Ipswich Town 2 Bristol Rovers 1

Bristol Rovers, The Pirates, The Gas; I first saw them at Portman Road on a cold Wednseday evening in February 1978.  Although the 29,090 souls gathered there that night couldn’t have been certain of it at the time, it was an auspicious occasion that would forever be significant in the history of Ipswich Town as the one replay on the route to FA Cup glory.  I remember Bristol in their anaemic yellow shirts and black shirts and how we thrashed them by three goals to nil (Mills, Mariner and Woods). At the time, I thought it was an exotic fixture; Ipswich an established, top First Division club, albeit having an iffy season in the league, and Bristol Rovers the underdogs, perennial under achievers from one of England’s biggest cities and a club Town hadn’t played at Portman Road  since before I was born.  A little more than a decade after that cup tie and Town v Rovers was a Second Division fixture and now thirty years further on we meet in the third division again as we did in the 1950’s.  Time is round, there doesn’t seem much doubt.

I switch on my Lenovo lap-top, connect it to the tv set in the kitchen and log on to the ifollow.  “Sex or nothing for me” I think I hear Mick Mills say.  It’s not what I expected, even though with his fulsome moustache and mahogany tan, back in the 1970’s Mick would not have looked out of place in a porn flick.  I soon adjust my perception however and realise that Mick had said ‘six’ not ‘sex’ and was talking about the number of points Ipswich would take from their next two fixtures, which are against the two teams currently bottom and second from bottom of the third division table, Bristol Rovers and Rochdale.  Deciding that despite my admiration for Mick, what he thinks about how many points Town will amass over Easter isn’t very interesting I mentally tune out and don’t tune back in until the game begins and I hear Brenner Woolley explaining that Bristol Rovers are wearing their away kit of black with yellow pinstripes and flashing down the sides of their shorts.  I find Brenner’s attention to detail admirable and hope that the listeners to BBC Radio Suffolk who don’t have access to the pictures from the ifollow appreciate the picture he paints for them.

After about 50 seconds Town score; “A most bizarre goal” is Brenner’s description. “Well explain that one” says Mick in a challenge to Brenner, before admitting “I haven’t a clue what happened”.   It’s a goal that if it were a painting would be in the Tate Gallery or Pompidou Centre alongside the works of the abstract expressionists.  Marvelling at the thought of a goal that it is impossible to describe I can only attribute it to some sort of early Easter miracle.  The metaphorical stone that usually blocks the opposition goal has rolled away and let the ball in the net, and it’s still only Good Friday.  The caption on the ifollow screen attributes the goal to Rovers’ Luke Leahy, whose surname I imagine is pronounced ‘leaky’.  In my world I award the goal to Jackson Pollock.

“What you want now is a real response from Ipswich” says Mick, living in hope of seeing the current team live up to the benchmark he helped set forty-three years ago.  “This is the time of all times you want to get on your front foot” he continues, clearly believing that the current team has a front foot. As part of his usual rendering of mini-biographies of opposition players in the opening minutes, Brenner mentions Ed Upson, a former FA Youth Cup winner with Town who is today playing for Bristol Rovers. Meanwhile Mick doesn’t seem able to get over that goal. “A strange sort of opening to the game…we’re winning one-nil” he says, sounding bemused.

Ed Upson fouls little Alan Judge; “Upson, no stranger to the yellow card” says Brenner, introducing a turn of phrase I haven’t heard him use before.  Referee Steve Martin meanwhile is not swayed by the fact that Upson has ‘previous’ and doesn’t book him.  It’s the eleventh minute; Andre Dozzell shoots weakly, the Bristol goalkeeper Anssi Jaakola saves and according to Brenner, Alan Judge “finishes off at the second time of asking”.  It’s two-nil to Town.  “Andre’s shot was awful” says Mick tempering our excitement with a reminder of the reality, but the reality is also that Town have now scored twice. Simply unable to resist the pun, Brenner tells us that it’s “…a good Friday for Town”.  I sigh deeply with resignation but am shaken from my torpor as I hear Mick say “Inevitably going to be a win for Town”.  I can only think that Mick has adopted the attitude of Donald Trump and that if he says something, then he thinks it’s true. 

