because he sports a poorly shaped goatee beard and has grey highlights in his swept back hair I am reminded of the match between Arsenal and Liverpool in September1972 when one of the linesmen was injured and Jimmy Hill emerged from the stands to run the line.

At three minutes past three Haringey Borough take the lead with a neat shot into the corner of the goal from somewhere near the edge of the penalty area. The goal scorer, I think, is the aforementioned Matty Young who evidently continues to strive to allow people to look back and say he did a lot in his youth. “We’re the Borough, The Mighty Borough, We always sing away, We sing away, we sing away, we sing away, we sing away” chant the Haringey fans in response to the goal, channelling Tight Fit’s cheesy cover version of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” from 1982.

The Jimmy Hill lookalike linesman continues to grab attention as he rules a Haringey player onside and then proceeds to explain that the Pegasus number five had played him onside. “Don’t tell them lino, they can learn for themselves” shouts an exasperated Haringey fan. The Haringey support delve into their ‘new wave’ singles collection once more, impressively getting “We’re Haringey, We’re Haringey” into The Jam’s “Going Underground”.

Haringey are clearly the stronger team, as their higher league status implied before kick-off and the majority of play is at the club house end of the ground, although in a rare breakaway the Pegasus number four , Harry Morton is free in the centre of penalty area, has the ball pulled back to him perfectly, but then contrives to hit a truly, spectacularly terrible shot as high and as wide as anyone not under the influence of mind expanding drugs could imagine; in some circles it might be called ‘a worldy’. Morton might be excused however for blaming the pitch, very little of which is any shade of green except in a few ‘fairy circles’, and when more than a handful of players are in the penalty area a cloud of dust is kicked up which lingers momentarily over the pitch like a swarm of tiny insects.

I am stood to one side of the suitably bucolic looking main stand and every now and then I receive a whiff of pungent and rather cloying body spray or scent. At first, I think it must be from the occupants of the stand, but to be honest they don’t look the sort to be familiar with anything more than an occasional dab of Old Spice or bit of talc. I eventually realise, when he bouncily stops near me to signal another offside, that the culprit is Jimmy Hill, the unique styling of whose hair is challenged, but not matched only by the Pegasus number sixteen, Tom Lewis who has a neat blond bob.

The game is being played in a good spirit with unusually little, if any audible swearing from the players, or the management on the benches. Pegasus’s number nine Callum Griffith is booked however, just as the first third of the game rolls into the second third when twice in quick succession he fails to give space for a free-kick to be taken. As thoughts of half-time refreshment begin to form Pegasus win a couple of corners and then almost unexpectedly there is a second goal as a poorly cleared low cross reaches Haringey’s number fourteen who firmly and concisely despatches it into the opposite bottom corner to the first goal, and Haringey lead 2-0.

Due to judicious manoeuvring in the approach to half-time, I am first in the queue at the refreshment hatch where I invest in £1.50’s worth of tea in large paper cup. I read the half-time ‘results’ as I wait for my tea to cool and then for the teams to re-emerge. My mood is barely affected by the news that Ipswich are losing at Preston; it’s not a place we often do well at; “a difficult place to go” is probably the accepted wisdom, despite the M6. At four minutes to four the football resumes and I move to the other end of the main stand expecting most of the action to again take place in the half of the pitch that Haringey are attacking.

The first half was adequately entertaining if not exactly a pulsating cup-tie. Sadly, the second half does not live up to what we didn’t know at the time was the comparatively high standard of its predecessor. The Haringey supporters nevertheless continue to enjoy themselves as they repeatedly dip into the back catalogues of Sham69, The Jam and with somewhat less ‘street credibility’, but plenty of irony, Tight Fit. My highlight of the half is when I realise that Derek Asamoah is playing as number forty-four for Haringey. He is a player who I probably last saw playing on the telly for Ghana in the African Cup of Nations. I should have really worked out he was playing when the Haringey fans chanted his name in the first half, but I was probably too busy wondering which Buzzcocks, The Clash or The Damned single it was they were singing to.

