vaclav hladky

Ipswich Town 6 Exeter City 0

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

I remember going to Exeter as a child in the mid 1960’s.  Although it was mid-August it rained and I wore a plastic mac, which was quite the fashion at the time; I held my father’s hand.  I returned a little over thirty years later, again in August to see Ipswich Town and Exeter City summon up a two-goal draw in the first round of the League Cup, but this time the sun shone on a warm dog day evening.  My father wasn’t with me that night.  A week later, Town thrashed ‘the Grecians’ as they are mysteriously known, 5-1 in the second leg back in Ipswich.

Now it’s Spring again, and the sun is shining once more after a cloudy week of going to the dentist, visiting my mother and being amazed at the unknowable brilliance of the current Ipswich Town team, as I watched them thrash Barnsley through the wonder of the interweb.  Today, Ipswich Town play Exeter City in the last home game of the season and a win will see the club promoted back to the second division.  Under a pale blue sky, I trip lightly across the grass, dandelions, daisies, and occasional dog turd of Gippeswyk Park having parked up my planet-saving Citroen e-C4.  In Portman Road I purchase a programme (£3.50) in the modern cashless manner and walk amongst Exeter City supporters dressed as comedy Scots.  I quite like the front cover of the programme today, it features Kieran McKenna blowing a kiss, Sam Morsy staring dreamily off into the distance and Conor Chaplin doing an impression of Norman Wisdom. Around the corner in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, a haze of blue smoke sweeps towards Alderman Road rec, and a mighty throng cheers a large grey bus as it crawls past the frontage of the municipal tram depot.  It’s the team bus, but it could be anyone inside behind those opaquely glazed windows.  Impressed, and yet not, I head for the Arb where the front door is open, inviting me in.  There is a queue at the bar, and it takes a while to get served. As I wait Mick appears from ‘out the back’ to tell me he’s just arrived and hasn’t got a drink, but has a table in the garden with Gary, who does have a drink.  “Bloody Gary’s alright then” says the bald-headed man stood behind me.  Eventually I emerge into the beer garden with two pints of foaming Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8.00) and I join Mick and Gary for conversations about things so unremarkable I can’t remember them except for mention of a racist souvenir Gary saw at the airport in Mumbai, police corruption, the chairman of the BBC, a TV programme about handmade things in Japan and how good the Suffolk Pride tastes to day.

After Gary kindly buys me a further half of the deliciously fresh Suffolk Pride, a half of lager for himself and a packet of cheese and onion crisps for Mick, we talk some more and then at around twenty-five to three depart for Portman Road, finally going our separate ways somewhere in front of the statue of Alf Ramsey, as I head for the lower tier of his stand and Mick and Gary for the posh seats of the West Stand.  As ever, today’s portal to another world is turnstile 62, because of 1962, where the over helpful steward seems to give me a gentle shove through when the light turns green to say my season ticket is valid.

After savouring the still not stale thrill of the blast of hot air over my wet hands from the new hand driers in the gents, I find my seat amongst Pat from Clacton, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood. Fiona isn’t here today due to some very badly planned prior engagement, but in her place is a large man with no hair, who Pat introduces to me as Fiona, I don’t catch his real name, but of course that could be his or her real name.

I am here in time today to cheer the teams onto the pitch and see the referee Mr Oldham snatch up the match ball from its plinth as he leads the procession between lines of banner waving children.  Stadium announcer Stephen Foster reads out the teams and ever-present Phil and I bawl out the Town players surnames in the style of a French football crowd.  Today I can’t help but notice Stephen Foster’s shoes, which I don’t think go with his suit.  But what do I know, he is a Radio Caroline DJ, acquaintance of members of Dr Feelgood and can legitimately claim to be much more “rock and roll” than me.

After Exeter City take the knee, the game begins with Town having first go with the ball and aiming at the goal just a bit to one of side of me and Phil and Pat and Elwood and the man from Stowmarket.  Town are of course in blue and white, whilst disappointingly Exeter sport a messy looking concoction of black and cerise rather than their excellent signature kit of red and white striped shirts and black shorts.  I struggle to understand why a team that wears stripes would not always wear stripes, tsk.

Today, with all available tickets sold, Portman Road is quite noisy, in an everyone chattering loudly at once sort of a way and there are relatively frequent bursts of singing too from the bottom of the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  It’s the third minute, a moment’s silence falls and it’s as if there’s a sudden realisation that this cannot be allowed  to happen and a chorus of “ We’ve got super Kieran McKenna…” quickly strikes up, followed by a painfully slow rendition of “When the Town going marching in” which I feel compelled to speed up and so I do,  trying to add a sort of New Orleans jazz feel to it.  “How much have you had to drink?” asks Pat from Clacton. “I’ve only had a pint and a half” I tell her. “Of vodka” adds Fiona.

On the pitch, Town haven’t done much so far, I hope it’s not going to be one of those games where we don’t get into a rhythm.  “I hope we get an early goal” says the bearded, brown-haired young man sitting between me and the man from Stowmarket. It’s the ninth minute, Sam Morsy passes to Conor Chaplin and from the edge of the penalty area he shoots and finds the corner of the net before the Exeter goalkeeper Gary Woods can blink, and Town lead 1-0. That’s a relief, and Pat takes ever-present Phil’s photo as he holds his arms aloft and roars triumphantly with everyone else.

It’s three minutes since Town scored and Exeter have Town pinned back in our half, they even win a corner.  “I want us to be top” says Pat, and echoing that sentiment the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and pockets of people all around the ground sing “We’re gonna win the league, We’re gonna win the league, and they int gonna believe us, and they int gonna believe us..” in what sounds weirdly like a West Midlands accent. “We’re coming for you, We’re coming for you, Norwich City, We’re coming for you” continues the crowd, but in no particular accent this time, and Pat says she hates playing Norwich.  I tell Pat I like it when we beat them.