Egged on by Mick’s optimism I begin to dream of Town scoring five or six.  Brenner meanwhile returns to the world of using his words to paint a picture for the BBC Radio Suffolk listeners.  But figurative art isn’t wholly Brenner’s style and he likes to add a dash of surrealism’ “Paul Cook being rather noisy…he’s got his beanie hat and gloves on”.  Back on the field of play the Rovers’ goalkeeper receives the ball; “The Finn plays it out quickly” says Brenner, as ever ensuring that the ‘leave’ voting BBC Radio Suffolk listeners can single out the foreigners if they need to.  “I can’t quite decide what Bristol Rovers are doing” admits Mick suddenly, but perhaps still thinking about the opening goal.

It’s the eighteenth minute. “That was shocking from Dozzell” says Brenner. “Awful play from Andre Dozzell” says Mick as Rovers’ Luke McCormick robs the dawdling midfielder of the ball, advances and chips the ball over Tomas Holy and into the Town goal.  “First goal of the season for Bristol Rovers against Ipswich Town” announces Brenner weirdly.  My dreams of a crushing victory evaporate and Bristol Rovers instantly and miraculously become the better side.  Five minutes later Tomas Holy collides with a Bristol player outside the penalty area and is booked by referee Steve Martin, although Brenner implies that Rovers’ manager Joey Barton is advocating a sending off.  “Joey Barton not happy” he says of the vengeful Scouser.  “It’s an awful mistake by Luke Chambers” says Mick, pinpointing where the blame really lies.  “Paul Cook’s head in his hands” continues Brenner, adding a layer to his aural picture which now resembles something by Hieronymous Bosch.  Happily, Rovers fail to score from the ensuing free-kick.

Thirty-four minutes pass and Town win a corner. “This hasn’t been a great performance” says Mick. “Both teams very untidy” he adds in explanation.  Mick is on good form; “Just taking his time there Andre, like he does”.   Bristol Rovers are dominating possession, making Town play on the break.  There are seven minutes until half-time. Suddenly Luke McCormick swings a leg at the ball in the town penalty area; “He should’ve made that two-two” says Brenner as the snap shot bounces past Tomas Holy’s left hand post. “Possibly” replies Mick, providing the voice of reason to quell Brenner’s hysterical panic.  “I thought it was in, and so did Tomas Holy, he was rooted to the spot” opines Brenner unconvincingly. 

Town fail to improve, “It’s not good viewing at the moment; Bristol Rovers the better side” confirms Brenner before adding a dollop of symbolism to his aural picture with “They’re really knocking on the door at the moment Bristol Rovers”.  Two minutes of additional time are added in which Town win another corner which produces nothing to excite.  It’s half-time and Mick’s assessment is that “It’s been a very average performance”.  I put the kettle on.

The second half begins with Aaron Drinan replacing James Norwood.  The assumption would usually be that if not a tactical change Norwood is injured, after all, as Brenner himself might say “Norwood is no stranger to the treatment table”.  But today Brenner speaks obliquely about Norwood’s “health” as if he hasn’t been substituted because of an injury but something more sinister like an affliction with Tourette’s, Dysentery or Cholera.

The game begins anew. “Free-kick to Bristol Rovers early doors” says Brenner, using his favourite football commentary expression before it’s too late.   Quickly, Mick and Brenner establish for us that the portents for the second half are not good. “Everything seems to be coming from mistakes” says Mick, as if he’s never seen a third division match before. “This could be a horrible forty-two minutes to watch” adds Brenner with a mixture of fear and ghoulish optimism.

Seven minutes into the half and in a rare moment of actively trying to influence the result, Teddy Bishop has a shot on goal, but it’s very weak and straight at Jaakola.  Seemingly already losing interest in today’s match Brenner is looking ahead; “Three successive away games in a row for Town” he says, exhibiting a disappointingly poor understanding of tautology and how to avoid it.  Returning to the present, Gwion Edwards has a shot cleared; “off the goal line” according to Brenner, although in truth it hadn’t got that far.  In the aftermath Luke Chambers goes down clutching some or other piece of his anatomy and whilst he receives treatment Brenner asks Mick to summarise things so far this half.  Rather than comment on the use of colour and poetic licence in Brenner’s commentary, Mick answers with another question “Why aren’t we much better than these teams rooted down the bottom?”