With the final whistle there is justified applause for everyone’s efforts and I leave The Crops to the sound of the Haringey fans singing “Bus stop in Tottenham, we’re just a bus stop in Tottenham” because wonderfully, as anyone who has travelled the W3 through north London will know, they really are and as far as I’m concerned that’s just as interesting as Greek mythology.

Ipswich Town 1 West Ham United 3

May 26, 2025May 26, 2025 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

It’s a blustery, disturbed, impatient day as befits my mood. At last, Ipswich Town’s long, drawn out season in the Premier League is drawing to its long, drawn-out conclusion, having all been a bit pointless since as far back as February. After the first match of the season against Liverpool, as I walked up Princes Street to the railway station and my train home, a visiting supporter said to me “You’re going down, aren’t you?” With the benefit of hindsight, I almost a feel a bit embarrassed that I replied that I thought it was a bit early to say. Now I just can’t wait to get this season over and done with. But typically for the Premier League, the pain has been extended just a little bit longer still, with the game not being on the traditional Saturday at three o’clock, but a day and an hour later and whole week after the FA Cup final, the mark of the end of the season in civilised countries, has already been played. Like Donald Trump, it seems the only thing the people who run football care about and know anything of is money.

I walk to the railway station beneath skies so blue and bright I decide to wear sunglasses. The railway station platform is surprisingly thinly populated, but I discern one Ipswich supporter, who is unhelpfully stood at the foot of the bridge over the tracks, and what I deduce from his colour scheme to be a West Ham United fan, although he could be a disorientated Burnley fan who doesn’t have Google maps on his i-phone. The train arrives a minute late, in keeping with the prevailing theme of the afternoon, and is predictably half full of blokes talking about jellied eels and their love of Mary Poppins. Gary joins me at the first station stop and I share with him my sneering pleasure that this Premier League season is at last going to finish. Gary shares with me some statistics on which players have been responsible for most opposing teams’ goals. Ipswich’s Aro Muric is apparently top of the list with five goals to his ‘credit’, although he has actually conceded fewer goals per game than Alex Palmer. The highlight of our journey, as ever, is spotting a polar bear as the train descends through Wherstead. It seems to be other people’s highlight too.

Arriving in Ipswich we stride out for ‘the Arb’, pausing only for an imaginary ice cream and a match programme (£3.50) at one of the blue booths that look like they should sell ice creams but don’t. I was hoping that as a thank you for our ‘incredible support’ the club might share some of the Premier League largesse and perhaps dole out free programmes today, but I realise I am a hopeless dreamer. As we continue along Portman Road I reminisce to Gary about the last match of the 1974-75 season when Town beat West Ham 4-1 and Kevin Beattie ran from the half-way line through what seemed like the whole West Ham team to score. Two girls walking along in front of us turn around to see what someone who can remember 1975 looks like. At ‘the Arb’ Mick is turning away from the bar, brimming pint glass in hand, as we walk through the door. Gary buys me a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride and a pint of Lager 43 for himself and we head for the beer garden, where Mick has found a Yogi bear-style picnic table beneath a large umbrella and is sat at it with a schoolteacher he knows called Steve, who commutes from Swilland to Holbrook every day on an electric bicycle.

We talk of the artwork that should have been on the front cover of the match programme today, but which has been relegated to inside the back page because of the philistines who run Umbro and want to see blokes wearing their shirts on the cover instead. Today’s design is reminiscent of the work of Jackson Pollock and its ‘splatter’ and ‘drip’ effect and defiant scrawled message to “Follow the Town up or down” seems to sum up Town’s season. Mick speculates as to how many Town fans would know who Jackson Pollock was and Gary accuses him of being ‘a bit snobby’. Mick accepts that he probably is, although there is no ‘probably’ about it. Steve leaves early because he’s meeting someone at Portman Road and Mick buys another round of drinks, because it’s his turn. By twenty to three we are the last people left in the beer garden, which we accept as a badge of honour before making our relaxed, not very bothered way to Portman Road.