It’s the sixteenth minute and Town break down the left, George Hirst sends the ball on to Massimo Luongo, he is inside the penalty area, he runs, he shoots, he scores. Town lead 2-0 and I had a really good view of the ball leaving Massimo’s foot, by-passing Gary Wood and striking the net. This is good.  “How many more goals do we need?” I ask Pat from Clacton. “One more” she says.   There’s time for some choruses of “Stand up if you’re going up” and “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town, the finest football team the world has ever seen” and then Town are breaking down the left again, a low cross is driven towards the goal by Nathan Broadhead and George Hirst scores from close range. Pat can relax and there are still the best part of seventy minutes to play. 

Six minutes later Town carve open the Exeter defence again as Wes Burns chases a through ball into the penalty area, racing the Exeter full-back Jake Caprice who has the perfect surname for someone about to give away a penalty. Nathan Broadhead scores the resultant spot-kick sending the ball high into the roof of the net to Gary Wood ‘s right as Gary foolishly dives low to his left.  I can barely believe this is happening, it is not the Ipswich way, where is the pain, the doubt, the anxiety?  And the moaning, why is nobody moaning?   I had mushrooms with my breakfast this morning and am beginning to wonder who Ocado’s supplier is as four minutes further on two Exeter players jump for the ball and it falls to Conor Chaplin who instinctively half volleys it into the corner of the net. Stephen Foster can’t help himself and once again summons the ghost of 1940’s comedian Tommy Handley by announcing “It’s That Man Again”. Town are winning 5-0 after just 32 minutes.  I had the impression after 52 years of watching Town, that I’d seen it all, but may be I hadn’t.

When with five minutes left until half-time Luke Woolfenden heads over the cross-bar it seems like it’s the first time a goal attempt from Town hasn’t resulted in a goal; two minutes later Harry Clarke shoots wide of the far post and  I’m wondering what’s gone wrong.  Three minutes of added on time are added on.

With half-time I go down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison, and here for her traditional one game a season Ray’s wife Roz. We have nothing to say about the football except that it’s brilliant and that Exeter aren’t really bothering to defend their right-hand side.  Today is Harrison’s nineteenth birthday and Ipswich Town have achieved nothing in his lifetime until today, it must feel like all his birthdays have come at once.

With the start of the second half at six minutes past four, the man from Stowmarket tells me that he thinks Town need to sharpen up for the second half, it’s the type of joke I imagine is being repeated all around the ground.  Two minutes in and it seems the Town’s players didn’t get the joke and a long ball down the right sends Wes Burns into the Exeter penalty area where he lobs the ball over the advancing Gary Woods and into the Exeter goal and Town lead 6-0. Wow.

With the game already convincingly won I half expected the usual mass substitutions to be made at half-time, but there’s no need as Exeter almost score an own goal in the 53rd minute but concede a corner instead.  An hour has nearly drifted into history and the more rowdy Exeter supporters at the back of the Cobbold stand have a mad five minutes as they chant “Six-nil and you still don’t sing” at the over 60s in the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and the less tuneful “Football in a library, do-do-do” before rounding off with the questioning “ Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?”, to which we should all answer in effete voices “Will you do?, Will you do? Will you do requests for us?”, but sadly no one does.

The hour passes and Exeter number seven, the interestingly monikered Demetri Mitchell is cautioned by the orange shirted Mr Oldham for vainly diving in a pitiful attempt at winning a penalty.  A booking isn’t really enough punishment for such an offence and referees should carry a wet fish in a bag that they can slap in diving players’ faces to deliver the level of humiliation that the offence deserves.   Demetri’s conduct possibly leads to his imminent substitution as Exeter plot to bring on the players capable of turning around a six-goal deficit. Two minutes later and Town have a corner and Conor Chaplin shoots over the cross bar. “Bloody useless” says Fiona.

It’s soon time for Town’s usual mass substitution, which today, in common with most days in fact, feels like an excuse for standing ovations all round. The attendance is announced by Stephen Foster as 29,334 which, despite there being a whole block of vacant seats next to the Exeter supporters is oddly the largest gate of the season at Portman Road by about 250.  Exeter’s away following is recorded as a very creditable 919.

Exeter win a corner. Sam Morsy plays a through ball to no one in particular. “What was that?” asks the boy behind me “It don’t matter, we’re 6-nil up” replies his dad.   Pat from Clacton tells me she’s not having a jacket potato for her tea tonight, although she’s still having the usual salad with chicken and prawns.  It’s because she’s not sure when she’ll get home, what with the after-match celebrations.  I tell her she could do a baked potato in the microwave in about ten minutes, but Pat tells me she doesn’t own a microwave. “We’re old-fashioned” she says.  The match dribbles away into nothing but noise and smiles and Christian Walton is substituted with Vaclav Hladky so that they can both get the benefit of some applause from a crowd now totally tripped out on goals and promotion.

The final whistle brings the inevitable pitch invasion despite the presence of police, ‘security’ and polite requests not to run onto the pitch.  Pitch invasions have been around a long time, certainly since the days of duffle coats, National Health glasses and Alf Ramsey and there are TV pictures to prove it. Strangely, in our supposedly permissive society the ‘authorities’ seem to be becoming increasingly restrictive.  The pitch invasion does however provide the memorable sight of Sam Morsy being shouldered aloft, so it isn’t all bad.  The town’s most excitable youths soon return to the Sir Bobby Robson stand, whence most of them came and so I hang around for the lap of honour and the player of the year presentations.  Unfortunately, when the players do re-emerge from the dressing room they are accompanied by so many wives, girlfriends, children, family members and others that it is hard to see the players themselves.  The rambling, amorphous mass of humanity drifts around the pitch before stopping between the Sir Bobby Robson stand and the half-way line, and there it stays.  I sing along to Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown but when the PA starts playing Queen I decide I can’t be bothered to wait any longer to see what will probably underwhelm me and I bid my farewells to my fellow ultras until August.

 It has been a most memorable, remarkable afternoon, one that far outstripped my hopes for what it might be and unlike my first encounter with things Exonian it hasn’t rained and no one had to hold my hand.