Chambers recovers and play resumes. An hour has passed. “Still not comfortable viewing” says Brenner moments before Teddy Bishop breaks down the right to the by-line. “That was a terrific Teddy Bishop burst on the ball, he just went past people as if they weren’t there” declares Mick incredulously.  Sadly Teddy’s low cross is easily blocked.  Twenty five minutes of normal time remain, “A long way to go” remarks Brenner before telling us of “Parrott stretching his hamstrings” as the pssitacine-named player warms up on the touchline.  It makes me wonder to myself if parrots actually have hamstrings.   Back on the pitch Aaron Drinan is booked for colliding with an opposition player.  Troy Parrott replaces Kayden Jackson.  “How did they do?” asks Brenner of Mick referring to the Norwood and Jackson striking partnership.  “They didn’t do very well” is Mick’s considered response, although he does go on to describe the mitigating circumstances of an absence of any helpful passes from our midfield.

The sixty-seventh minute and Gwion Edwards wins a corner for Town; nothing comes of it.  “Still for the most part a very poor football team to watch, Ipswich Town” says Brenner trying to keep us in suspense until the end of his sentence to find out which team he is talking about.  A little over fifteen minutes remain of normal time. “I can’t believe how cold it is at Portman Road, there hasn’t been much to warm the cockles it has to be said”  says Brenner, possibly  hinting at some contractual obligation to mention either the weather or Town’s inability to make people feel good.  The seventy-fourth minute and Rovers’ Brandon Hanlon runs past Luke Chambers and strikes the ball across the face of the goal; it’s either a poor shot or a poor cross, but probably both. “Not the first time the Ipswich Town captain has been caught out for pace in this game, it has to be said” says Brenner telling us once again that there are just some things that he has to say, although presumably as a radio commentator if he didn’t say anything he wouldn’t get paid.

Thirteen minutes remain. Rover’s substitute Oztumer, whose surname sounds horribly like an Australian cancer, is booked for a foul on Stephen Ward.  “Three goals in eighteen minutes, a mad period really” says Mick reminiscing about happier times.  Six minutes later and Brenner tells us that Town have won “their fourth corner of this second half”.  Unusually, Luke Chambers makes it to the ball first and sends a near post header onto the roof of the net. “Decent effort” says Mick, “Not the best corner I would have said” he adds making Luke’s achievement sound all the more impressive.  A fifth corner soon follows, cleverly won by Aaron Drinan.   It’s just a shame Town are not very good at corners.  “My goodness it’s really been very poor” fires off Mick, “I don’t think Ipswich have performed at all…just so messy…nothing to excite you at all”,

Normal time has almost expired and for no apparent reason other than to use up time, Teddy Bishop and little Alan Judge are replaced by Josh Harrop and Armando Dobra.  Meanwhile, Bristol Rovers replace David Ayunga with Josh Barrett who, Brenner tells us “is very stocky”.  Four minutes of added time are played, and twenty-two seconds into the ninety-fifth minute, through the medium of his referee’s whistle ,  Mr Martin says enough is enough and Town win.  Mick was right.

Mick’s closing words before the ifollow broadcast rudely cuts him off are “Everything seemed to be messy and untidy; the performance again, it’s miles away from what you want.”  Of course Mick’s not wrong, how could he be?  But heck, on the bright side we have won.  During the week I watched a programme about Trappist monks in Leicestershire who set up a brewery; one of them said that people are happiest when living life in the moment not thinking of what’s gone or what the future holds.  Tonight Town have won, be happy, the future will look after itself, like it did in 1978.