Somewhere near Alf Ramsey’s statue we bid one another ‘adieu’, perhaps until next season, and I make my way to Alf’s stand, where the queues are reassuringly short. I join the queue for turnstile number 62 and am scanned by a steward as I do so, but at the front of the queue the bloke now there inevitably fails to work the bar code on his season ticket, so impatiently I switch to turnstile number 60 which now has no queue at all. Panic stricken that I appear to have dodged the security cordon for turnstile 60 another steward scans me retrospectively from behind for firearms and explosives as I pass through the turnstile.

I get to my seat next to Fiona, next door but one to both Pat from Clacton and the man from Stowmarket (Paul), and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood as the players stream on to the pitch and balls of flame burst into the air to incinerate the more nonchalant amongst passing seagulls and pigeons. The excitable young stadium announcer, sporting a jewelled earring and slightly crumpled blue suit announces the Town team and I attempt to bawl out the players surnames in the style of a Frenchman at the Stade de la Liberation, Boulogne or Stade du Roudourou, Guingamp, but the young announcer is too excitable and is not in sync’ with the names on the screen. The knee is taken by the players to muffled boos from some of the more cliched, Reform voting members of the visiting support and the game begins with the Town getting first go with the ball, which they are aiming at the goal just in front of me and my fellow Ultras.

The noise in the ground today is cacophonous with both sets of supports merrily chanting and singing at the thought of the Premier League season finally ending after ten months of ceaseless, hyperbole, VAR and added on time. “We are staying up” chant the Hammers fans, and then “ You are going down” as if they’ve waited to fulfil a season-long desire to make public information announcements which states the bleeding obvious. Ten minutes pass and Jacob Greaves flashes a header comfortably wide of the West Ham goal from a free-kick.

I have noticed that the West Ham goalkeeper is called Fabianski, a name which sounds like he might have played electronic dance music in the 1990’s. Omari Hutchinson has a shot at goal when he might have had done better to cross it. He’s not playing well, as the bloke behind me says, he’s playing like he’s got someone else’s size 11 boots on. “De-de, De-de-de, De-de, Nathan Broadhead” sing the Sir Bobby Robson standers to the tune of Depeche Mode’s top ten single from 1981, “I just can’t get enough”. Then Fiona tells me that Crazee the Town mascot is retiring, and we discuss whether the mascot is retiring, or just the person inside the costume. We speculate as to whether there will be a position available at Portman Road, and I tell Fiona I might be interested, and that I have previous experience.

Back on the pitch, as the first sixth of the game fades into history, Conor Chaplin receives treatment and everyone else has a drink and gets remedial coaching on the touchline. The result is a period in which there are a lot of passes, but not much else, and I feel like I’m just sat here waiting for something to happen. In time it does and unusually in a good way as ten minutes later Town are enjoying a period of sustained pressure on the West Ham goal, the like of which we haven’t seen in over a year. Nathan Broadhead has a shot saved and Sam Morsy shoots wide before the first player to be booked is West Ham’s Maximilian Kilman, and I can’t help wondering if the referee didn’t just want to hear him say his name because it sort of rhymes.

The descent to half time sees Christian Walton have to make a save as Town’s period of dominance recedes like an ebbing tide, but the prospects look good for the game being goalless at half-time and West Ham couldn’t really complain if Town scored. It’s unfamiliar territory for Town and as if to prove the point Sam Morsy passes the ball to a West Ham player near the edge of the Town penalty area and a square pass and a shot later Town are losing. “We’re winning away, we’re winning away, how shit must you be, we’re winning away” sing the West Ham fans to the tune of ‘Sloop John-B’ but two minutes of added on time don’t produce an answer.

Half-time couldn’t and didn’t come soon enough for Town, or me as I now enjoy a Slovakian Horalky wafer courtesy of the World Foods aisle in Sainsbury’s. Having drained off some spent Suffolk Pride, I briefly speak to Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison before ever-present Phil tries to convince me that a decrepit looking old bloke a couple of rows behind me is my dopple-ganger. I take no notice, but begin to wonder if I might have offended ever-present Phil in some way.