Ipswich Town 0 Burnley 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

You have to go back thirteen years to 2010, when Britain had a Labour government and ‘Hot Tub Time Machine’ was on at the cinema to find an FA Cup run for Ipswich Town that wasn’t more than just an initial tie and defeat in a replay.  Admittedly, first round ties were won last year and two years before that, but the fourth round is unchartered territory for many a millennial.  Back when I was a lad, when things were still fab, groovy and magic, in the time before the world seemed to go completely and utterly insane, three consecutive FA Cup victories for Town would have seen us into the quarter finals.  But fate has been a cruel mistress to Ipswich since then and now our FA Cup begins in November and any story of success is by its very nature an epic tale.

Today’s FA Cup opponents are Burnley, the club against whom Ipswich Town recorded their first ever victory in what is now laughably known as the Premier League.  That victory, on a Tuesday night in August 1961, was just sixteen months after Burnley had become  League Champions, but Town won 6-2 and the less than snappy sports headline in the Ipswich Evening Star read “Six goal Ipswich rock mighty Burnley in great game”.  Ipswich and Burnley are the smallest two Towns in England to have ever been home to the football League Champions and when Town were Champions in 1962 Burnley were runners-up, so if you’re feeling sentimental think of us as sort of footballing twins separated at birth; luckily for Town we’re the one that didn’t get taken to live ‘up North’.

With thoughts of football history and past glories illuminating the manuscript of my mind, I park up my smoothly silent Citroen e-C4 and step out across Gippeswyk Park towards Portman Road and the Arb beyond.  It’s a cold, dull day like all the others lately,  but the exercise of the walk warms me up. In Sir Alf Ramsey Way I pause to buy a programme (£2) in the modern cashless manner and from inside his moulded booth the programme seller tells me to enjoy the match. I thank him and realise that there’s something about the little programme sellers’ booths that makes me think they should also sell ice creams.

At the ‘The Arb’, I buy a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.90) and the landlord explains that he is doing his best to keep the price down below £4.00, which is good of him.  I retire to the beer garden where an electrician is fitting new heaters to the shelter.  I sit at a table beneath an umbrella, I am alone, but not for long as Mick soon appears apologising for being late before disappearing again only to reappear with his own pint of Suffolk Pride.  We talk of my electric car and trip to Oxford last Saturday, of newspapers and the France 24 news channel and app, doctor’s surgeries and how I find the appearance of a man in a cowboy hat who has come outside  for a smoke a little weird; i expect he’s smoking Marlboros.

Time passes and before long we have to leave for Portman Road, or otherwise we’d miss the kick-off.  In Sir Alf Ramsey Way we enter by the turnstiles where there is no queue.  A steward with a loud hailer announces the existence of these magical turnstiles and encourages their use, but to little avail. As usual for cup ties, our seats are the ‘posh’ padded ones in Block Y, seemingly designed for people short in leg and tender in buttock.  The teams are already on the pitch as we edge our way to our seats past a homely looking, grey-haired woman and her slightly chubby, bearded male accomplice, perhaps a husband or paramour. We catch the tail end of the “Na-na-nas” from the Beatles “Hey Jude” and the game begins. Town have first go with the ball and kick from left to right towards the stand of Sir Alf Ramsey, architect of that 6-2 win in the late summer of 1961, when supporters still travelled to the match by trolleybus.

Within a minute or so Kayden Jackson is sprinting away down the  right, ball at his feet, he crosses the ball low and hard and George Hirst hits it past the near post from somewhere near the middle of the penalty area, just like he did at Oxford last week.  It’s a very exciting start to the game and helps to temper my disappointment that Burnley are not wearing their traditional claret shirts, but are instead decked out in what has become the ubiquitous and profoundly boring all-black away kit, which every club seems to have.  Burnley’s kit features red trim, as if that could make any difference whatsoever.

Burnley’s Scott Twine stoops to tie a boot lace.  “Come on referee!”  bawls a whiny man behind me. “Why are we stopped to let him tie his laces” he continues, “ I’ve never seen a game stopped for a player to tie his laces, I’ve never seen it before”. The whiney man is absolutely apoplectic and wants everyone to know he’s never seen such a thing before. I can honestly say I’ve never heard anyone so angry, so early in a game about a player tying his boot lace, but I decide not to shout it out.  I did see the game delayed whilst Sam Morsy put on a pair of new boots last week at Oxford, I don’t shout that out either.

“I didn’t get a programme” says the chubby bearded man beside me to the homely, grey-haired woman, “Because of the high demand”.  Something in his voice tells me he was too mean.  Marcus Harness hits the cross bar with a right-footed shot from the centre of the penalty box.  With the ball returned to goalkeeper Vaclav Hladky, Town pass the ball out from the back and Burnley players are quick to close down the Town defenders, causing a ripple of unease amongst some supporters. “Playing from the back, it’s what modern teams do” calls out the whiny bloke again to ensure we all know that he understands ‘modern football’.  I can’t help but chuckle.

Eleven minute have gone and Burnley win the first corner. “Come on Burnli, Come On Burnli” chant the Lancastrians in their deep accent full of short vowels, rolled ‘r’s and lolling ‘l’s.   Jordan Beyer tugs at Sone Aluko’s shirt as Sone tries to break forward, and is booked by referee Tom Nield. “Dirty northern bastard” I say to Mick, because it amuses me to do so.  The noise inside the ground is stirring as both home and away fans get into the spirit of what the FA Cup used to be all about. It feels like 1974.  As Burnley’s Scott Twine writhes on the ground and then gets up and plays on when he doesn’t get a free-kick, the chubby man next to me mansplains to the homely woman that he wasn’t really hurt.  It’s twenty past three and Burnley’s Jay Rodriguez shoots high over the Town cross bar, spurning Burnley’s first chance of a goal.