Ipswich Town 2 Millwall 3


It is New Year’s Day and with it comes a third new beginning for Ipswich Town’s 2018/19 season. After two new managers and the hope they brought of something better, we now have the somewhat superstitious belief that merely changing the number of the year will have a miraculous effect, although it does also bring with it the opening of the transfer window and the possibility of obtaining some better players, which is really our only hope.

It is still with hope therefore that I travel to Ipswich today, and to help my mood the sun is shining and the train is on time. As I stand and wait on the platform two railway workers bemoan their Christmas working and the fact that despite the service being a reduced one, it seems just as busy. “I had three Shenfields and two Ipswiches, and a Clacton in there too, at the end” says one railwayman “What with just forty minute breaks?” says the other who wears an earring and has a sort of strangled falsetto voice. The train arrives and I board; it does seem busy like the railwayman said, although most of the bench seats are occupied by just one person. A good number of football supporters board in both Colchester and Manningtree, many sporting suspiciously new looking blue and white knitwear. As the train approaches the Suffolk border the sky clouds over. Proceeding into Ipswich past the old John Player sports ground a London accent behind me says “There’s football pitches there, ain’t there?” sounding slightly surprised. A similar sounding accent agrees; it would be outrageously argumentative not to. Passing the school pitches of the primary school on Maidenhall Approach the Londoner remarks that “Them goals are small ain’t they?”. His friend inevitably concurs.

'paramilitary' ticket collector

At Ipswich station, what looks like a paramilitary ticket collector stands by the Christmas tree in the booking hall; outside stand police and there are ‘heavies’ on the door of the Station Hotel. It’s all proof that today Town are playing Millwall. Although I can’t see many Millwall fans about this is no doubt because they do not wish their club colours to diminish their fashionable look; last season they looked like an army of extras from Mary Poppins, this season there doesn’t seem to be a discernible ‘look’ . My grandmother was born in London and used to sometimes claim that Millwall were ‘her team’, but then she also said the same of West Ham, and that was long before dementia led her to use ten pounds notes as toilet paper. I don’t think she really understood football.

Portman Road is unusually busy for the time of day, mostly with people either waiting to buy tickets, or for the turnstiles to open whilst others stuff burgers into their faces. St Jude’s Tavern is reasonably busy too when I get there and I take a pint of the Match Day Special (Calvor’s Smooth Hoperator (£2.50)) to a vacant stool at a table surrounded by retired gentlemen, at least one of whom now knows my name and says hello. I join in with the conversation which is mostly football based and nostalgic; for aging and indeed for all Ipswich Town fans the past is a wonderfully comforting place. My own reminiscences are oiled with a second pint; this time Nethergate’s Suffolk County (£3.20) and surprisingly Colchester United and Harwich & Parkeston are looked back on fondly too.

Stuck in the past we may be, but time itself can’t help moving forward, leaving us even further behind, but at about twenty-five to three we manage to stir ourselves and head down to Portman Road. It’s now brighter than it was and the pale blue sky is just slightly grubby with clouds. I enter the Sir Alf Ramsey stand through turnstile three and cheerily greet the operator; I look upon turnstile operators as the football fan’s friend, the gatekeepers of a magical world of football fun, which begins today with a visit to the gents.

Relieved, I smile to the lady steward at the top of the stairs then wander down to sit next to Elwood who is sat next to ever-present Phil who never misses a game, who is sat in front of Pat from Clacton. Phil offers me a mince pie, which is very kind and generous of him and I greedily accept. As the teams enter the field I cannot clap or cheer because I am shovelling sugary shortcrust pastry and mincemeat into my mouth.
The match begins; Ipswich as ever in blue and white decorated with an invitation to gamble, and hopefully mostly running in the direction of me, Elwood Phil and Pat whilst Millwall are in a sunny all orange kit advertising drainage and aiming loosely in the direction of the former Anglesea Road hospital and it’s classical columns. The Millwall fans are quickly into taunting mode with a rendition of “I can’t read and I can’t write, but I can drive a tractor” a song not heard much at Portman Road since the 1970’s. The Town fans are no match for such untamed metropolitan wit but Jack Lankester, Town’s trusty number thirty-six is, and within three minutes he collects a wide pass, cuts inside a defender and curls Town into an unfamiliar early lead. Our joy is not bridled. Phil and I leap off our seats happily waving our arms about like men drowning in a wave of euphoria. Pat from Clacton is so impressed she gets us to pose afterwards for a photo- facsimile of the moment, we are happy to oblige and I scare myself with my own clenched fist and a sort of growl of encouragement. With play resumed strains of the theme from The Great Escape rise up from the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.