The second half begins as it inevitably does most weeks and as Crazee the mascot wanders by in front of us, a spontaneous round of applause breaks out amongst a few people. I’m not sure if this is a response to his apparent forthcoming retirement or whether people just think he’s had a good season. I prepare myself to never know, but soon all thoughts of Crazee are forgotten as the West Ham defence parts like the Red Sea supposedly did and Nathan Broadhead moves into the gap before shooting cleanly beyond Fabianski and his array of keyboards to put Town level. “The goal scorer, OUR No 33, Nathan Broadhead” announces the excitable young announcer to make it clear to the hard of thinking and those who haven’t heard of Jackson Pollock that it wasn’t the West Ham No33 who just scored for Town.

This is more like it we all think, and visions of greater glory and a second home win of the season hove into view for about three minutes until Jarod Bowen decides to run more quickly than the Town defenders near him, which allows him to execute a swift “one-two” with some team-mate or other before hitting a stonking shot past Christian Walton from the edge of the penalty area. Out of the blue,Town are losing again and it all feels horribly familiar, even though overall West Ham are not discernibly any better than the Town.

Town continue to play reasonably well, winning a corner of two but not ever tearing the West Ham defence to pieces as they did back in April 1975. Substitutions follow substitutions, the attendance is announced as 29,771 with 2,991 being of a ‘Gor Blimey, apples and pears, love a duck’ persuasion, and then with everyone still hoping for an equaliser, West Ham break forward not particularly quickly, too much space is given to a little fella called Mohammed Kudus and he scores a third goal. “Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose” we all think, unless we’re the sort of people who haven’t heard of Jackson Pollock, and the last three minutes of normal time and seven minutes of added on time turn in to a love-in of fond farewells to Town’s Massimo Luongo, who replaces Sam Morsy for a final ten minutes, and West Ham’s Aaron Creswell who is appreciated by home fans too recalling his one-hundred and thirty-two games and three goals for the Town between 2011 and 2014.

With the full-time whistle, the majority of people seem to be staying for the usual end of season parade around the pitch by the players and increasingly their families, because we all like to cheer the players’ wives and girlfriends and assorted toddlers and babies. But I’ve had enough for this season and am soon heading for the railway station just as I did after that first home defeat back in August. As good as promotion felt at the end of last season, the reward has for the most part felt like a complete waste of time .

Ipswich Town 0 Arsenal 4

April 22, 2025April 22, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Easter Sunday is the most significant date in the Christian calendar, one of only two days in England when even the big, mainly Mammon-worshipping supermarkets don’t open. As well as not going shopping for groceries on Easter Sunday, until today I don’t think I’ve ever been to a football match on Easter Sunday either, but today, because Ipswich Town are for now still in the evil Premier League, it is their turn to play Arsenal at Portman Road. My memories of previous Easter fixtures against Arsenal are not happy ones, with Easter Saturday 1981 looming large as one on which hopes of becoming champions of England were mortally wounded courtesy of a 2-0 defeat. Those hopes failed to be resurrected on the Easter Monday when we lost at Carrow Road, pretty much like today’s hopes of avoiding relegation, although I am told there is life after death in the second division.

The sun is shining this morning, but a cold north-easterly wind chills my un-gloved hands as I step out for the local railway station. It’s an eventful walk enlivened as it is by the sight of a horse’s bum through the open back of a horsebox trailer, the Colchester United team bus, a bumble bee crawling on the pavement where I’ve seen a bumble bee on the pavement before, a squashed ladybird with yellow innards, a dead squirrel, and a tall man sitting on the bonnet of a small car smoking a cigarette. By way of a conclusion to this odd combination of sightings, today’s train is going to be a bus that celebrates the fourth letter of the alphabet, a double-decker belonging to Don’s of Dunmow. But at least I get to sit upstairs at the front, from where I spot a banner imploring me to say ‘No’ to 180km of ‘giant pylons’. The banner sets me thinking about the stark beauty of electricity pylons in the rural landscape; I’m not sure about ‘giant’ ones mind, but imagine they’re better than tiny ones, which could be a trip hazard.