Town win their first corner. “Come On You Blues” chant several people, even in the west stand.   The booking count is levelled up when inexplicably Marcus Harness fails to stop when running and collides with Ameen Al-Dakhil’s ankles. Town win another corner as something of a hit and hope cross from Kayden Jackson looks like it might dip under the Burnley cross-bar, forcing their extensively named goalkeeper Bailey Peacock-Farrell to tip the ball over.  Another corner follows  and the chubby man next to me tells the homely looking woman that it’s a very exciting game; it’s nice of him because she might not have realised if she was busy knitting or making a shopping list perhaps.  

Only ten minutes until half-time now, and in an outbreak of astounding cheek or wilful absence of self-awareness, Town fans chant “Your support is fucking shit” presumably to the Burnley fans, although singing it to one another would be understandable in the context of many previous matches.  Shocked, I inexplicably imagine that Vaclav Hladky reminds me a bit of Laurie Sivell, probably because he looks quite a bit shorter than all his defenders.  A beautifully flowing Town moves produces another corner to Town and the whiny bloke behind me gets all self-righteous again loudly expounding “We don’t play that way anymore, lumping it forward” as if no one else can possibly have noticed.

It’s been a fine half of football despite the whiny man and by way of celebration the Sir Bobby Robson stand are singing “ Oh when the Town go marching in” at the proper speed, although possibly without quite the  joy of genuine evangelists.  Finally, the fact that no more than a minute of added-on time is to be played seems to confirm that for forty-five minutes at least all has been right with the world – except that we haven’t scored.

With half-time Mick and I use the facilities to disperse excess Suffolk Pride, but the queues for the toilets are so long it’s impossible to find where they end in the cramped confines of the upper stair cases and bars of the west stand. We return to ground level where there is more space and more square footage of urinal. Returning to our seats in time for the re-start, we ease past the homely looking woman and the chubby man and I pause to take a look at who might be the whiny man behind me, I think he is wearing tinted glasses and has a very pink face beneath a hat.

The game resumes at six minutes past four and  Burnley up their game a bit, being a tiny but significant bit quicker and pressing more than in the first half. As a result Vaclav Hladky has to make two excellent saves, but make them he does, and with aplomb, reminding us of why we have a goalkeeper.  But it’s not all Burnley and Town soon win a corner.  “ There are people say we can’t defend…” expounds the whiny bloke, but I’m fed up with him and tune out before he concludes his latest treatise. In the Cobbold Stand the Lancashire hordes start to sing “The Irish Rover”, which seems a little odd, although there were a lot of Irish immigrants to Lancashire in the nineteenth century, but they’d be getting on a bit now. More odd is that the chubby bloke beside me joins in.

Mick asks me what substitutions I think Kieran Mc Kenna will make and I tell him that George Hirst  and Marcus Harness and possibly Sone Aluko are most likely to go off first , and so it proves,  as with an hour gone Freddie Ladapo,  Nathan Broadhead and Conor Chaplin replace them.  Burnley make three substitutions too, although I’m disappointed that neither of their other two players with double-barrelled surnames are in today’s squad. Who’d have thought Burnley would have so many players with double-barrelled surnames?

Ten minutes later and Sam Morsy is shown his usual yellow card for a pretty unexceptional foul, “He collects them doesn’t he?” says Mick. I can’t disagree.  Stadium announcer Stephen Foster announces that today’s attendance is 25,420 of which 1,581 are from Burnley;  he thanks everyone for their ‘tremendous’ support. “You’re not sitting where I am Stephen” I think to myself.  Six minutes after his booking Sam Morsy is replaced by new signing Massimo Luongo, who like Morsy joined Town from Middlesbrough.  With his beard, dark hair and large frame, Luongo even looks a bit like Morsy from up here, and I ponder for a moment on the possible advantages and desirability of bringing on substitutes who look like the player they replace.

“Come On Ipswich, Come On Ipswich” chant the crowd in all parts of the ground as full-time begins to draw ever closer. Kyle Edwards replaces Kayden Jackson who trots off the pitch to a loud ovation; he has been truly excellent today.  “ I know why you play” calls the whiny bloke loudly as if no one else does and everyone sat around him is one of the people who criticises Jackson on social media.  Time is running out,  Town win a corner  but Luke Woolfenden can only head the ball wide. Massimo Luongo is even playing like Sam Morsy, but hasn’t been booked, and indeed he gets fouled by the economically-named Jack Cork, provoking frantic flagging from the linesman and a final yellow card of the afternoon from Mr Nield.  Four minutes of added on time are announced, five are played and the game ends.

It’s been yet another excellent afternoon of football at Portman Road, even though not winning can rarely be anything but a little disappointing.  Best of all however, this felt like a proper FA Cup tie, played in front of a big crowd who have turned up with hope and may be expectation and possibly because it’s the FA Cup.  It’s been a very long time since that happened, not thirteen years, more like thirty.

Ipswich Town 2 Shrewsbury Town 1

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

The football aspect of my weekend has started well.  On Friday evening I logged into FFF tv, the free tv channel of the French football association, to watch one of my favourite French teams, FC Sete take on Stade Lavallois in Ligue National, the French third division; it’s sort of like watching ifollow, but without BBC Radio Suffolk’s Brenner Woolley or Mick Mills (Michel Moulins in France) , and not being English the FFF don’t charge for it.   Things didn’t immediately go well, Sete went a goal behind, a blow from which they never recovered but early in the second half I checked up on how my other Ligue National team, Red Star St Ouen, were doing; somewhat annoyingly, seeing as I wasn’t watching them, they were winning 3-0 away at Avranche. I soon switched feeds but not soon enough to see Red Star’s fourth goal, although at least I saw their fifth and sixth goals to create some welcome Anglo-French symmetry with Town’s recent thrashing of Doncaster Rovers.