This first half is a good one as evidenced by the lack of any noise from the Millwall fans in the corner of the Cobbold Stand. Town win a corner, “Come On You Blues” I chant, largely on my own and to no real effect. Ten minutes later Teddy Bishop tumbles over in the penalty area and around me people bay for a penalty. They would have wasted their breath less if they had sung “Come On You Blues” with me.

Mr Martin

Entirely predictably referee Mr Stephen Martin, who presumably doesn’t call himself Steve Martin in order to avoid people thinking he is the American comedian, does not oblige. This Steve Martin is clearly more of “The Jerk” rather than ”The man with two brains”.

The Sir Bobby Robson Stand sing “Ole, Ole, Ole” and some other hard to fathom words and my nostrils are assaulted by the drifting aroma of hot fat; I deduce that the hospitality package today could involve chips.

It’s about half past three and Jack Lankester falls to the ground as Millwall becoming increasingly physical. “That was a bloody foul, he must be ruddy blind” moans the old boy behind me , a hint of frustration in his voice. It’s now gone half-past three and the Millwall corner summon up what I imagine they think is defiance with a chorus of a song your mum would like, Rod Stewart’s Sailing. “We are Millwall, Super Millwall, No one likes us, We don’t care” they sing. Of all football supporters’ songs this is the one that comes closest to heart-rending. It’s a moving story, but I’m sure their ‘muvvers’ love ‘em.

Half time arrives and Town should have scored more goals, with Freddie Sears missing the best opportunity as he chooses to pirouette and fall over rather than hit the ball into the back of an almost open goal. But he’s still Elwood’s favourite player and deservedly so. The break in play affords me the opportunity to syphon off some more spent beer , enjoy a Panda brand liquorice bar and talk to Ray who wishes me a happy new year and I reciprocate; our conversation is only cut short by Ray’s need to visit the gents too. Ray is teetotal, and it’s good to know that the half-time rush to the khasi does not consist only of inveterate beer drinkers.

It’s three minutes past four and the second half begins; the light is fading fast, in fact it’s pretty much faded and then the same happens to Town. A bit before twenty past four Town captain Luke Chambers stretches for the ball as Millwall’s Tom Elliott inelegantly charges after it and from where I am sat it looks like the two collide. The Jerk considers that it is a penalty however, and Millwall equalise amidst some wailing and gnashing of teeth with Dean Gerken appearing to simply walk off to his right, as the ball goes to his left. Eight minutes later and Town’s Jordan Spence seems not to notice that the ball has bounced off Matthew Pennington’s head and allows it to roll out for a needless corner. But Spence isn’t entirely to blame and two or three Town defenders pay an equal lack of attention or allow themselves to be muscled out of the way and Millwall’s centre-half Jake Cooper scores a brutish centre-half’s goal, the sort Chambers and Tommy Smith would score back when Mick McCarthy managed Town. “Who the fuck, Who the fuck, Who the fuckin’ ‘ell are you?” sing the Millwall fans adding a depth of feeling and a coarseness to the Welsh hymn tune Cwm Rhondda that I’m sure its composer John Hughes never envisaged. This is what I had expected of Millwall; rich, spontaneous swearing to both celebrate themselves and abuse the opposition at the same time. What poetry.

the ref has words

The Jerk has made himself particularly unpopular and just keeps on giving by awarding free-kicks to muscular Millwall who are dominating the game in a way Mick McCarthy would have approved of. It’s a good job Mr Martin is here or else Town fans would have precious little to get excited about. He caps his display by booking manager Paul Lambert, possibly for refusing to wear a coat even now the sun has gone down and it’s really feeling a bit nippy. There is an atmosphere in the ground this afternoon, which on the one hand is good, but on the other it’s not because it is mostly the result of animosity towards Mr Martin who by now must be getting the message that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But he’s not the only one as Matthew Pennington under hits a back pass to Dean Gerken, who goes shin to shin with one of Millwall’s Satsumas; as Gerken lies curled up grimacing and clutching his leg, the ball spins out to Elliott who shoots past Luke Chambers from close range. It’s a terrible mess of a goal, the sort I wouldn’t really enjoy very much if Town scored it unless it was against Norwich.