The bus journey is mercifully short, and I’m soon sat on a train next to Gary looking out for polar bears. I spot a couple as we pass through Wherstead, and when I tell Gary he asks if they were waving to the train. I tell him they were, and that it was a scene reminiscent of a polar bear-based version of the Railway Children, but without Jenny Agutter. In Ipswich, our carriage lands perfectly adjacent to the bridge over the tracks that has fewest steps, and with the benefit of the energy saved we are soon in Portman Road buying programmes (£3.50 each) and looking at what the design of the programme front cover should look like. Today’s design is a mash of the Town and Arsenal club crests and for some reason reminds me a little of the programme for the 1951 Festival of Britain ,I think it’s the colours. Cursing the grandees of Umbro for the actual programme cover picture (Conor Chaplin’s modelling for Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’), we ascend to the Arb, where for £8.94 including Camra discount I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary. Drinks in hand we find Mick in the beer garden and join him to talk of film, religion, sexual politics, double funerals, beer, wedding anniversaries, incels and birthdays before Gary buys a repeat round of drinks, including a Jameson whisky for Mick. Eventually Mick says “Its twenty to three, we’d better leave” so we do.

Either our ambling has got faster or The Arb and Portman Road have drawn closer together, but I’ve been checked for firearms, relieved myself and am shuffling past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and two rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood before the teams are even on the pitch. This means I get the opportunity to bellow the Town player’s surnames in the manner of a Gallic ultra as the over enthusiastic young stadium announcer reads them out, although sadly like a latter day Murphy he is not wholly in sync with the names appearing on the scoreboard today. The announcer ends his announcement by doubling over in the style of the deranged Basil Fawlty and bawling “Blue Armeeee! ” into his microphone three times before turning to hug his silent sidekick, Boo Boo, who I can only think is on hand to finish the announcement if he were to suddenly explode or have a seizure.

It is Ipswich who get first go with the ball this afternoon, sending it for a short while, until Arsenal steal it, towards the goal just in front of me and my fellow over-fifties ultras. Town are in blue and white, whilst Arsenal are in their customary red with white sleeves and shorts, resembling, to those familiar with the ‘lower divisions’, an uncharacteristically ‘up themselves’ version of Fleetwood Town . “We ain’t getting nuthin against this lot” remarks the bloke behind me optimistically, before the first minute has elapsed. “Fuckin’ unbelievable play” he says. “Just the way they play” he continues , explaining himself to the bloke next to him.

For all their ability, it takes Fleetwood nearly five minutes to win a corner. “Oh, When the Town, go marching in, Oh when the Town go marching in, I’m gonna be in that number, when the Town go marching in” drone the Sir Bobby Robson standers mournfully and the mood only lifts when the words “Home of the XL vent shipping container “ chase themselves across the illuminated billboard between the tiers of the Sir Bobby stand. Then, suddenly, Julio Enciso incisively runs at the Fleetwood defence, singling himself out as the Ipswich player with attacking intent, but sadly his flash of inspiration, is just that, a flash.

It’s the fourteenth minute, it’s still goalless and then it’s not as a run down the Town left and a low centre becomes a goal and the illuminated billboard reads “External Wall Insulation”. Fleetwood lead 1-0. “Come to see the Arsenal you’ve only come to see the Arsenal” sing the jubilant Fleetwood fans and then “We’ll never play you again, we’ll never play you again” confirming perhaps that they are some of the more pessimistic supporters with regard to their hopes for the future of the planet.

The once blue sky above Portman Road has become cloudy. A corner is headed over the Town crossbar, but otherwise the game consists of Fleetwood just passing the ball about endlessly. I begin to wish to myself that somebody would just do something. Fourteen minutes after the first goal comes a second. Again, a run down the left, a low cross, which is more of a pass, a flick which is a pass, and a player is free to pass the ball into the Town net. Fleetwood lead 2-0.