This morning the sun continues to shine, literally, from a bright blue autumn sky.  It’s the sort of beautiful day that makes you feel glad to be alive.  I do the usual things, parking up my trusty Citroen on Chantry and strolling down through Gippeswyk Park, but by way of a change from routine I am going to buy my programme (£3.50) before my pre-match beer.  Having only a twenty-pound note in my wallet I decide to buy my programme from the club shop where I can pay by card; but stepping over the threshold I am witness to a sea of unmasked faces queuing at the tills. It looks like a cross between the January sales and the Hajj pilgrimage in Mecca.  Not wanting to even risk entering a scene of such thoughtless disregard for the health and safety of others in such a confined space, I make a hasty retreat and form a queue of one at the nearest programme seller’s booth.   Programme in hand, I proceed up Portman Road, along Little Gipping Street, across Civic Drive, up Lady Lane and St George’s Street to what used to be The Arboretum, but is now known as the Arbor House.  The bar is surprisingly empty and having purchased a pint of Nethergate Copperhead (£3.80) I make the short walk through to the beer garden where I am mildly surprised to find Mick already sat at a table behind a pint of Mauldon’s something or rather (he can’t remember exactly what), with his mobile phone in hand,  texting me to say “Je suis dans le jardin”, which I tell him is exactly what I was going to do if he hadn’t beaten me to it.   

Having discussed “new Labour”, Mick’s daughter’s recent wedding and his father of the bride speech, how we have been born in the wrong country, the utterly unbelievable ineptness of Boris Johnson, the whereabouts of mutual friends, and the Sheffield Wednesday game we find we have drained our glasses and with no time for more beer we head for Portman Road.  As we walk to the ground we share our bafflement over what appears on the front of Ipswich Town’s shirt. I think we both know it’s something to do with a tour by Ed Sheeran, but what does it mean?  I tell Mick that I don’t think it makes any sense in algebraic terms and we confide in each other that we had both wondered if the mystifyingly popular ginger recording artist was trying to say something obliquely about living in ‘divided times’, but we had both been a bit embarrassed to mention it to anyone else.⁹

Having bid farewell to Mick at the West Stand turnstiles in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, I proceed past checkpoint Covid on the Constantine Road gate to turnstile No 59, the portal to another world, the foyer to which is the men’s toilet beneath the Sir Alf Ramsey stand; relieved, I am soon making my first appearance this month in the lower tier seats.  Against the usual background of overly loud music, presumably intended to excite me as well as make my ears ring unpleasantly, stadium announcer and former Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster somewhat alarmingly speaks of Town having put Doncaster Rovers “to the sword” in the last home game.  Then, sounding like an entertainer at a child’s birthday party, Stephen asks the crowd if Town can do the same to Shrewsbury. The response is not an enthusiastic one and suggests that “probably not” is the consensus.

Following the taking of the knee, which we all applaud, the game begins with Shrewsbury Town getting first go with the ball, which they are mainly hoping to aim in the direction of the goal just in front of me.  Today, Shrewsbury are wearing an unusual kit of pink socks, black shorts, and black and pink hooped shirts; they look like a team of Denis the Menaces who are in touch with their female side.   There don’t appear to be any away fans wearing the replica shirts of this kit, although I think I can see a woman in a pale pink cardigan.  To my right Fiona and Pat from Clacton discuss the UEFA Cup celebrating musical ‘Never Lost At Home’ which Fiona is seeing at the Wolsey Theatre tonight and Pat saw last night.  “It brought back so many memories” Pat tells Fiona.  I share with them that I am going to watch it on-line this evening, and I am destined to discover that my experience mirrors Pat’s.

Eight minutes pass and Wesley Burns receives a through ball, which he crosses low for the oddly named Macauley Bonne to hit into the Shrewsbury goal from close range, only for Macauley Bonne to have been offside.  The near miss provokes a burst of noise from the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and a fulsome chant echoes around the stands for at least a few seconds. Town are permanently ensconced in the Shrewsbury half. “Here we go” says Pat from Clacton trying to influence events as the ball is crossed from a free-kick; but Wes Burns’ header goes into the side netting.  Town win a corner. “Ipswich, Ipswich”, “Come On You Blues” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand with gusto and Matt Penney sends an angled shot whistling past the far post from 25 metres out.

“Nice to see the ball down here” says the bloke behind me contrarily as Shrewsbury make a rare foray towards Vaclav Hladky’s goal and Ryan Bowman heads over the cross bar. It’s an incident that causes excitement amongst the Shropshire lads lurking in the shadows at the back of the Cobbold Stand, who don’t sing but instead read from their books of poetry by AE Housman. Two minutes later and a left foot shot from Lee Evans is blocked.  A further minute passes and the oddly named Macauley Bonne heads a Matt Penney cross goalwards forcing  a flying save from Shrewsbury ‘keeper Marko Marosi.  But Marosi can only push the ball away and Conor Chaplin nips in to fire the ball into the net and give Town a deserved lead.   A little bizarrely, the reaction of the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand is to go all 1970’s and sing about endlessly fighting ‘the Norwich’ because of Boxing Day, I can only attribute this to a liking for the back catalogue of Boney M.

Relaxing, confident that we are on our way to another handsome victory, I think to myself how Town’s Cameron Burgess reminds me of Town legend Terry Butcher; this is mostly because of his height and the shape of his legs, but also extends to his ability to boot a ball up the left side of the pitch and curl it out into touch for a throw to the opposition.  Behind me one bloke asks the other if he thinks we might see another 6-0 win, but thankfully he doesn’t mention the use of swords.

Five minutes go by in which Town worryingly follow my ill-advised lead and appear to begin to relax too.  The inevitable result is that Sam Morsy loses possession on the edge of the Town penalty area, and the unfortunately monikered Shaun Whalley silences anyone tempted to call him a wally by lashing the ball into the net from 20 metres out.  The recurring pattern has recurred.  “Why don’t we ever shoot from there?” asks the bloke behind me; possibly because the opposition don’t give the ball away in that position I respond, but only in my head. Up in the shadows of the Cobbold Stand the Shropshire lads briefly chant “You’re not singing anymore” but oblivious to the irony, very soon they’re not doing so either, although for no particular reason such as Town scoring again.