The Millwall fans can hardly believe their luck. Re-purposing Sloop John B they sing “ How shit must you be, we’re winning away” and then to no particular tune they launch into their repetitive piece de resistance “ You’re fucking shit, You’re fucking shit, You’re fucking shit”. Their joy at scoring is only matched by their joy at being able to tell the opposition how ‘shit’ they are, possibly revealing deep-rooted issues about their own lack of self-esteem; a right laugh though innit.

What started as a promising afternoon, as a promising new year, has turned into a slightly worse version of everything that has gone before. Our descent is seemingly gathering pace and a penchant for slapstick comedy. Kayden Jackson briefly entertains with a beautiful flick of the ball and then a spectacular shot that does what the best goals do and pings off the inside of one post and behind the ‘keeper to the other side of the net, but it feels like a waste of a marvellous goal, the best goal of the game.

With the final whistle it is at least pleasing that I don’t hear any boos. There are some sighs, but people seem to realise that there’s no point in castigating this team; they do seem to be doing their best, but many of them are still young and as a team they’re just not very good.  But if we keep supporting them, they might improve.  For now I am of course disappointed, but later on tonight, or may be tomorrow I will reflect that disappointment is a part of life, a part of that rich tapestry that means when the next win does arrive it will feel absolutely wonderful.   There is something to look forward to and anticipation is everything.

Ipswich Town 2 Millwall 2

It is Easter, a time for miracles, but on this bank holiday Monday it feels like it will be a miracle if there is any sunshine. Biblical stories have somehow collided this weekend and Noah and his Ark and possibly St Swithin have muscled in on the crucifixion with a deluge of rain. Perhaps however, it will result in a bumper bank holiday crowd at Portman Road as famished fans of local non-league football splurge the money saved on half a dozen recent postponements on one game of league football.
Nevertheless, it’s dry and almost warm today as I walk past queuing cars to the railway station; the road side ditches are full of water and the floating detritus ofOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA modern living, presumably flung from the windows of passing traffic. At the railway station the hedgerows are in bloom, suggesting that Spring is here in spite of the grey sky. Signs of re-birth abound, but outside the station a dead rook is propped against the fence as if it had suicidally nose-dived into the pavement.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
The train is on time and I sit on the opposite side of the carriage to a man and a woman in their thirties, she appears to be staring into her handbag, but I discern she has a kindle inside it, whilst he peers relentlessly at his phone. They don’t speak. As arrival at Colchester is announced she looks up somewhat scarily at her partner, lifting her eyebrows high above her staring eyes and grinning, showing off her uneven teeth. They collect their belongings and alight. Behind me I hear munching and the brittle rustle of a crisp bag as a balding man in an Ipswich Town shirt devours a packet of crisps.
At Ipswich there is a heavier than usual police presence, with police vans lined up on theOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA station forecourt and police in baseball hats stood about in pairs. Town are playing Millwall. Outside the Station Hotel, which is reserved for away supporters, there are blokes in dark flat caps and black jackets and dark blue jeans; this must be “the look” for your fashionable dockland geezer this year. They somehow make me think of Dick Van Dyke and his band of cheery chimney sweeps in Disney’s Mary Poppins. No one wears club colours. The