Four minutes later and Leif Davis’s studs come into contact with the back of Bukayo Saka’s ankle. Saka leaps into the air like a startled cat and Davis is sent off for endangering life, which VAR confirms. Later this evening in France, in an almost identical incident a St Etienne player (Lucas Stassin) will be sent off for a similar foul against the less feline Corentin Tolisso of OL, but this will then be rescinded and changed to a yellow card when the referee looks at the VAR screen. Tolisso will be carried off on a stretcher and Lucas Stassin will go on to score the winning goal. Sadly, Ipswich is not St Etienne.

In the aftermath of Davis’s dismissal, Cameron Burgess replaces Jack Clarke and Saka proceeds to miss two decent chances for a goal to loud jeers and boos from Town supporters before I notice that the floodlights are now on and it’s not even a quarter to three yet. I surmise that the lights are on because conspicuous consumption is one of the rules in the Premier League. Five minutes of added on time are added on thanks to the delay when Saka received treatment from the club vet. It allows time for a moment of joy for Town fans and the opportunity to cheer ironically when George Hirst is awarded a free-kick for being fouled. Ironic cheering is one of the skills supporters of ‘little’ teams promoted to the Premier League quickly develop .

Half-time is a brief island of pleasure in a sea of pain and is made all the more pleasurable by my consumption of a catchily named Na Okraglo chocolate and wafer bar, which I picked up in the World Food aisle at Sainsbury’s, and which is made in Poland and is just one of the many benefits of immigration into Britain in recent years.

But the football resumes all too soon at seven minutes past three and Town are quickly defending another corner. The highlight of the match for Town arrives in the fifty seventh minute as Sam Morsy shrugs off a couple of opponents, strides forward and places a ball over the top of our opponents’ defence, for George Hirst to run onto and then cut inside a defender to curve a shot just beyond the far post. Apart from Enciso’s early enthusiasm, it’s probably been the only thing worth seeing from Town all afternoon and I can’t help wondering if the opposition are that good, or if we’ve just given up.

Fleetwood make some substitutions, but it doesn’t seem to alter their ability to dominate the game and as I begin to wonder what Pat from Clacton might be having for her tea and whether it will be any different to usual because it’s Easter Sunday, I hear her say “potato”. “Mashed?” I ask, half believing I heard her say that too, but no, she said “Jacket”. I then have a brief conversation with Fiona about hot cross buns. She had hers on Friday as you should, but I admit to having been eating them for weeks now.

We’re heading towards the last twenty minutes and corner follows corner follows corner, and from the last one Town concede a third goal, as some bloke in a red shirt turns, shimmies and just kicks the ball into the goal in a ridiculously simple manner, as if suddenly bored with all this passing the ball around the goal, so he thought he’d just score instead. “We’ll never play you again” chant the Arsenal fans once more, gloomily foreseeing Armageddon within all our lifetimes and then the excitable young stadium announcer gives us that the news that there are 29,549 of us here this afternoon, but 2,955 of us are just passing through. Unsportingly, but failing to realise most of us no longer care, the Arsenal fans now taunt us with chants about ‘going down’. But who won the FA Cup in 1978 eh? Winning the Cup is permanent, as is losing in the final, but relegation isn’t.

Nothing continues to happen except the ball going backwards and forwards across the pitch as if we’re playing a team of hypnotists. I’m struck by what a miserable looking lot the Fleetwood players are. Eighty-seven minutes are pretty much up and a shot hits a Town goalpost when no one is looking, and then a minute later a different shot strikes Cameron Burgess’s bum and swerves off the perfectly angled buttock into the goal; perhaps that’s why they call them the Arsenal; Town lose, four-nil. As if to rub it in, there are four minutes of added on time too.

With the final whistle, those that haven’t already left, mostly leave quickly. With just thirteen minutes until my train departs I swiftly clear off too, feeling suddenly alive as if awoken from the afternoon nap equivalent of a nightmare in which I’ve been mesmerised by life-sapping close passing and bad singing. I’m just glad it’s over, just Brentford and West Ham United to go now.