With the scores level, Town seem to lose all memory of what they stepped out on to the pitch to do and the remainder of the half drifts away somewhat aimlessly, but with Shrewsbury Town spending more time in the Ipswich half of the pitch; at one point they even win a corner.  With ten minutes of the half remaining Shrewsbury’s number twelve Ryan Bowman is replaced by their number nine Sam Cosgrove. I think the scoreboard gets it the other way round, but it’s an easy mistake to make given that in a sensible world players would be numbered 1 to 11, and substitutes 12 to infinity.  Of course, I might have got that wrong, but it’s an easy mistake to imagine given that in a sensible world players would be numbered 1 to 11 and substitutes 12 to infinity.

The final ten minutes of the half see Cameron Burgess booked by referee Mr Will Finnie, who kicks his heels too high and has overly neat hair for my liking.  Three minutes of additional time are added on during which Pat from Clacton remarks on how nice Fiona looks in her new home shirt, which Fiona collected from the club shop today.  As ever Pat is right, the home shirt is a rich shade of royal blue and suits Fiona to a tee.  Half-time arrives and departs in the flurry of a toilet visit, a Nature Valley chocolate and peanut protein bar and a chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison.  The talk is of whether we can score another goal in the second half; I think we can and am hopeful for a third too.

At 1605 the second half begins, and the floodlights flicker on soon afterwards despite it being a bright afternoon, and sunset not being for almost another two and half hours.  I suspect our club’s new owners are just showing off how Americans have no qualms about the conspicuous consumption of energy, or wasting it.  Today’s attendance is announced as 19,256 with the 202 from Shrewsbury being made up of not only Shropshire lads, but Salopians of all ages and sexes.

The half is nine minutes old, and Town earn a corner. Lee Evans crosses the ball and the oddly named Macauley Bonne runs towards it, jumps, and sends a glancing header obliquely across the face of the goal and comfortably inside the far post to restore Town’s lead.  I love a glancing header, one of my favourite types of goal; the twist of the neck, the precise contact with the ball, the eyes following its path into the net, poetry that A E Housman might have appreciated.  “ He’s one of our own” sing the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand to the tune of Sloop John B, before going on to sing about beating up a Norwich City supporter (poor little budgie), this time through the medium of a top 20 hit recorded in 1979 by the Abbey Hey Junior School.

With the sun now hidden behind the West Stand, the temperature drops and the smell of the damp turf drifts into the stands;  I breathe it in deeply like an inhaling dope fiend.  Matt Penney whizzes in a low cross, which the oddly named Macauley Bonne fails by a matter of a fraction of a second to slide into the net.  Kyle Edwards replaces Wes Burns with seventeen minutes of normal time remaining.  Toto N’siala replaces Matt Penney with the game into its last ten minutes.  Three minutes remain and Vaclav Hladky rises imperiously to catch a cross and reap the applause of the home crowd.  Town haven’t managed to score a third goal, but it doesn’t look like they will need to.   For Shrewsbury George Nurse draws laughter from the crowd, firstly falling over as he boots the ball up field and then heading the ball into the ground and somehow managing to get hit by it as it bounces up again; the boy is a natural.  The oddly named Macauley Bonne is replaced by Joe Piggott and five minutes of added on time are announced.  There remains time for Scott Fraser to go down in the penalty area and to be booked by Mr Finnie for diving.  Predictably it’s not a popular decision amongst the Town supporters, but this Town supporter thought it was a blatant dive and Fraser deserved to be booked and possibly kicked when he was on the ground, which then would have been a penalty.

The final action sees the Sir Bobby Robson lower tier singing “Addy, addy, addy-o” for reasons unknown other than that they must be happy and seemingly this makes them reminisce about pre-school. With the final whistle Fiona and Pat from Clacton make a sharp exit, but I linger to applaud the Town players and witness the sadness in the faces of the Shrewsbury players.  It’s been a good day; the sun is still shining and I still have the joy to look forward to of listening to the analysis of Town legend Mick Mills, and the Radio Suffolk phone-in as I drive home. Sometimes life just keeps giving, but then it stops.

Ipswich Town 6 Doncaster Rovers 0

/ martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Who doesn’t love a match under floodlights?  Not just the floodlights of a mere afternoon match once the clocks have ‘gone back’, but the floodlights of a fully-fledged evening fixture, one that doesn’t begin until it’s dark and when the walk to the match is like being drawn towards a glowing beacon; it’s even better on a rainy night, and tonight is such a night.

Having arrived in town early for work related reasons, I get to park up my trusty Citroen C3 on Anglesea Road and amble down to the Arboretum (now known as the Arbor House) where I sit in the garden to eat a Scotch egg (£4.00) and down a pint of Woodforde’s Kett’s Rebellion (£3.80).  The only other table in the garden that is occupied plays host to three twenty-something blokes, one of whom intermittently calls out “Blue army” as if he’s suffering from some sort of oddly Ipswich-based variant of Tourette’s syndrome. After half an hour Mick arrives, announcing his arrival in French; I treat him to a pint of Kett’s Rebellion, because it’s a beer the taste of which is worth sharing.  Mick requests some dry roast nuts (£1) too,  which don’t come in a packet as we had both expected, but in a cup,  “Ooh, you do them like that” I say to the young woman serving behind the bar, trying not to sound fazed.   Back outside it starts to rain, and we move to a table with an awning whilst Mick and I curse the planet destroying evil of outdoor heaters.  Mick and I talk of making speeches at weddings, of who Kett was, of Angela Merkel and of local government before 1974.  Twenty or so minutes before kick-off we head for Portman Road, Mick walking his black bicycle beside him.