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Station Hotel is making the most of its boozy south London visitors and has provided a gazebo in the pub car park, possibly just to stop them from coming indoors. Across the bridge and over the river the car park behind the old maltings appears to have been taken over by ‘travellers’. I do not know if this is related to the arrival of Millwall supporters or is just another Bank Holiday tradition; I just hope they’ve paid and displayed.
As I turn the corner into Portman Road the Millwall team bus arrives, to no particular OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAexcitement; unlike with other clubs, no fawning supporters gather at the gates to welcome their heroes, I am guessing they have sussed that they won’t get even a glimpse of them, the blacked out windows of the bus making it more like an out-sized black maria. I walk on to St Jude’s Tavern, collecting a programme (£3) on the way; the vendor entreats me to enjoy the match; which is nice, and admirably optimistic.
At St Jude’s the regular pre-match drinkers are present; I get a pint of a dark ale, which IOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA don’t remember the name of (£3.40) and take a seat at a table next to a group of blokes in their sixties. Talk is almost exclusively of football, Mick McCarthy’s departure, who might replace him and the ten percent cut in season ticket prices. One of the sextagenarians admits to me that he only bothers to come because of his discounted ticket and the promise of a pre-match beer. As a second pint I have the Match Day Special (£2.50) and then as a Bank Holiday treat a half of the Stour Strong Ale (£1.90). An hour passes quickly

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and it’s time to roll down Portman Road. The floodlights are on and seem to shine more brightly than the pale sun which struggles to make its presence felt through the grey cloud. Portman Road itself is busy with people in hi-vis coats, Zero the sniffer dog and fanzine sellers; I see three within a distance of about 15 metres all selling Turnstile Blue issue 17; I buy a copy (£1). A youth lolls against Sir Bobby’s plinth.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA There is a queue at the turnstiles into the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, but that’s because not all the turnstiles are open and the ticket of the person in front of me won’t scan correctly in the bar code reader.

 

Inside the enclosure of the ground there appears to be a sale in the

stall selling Matchday Essentials. I meet Dave the steward with whom I used to work at Royal Mail; he left Royal Mail last year and now has a nice little admin job calculating pay rises for NHS staff. The undercroft of the stand is clearing rapidly as strains of ‘My Way’ drift beneath the seating, a song made more poignant by Mick McCarthy’s confirmed forthcoming departure. I need a wee.
Relieved, I take a seat in the same row as Phil the ever-present supporter who never misses a game and the teams break free from their enforced hand-shaking to skip about and then form separate ‘group’ huddles; football managers don’t talk about the team any more they talk about ‘the group’. I wish one week someone would join the wrong huddle. Sadly, although they seem to like ‘banter’ I don’t think any footballers are that subversive.
Before the match begins there is a minute’s applause for former Town manager Bobby Ferguson and former player Colin Harper. I always felt sorry for Ferguson being the manager to follow Bobby Robson and having to preside over the break- up of the team as it was sold off to pay for the Pioneer Stand. As if that was not enough it was the grim early 1980’s, a time of Reaganomics, Thatcherism, Monetarism , general neo-liberal nastiness, big hair and shoulder-pads.
There are plenty of Millwall supporters here today and they are in predictably good voice. Their team has won something like seven consecutive away games and are after a record eighth, whilst Ipswich have not scored at home for five games and have scored just one goal at home all year. I can’t recall going to a game where the odds are so heavily stacked in Ipswich’s favour. The Millwall fans sing about somewhere, possibly OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERASouth London, being wonderful on account of it being full of “tits, fanny and Millwall”, which is an interesting combination and not the sort of thing you’re likely to find mentioned on TripAdvisor when you’re looking for an Indian takeaway in Deptford.
The game begins with Ipswich kicking towards me, Phil and the other occupants of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. Millwall are in a change kit of all black with gold trim, a colour scheme which probably matches their bathrooms. Ipswich start well and get in some crosses from the right, but there is no one to direct them at the goal because Town sportingly play without a centre forward. Muscular Martyn Waghorn (Waggy) wears the number nine shirt for Town but he’s not really a centre forward like Rod Belfitt or Paul Mariner or even Mich D’Avray used to be. He plays in a deeper role but succeeds in winning free-kicks and annoying the opposition however, and within a few minutes the satisfyingly foul-mouthed Millwall fans have tunefully announced that “Waghorn is a wanker”. Having sung of lady parts and masturbation their thoughts inevitably turn anal and they become some of the quickest supporters this season to dust off their Welsh hymn books as they notice that “Your support is fucking shit”. The paucity of the Ipswich vocal support is indeed the ‘bread of heaven’ to most away fans. It took them less than seven minutes to notice and I worry that they will use up their canon of abusive songs before half-time.
There is now rain in the air and a few spits find their way beneath the high roof, which IOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA am pleased to see still sports a fine growth of buddleia. The smell of the damp turf rises up with a chill and behind me Crazee the mascot bangs his drum, half-heartedly and unsuccessfully trying to inspire some support for the team. OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAAway in the corner of the North Stand also a drum is briefly drummed and a muffled chant or two is heard; Ipswich win a couple of corners, but the early rush of enthusiasm from Town has abated. Nevertheless, Millwall’s run of seven consecutive away wins is beginning to look like a fluke and then a cross from the left is headed in by someone in a number 35 shirt called Jake Cooper and Millwall are winning, and it’s not half-past three yet. I respond with a few choruses of “Allez les bleus” but only Phil joins in and then it’s half-time and the toilet beckons as I reap the consequences of an hour in St Jude’s Tavern imbibing fine ales.
Under the stand I stare at people staring at the TV screens bringing them the half-time