The rain is merely an occasional drizzle and having left Mick to lock up his bike somewhere in Sir Alf Ramsey Way, I am invited to prove that I wasn’t frightened of a ‘sharp scratch’, unlike these scaredy vaccine deniers, who clearly are, and having snapped up a programme (£3.50), I proceed through turnstile number fifty-nine into the hallowed halls of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand and the gents toilet nearest the players’ tunnel.  Relieved, I join the assembling throng as the two teams enter the field of play. Ever-present Phil who never misses a game is here (of course), and so are Ray’s son and his grandson Harrison, but Ray and Pat from Clacton are absent; it makes me wonder if the Clacton branch of the supporters club aren’t able to get a coach ‘up’ for midweek games, perhaps because the Tendring peninsula is under curfew once the sun goes down.  I will later learn however that the Clacton branch run a coach to all home games, but tonight Pat is unwell. Get well soon Pat from Clacton. Fiona arrives shortly after kick-off; the train was late.

It’s Doncaster Rovers in their red socks, red shorts and red shirts with thin white hoops who get first go with the ball, and although we don’t know it yet, it will prove to be one of their best moments of the game.   Cameron Burgess is an early casualty of hairless referee Carl Brook’s yellow card as he tries to interrupt Doncaster goalkeeper Pontus Dahlberg as he takes a drop kick.  Dahlberg is an unfortunately angular looking man who disproves the theory that Scandinavians are all tall, blonde and good looking, although admittedly he does score very highly on the first two criteria.  Twelve minutes pass and a poor cross field pass from some or other adopted Doncastrian is intercepted by Wes Burns, who charges forward to the by-line and turns in a low cross which the oddly named Macauley Bonne has only to direct into the net.  It’s a good start. Town lead, and Mr Bonne celebrates like a Chantry boy who scores for the Town should.

“Hark now hear the Ipswich sing” chant the ‘Boney M’ supporters’ group from the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand as they gear-up for Christmas.   “Shall we sing, shall we sing, shall we sing a song for you?” chant the Doncaster Rovers supporters up in the Cobbold Stand as Portman Road once again goes quiet after the goal; presumably someone tells them “No thank you” because that’s the last we hear from them.

With Town a goal up, the excitement subsides, and I ponder what “Built Environment Recruitment” is as referred to on the advertising board for Conrad Consulting.   I like to think that I could maybe phone Conrad up and ask him to send round a couple of terraced houses, an office block and a beach café to drive some petrol tankers.  The game is a bit scrappy, mainly down to Doncaster’s lack of precision, but Sam Morsy is looking good for Town in front of the defence and intermittently Town break down the flanks to put in testing crosses.

A half an hour passes, and Town earn a corner.  There is a lot going on in the penalty area but the kick sails across nearly everyone to a point beyond the far post, where Lee Evans is all alone waiting to stroke the ball into the net. Referee Mr Brook stares hard at the scrum of players in the front of the six-yard box, in the manner of a bald Paddington Bear, but can evidently not discern that any offence has been committed and the goal stands. Two-nil; Fiona confirms that we’ve been here before (versus Wimbledon) and not won. 

Celebrations completed, the game re-starts and Doncaster’s Joe Dodoo becomes the second name to enter to enter the notebook of Mr Brook, possibly because Mr Brook thinks it’s too good a name not get in his collection, but also because he chops down Matt Penney.   Town are now clearly the better team and playing some fine one and two-touch, passing football. Sam Morsy has a powerful shot from 20 metres that goes not too far over Pontus Dahlberg’s cross bar; it’s not the sort of thing we’ve seen for a while.

Half-time arrives to appreciative applause and with no Ray to chat to I eat a Nature Valley peanut and chocolate protein bar in silence, although I later speak with ever-present Phil who never misses a game.  Phil tells me that there was no Matchday Special in St Jude’s Tavern this evening and I feel his disappointment.  At the corner of the pitch meanwhile, stadium announcer and former Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster, who was at school with my friend Pete, conducts a Radio Suffolk style interview with former Town hero Jonathan Walters, who is the recipient of warm applause.

When it begins, the new half brings substitutions for Doncaster as Joseph Owulu and Rodrigo Vilca replace Jordi Hiwula and Danny Gardner. This evening’s attendance is announced as 18,111, of whom 165 are from Doncaster, or are at least sat in the upper tier of the Cobbold Stand pretending to be so.  As Stephen Foster reads out the numbers many in the crowd applaud, seemingly congratulating themselves for having bothered to turn up, odd. It strikes me that Doncaster’s blonde-haired number fourteen Matthew Smith, looks a bit like 1980’s Town midfielder Trevor Putney; I suspect however that he doesn’t really and it’s just his hair, either way he’s changed since he played Dr Who.

“Who the fucking hell are you? sing the more impolite occupants of the Sir Bobby Robson stand to a Doncaster player whose identity I can’t work out either, and then in a moment of uncharacteristic attacking intent, Doncaster’s Tiago Cukur has a shot on goal which Town ‘keeper Vaclav Hladky doesn’t so much save, as just stand on tiptoes to catch.  It’s the last action Vaclav will see for a while as Town suddenly go into goal scoring overdrive. Breaking down the left, Bersant Celina, with open grassland in front of him, gets to a point where he needs to cross, so he checks and loops the ball over into the penalty area where as if by magic Lee Evans appears to head home unchallenged inside the far post. It’s a goal of beautiful simplicity.  Two minutes later and another cross from Bersant Celina on the left is controlled on his chest by the oddly named Macauley Bonne, who then proceeds to volley the ball just inside Dahlberg’s right-hand post; it’s the best goal of the night, or is it?.  Just another two minutes pass, barely time for the Sir Bobby Robson stand to finish a chorus of  “And it’s  I-pswi-ch Town, Ipswich To-wn FC, they’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen” followed by “E-i-e-i-e-i-o, Up the football we go” when Wes Burns lays the ball on for Lee Evans to lash high in to the top right hand corner of Dahlberg’s net.  Cracking goal, possibly even more spectacular than the last one.  From 2-0 to 5-0 in not much more than five minutes.  Just four minutes later and the Sir Bobby Robson Stand are singing “Six-nil to the Tractor Boys” and sounding like the Pet Shop Boys, as George Edmundson diverts the flight of a free-kick from Lee Evans in the best possible way.   Ever-present Phil who never misses a game, turns to me and Fiona to tell us that the last time Town scored six was away also against Doncaster Rovers (February 2011); I’ve no idea if he’s right but if anyone should know it should be ever-present Phil who never misses a game.