scores; I eat a stick of Panda liquorice hoping to tap into the curative and mystical powers alluded to on the Panda website. I look at the prices of snacks and beverages and at my match day programme. The cover of the programme sports a picture of Town number 25, Stephen Gleeson, a sullen, unhappy- looking man with scruffy, greasy hair and a patchy attempt at a beard and moustache. The words next to his head reveal that he has a debt to Mick McCarthy and that he nearly quit the English game. I hope he feels better now, because he’s played quite well so far today.
Back in the stand I say hello to Ray, who is here with his son and grandson and tells me to carry-on with the singing, even though nobody understands it. The teams re-emerge onOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA to the pitch to be applauded by Crazee the mascot; Ipswich have made a change, with number 34 Ben Folami, who isn’t even listed on the programme, replacing Myles Kenlock. Folami sports a tuft of bleached hair which makes him instantly recognisable from afar, which is what is needed on a grey afternoon like this. He has only ever played once before for the Town, in one of those Cup games, which we like to lose in order to concentrate on the league.
Folami looks keen and runs with the ball in the direction of the Millwall goal. This is a good thing and it’s not even a quarter past four before Folami, or possibly Waggy scores a scrappy equalising goal and then Waggy takes advantage of a generous back pass to give Town the lead. The Sir Bobby Robson (North) Stand find a voice and the Millwall supporters reveal through their own song that “we forgot you were here”; what cards! The Portman Road crowd hasn’t seen anything like this in years, well, certainly not in 2018 and only an innate fear of being accused of sarcasm stops many from bursting spontaneously into a warm chorus of “Mick McCarthy’s blue and white army”. Talk now is of how many we will score. Certified dead on Easter Saturday afternoon, having lost 1-0 at Birmingham and put in a tomb by Michael Joseph of Arimethea McCarthy, Town have miraculously been resurrected on Easter Monday.
No matter that just six minutes later a bloke called George Saville, an anachronistic sort of a name which sounds to me like he could have been a great train robber, equalises for Millwall and then he and his team mates miss a procession of chances to win the match. Town’s Cole Skuse is injured and emerges from a clutch of concerned players with his head bandaged to add some further drama before being substituted, and four Town players are cautioned by referee Steve Martin, who is definitely not ‘The man with two brains’. But it is an exciting afternoon of football at Portman Road and lately that has been a rare thing, even if the excitement by the end is mostly fuelled by Schadenfreude and willing Ipswich to just hold on to deny Millwall that record away win.
Such is the relief when ‘The Jerk’ blows the final whistle that I stay on to applaud the players from the field and perhaps say a final farewell to Mick McCarthy. Whatever people say about Mick, he was definitely better than Roy Keane and Town supporters will miss him because he was their excuse not to sing and shout in support of their team like proper football supporters do.