Ten minutes of normal time remain, and without wanting to seem greedy I’m hoping for a seventh goal, after all, I haven’t seen Town win 7-0 since 1974.  It was Mick Mills who scored Town’s seventh goal that Saturday night forty-seven and a half years ago, and tonight substitute Rekeem Harper tries to emulate him with two minutes left, but his shot travels in a frustratingly straight line and hits a post rather than swerving outrageously around the goalkeeper like Mick’s shot did.  I have no idea how many minutes of added time are added on, but when you’re winning six-nil such details no longer matter; the minutes come and go however without further shots eluding Pontus Dahlberg.  The final whistle produces the sort of love-in not seen at Portman Road since, well I don’t honestly know when.  Relief, elation and an element of disbelief swirl about as I applaud the team from the pitch.  Paul Cook makes a laudably quick exit down the players’ tunnel to allow his team to take the plaudits and hopefully so that he can put the kettle on and may be break open the Custard Creams.

As I hurry up Portman Road and back to my trusty Citroen C3, excited chatter and snippets of throaty chants fill the night air. “I’d have been livid if I hadn’t come tonight” I hear a man say to a friend as they exit the Cobbold Stand, suggesting perhaps that he nearly stayed at home.  “Were we really good or were they just bad?” asks a passing woman from within the crowd; unfortunately, she and whoever she asked the question of are out of earshot before she gets an answer.  If she had asked me, and why wouldn’t she, I think I would have said “A bit of both”.

Driving home I hope that tonight has been a turning point; the night when our new squad of players finally endeared and proved itself to Town supporters; whether it is or not, I shall remember it. It’s been a while since we scored six, or conceded nil at Portman Road though best of all it happened beneath the floodlights and in the rain.

Ipswich Town 2 AFC Wimbledon 2

/ martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

Back in 2004 as Ipswich Town were yet again failing to win yet another play-off tie (we have won just two out of nine ties), AFC Wimbledon were winning the Combined Counties Premier Division title.  Since then, Wimbledon have continued to collect promotions and Ipswich Town haven’t, and so today we find ourselves playing the 2004 Combined Counties Premier Division Champions for a third consecutive season.  Town and the original Wimbledon, the one that famously beat Liverpool in the FA Cup final, had of course met in both the Premier League and the Championship and my wife Paulene is the proud owner of a cuddly Womble in Wimbledon kit that dated from when the original club was being eaten alive; apparently when she bought it, it was the last one in the shop.

Shamefully, playing fast and loose with the future of our planet, I have again driven to the match today, still fearful of using public transport as Covid cases spiral upwards in number and the government gambles the lives of the clinically vulnerable so that money can change hands, as it does most of the time to be fair, but usually more obliquely. Parking my trusty Citroen C3 up on Chantry I stroll down through Gippeswyk Park beneath a sky of picturesquely heaped up clouds, the afternoon is warm but dull, as English summers often are.

Rocking up in Sir Alf Ramsey Way (formerly Portman Walk) at about twenty past two, I join a short queue for the Fanzone just as the steward checking tickets and Covid credential announces that the bar in the Fanzone is now closed.  Brimming with disappointment and thwarted thirst I leave the queue and hang about aimlessly for a few minutes watching the crowds and counting the number of people wearing face masks, I see four.  It really is as if most people are convinced the pandemic is over.  Quickly bored with my own company I trudge off between the supporters’ coaches artfully arranged outside the old Corporation tram depot and head for the Constantine Road gate to the ground, where I join a very short queue to show off my Covid credentials.  “Thank you Martin” says the female steward as I flash my NHS vaccination card; it seems a bit familiar of her and I wonder if we know each other; she’s one of the few people wearing a mask so I can’t properly see her face. 

On the walk from the gate to the turnstile I purchase a programme (£3.50) and join a queue for turnstile fifty-nine because of the four turnstiles on this corner of the ground (numbers 59 to 62) it’s the only one that’s open. My favourite turnstile is number 62 because when using it I feel I am paying homage to Town’s Football League winning team of 1962.  Behind me in the queue a bunch of blokes chatter like excited youths, making weak jokes and commenting on there being only one turnstile open. “Cutting costs” suggests one.  “A bit naughty if it’s nearly kick-off” says another, weirdly imagining a scenario in which he hasn’t arrived twenty minutes before the game is due to start.  Another reads out loud the sign explaining what items are prohibited from the ground. “No tools” he chuckles, prompting his accomplices to each name a tool they would have liked to bring with them starting with a blow torch.

In the stand, ever-present Phil who never misses a game is already here with his son Elwood, but Pat from Clacton is on holiday in Ireland and Fiona, Ray and his son and his grandson Harrison are yet to arrive.  I speak with Phil who, in the course of our conversation explains that the bar in the Fanzone closes early because people hadn’t been drinking up in time to comply with the licence.  It starts to rain.

It’s still raining when the teams come on to the pitch and after a very brief ‘taking the knee’ which is so brief it looks a bit like a curtsy, the game begins beneath a battleship grey sky. Wimbledon get first go with the ball, lumping it towards the Sir Bobby Robson stand.  For the third consecutive home league match Town’s opponents are wearing a kit of all-red; I think back to when most club’s away kit was yellow shirts and blue shorts,  except of course for Oxford United and Mansfield Town, but we never played them in the 1970’s.

Continuing the 1970’s theme the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson are quickly into a rendition of Boney M’s 1978 Christmas number one ‘Mary’s Boy Child’, but with lyrics altered to celebrate Ipswich singing, Norwich running away, and eternal fighting because of Boxing Day rather than the birth of the Messiah.  Just four minutes pass and Town’s Scott Fraser has the first shot on goal.  After seven minutes the weather seems to be brightening up a bit and the Wimbledon fans chant “The animals went in two by two”, which seems a bit odd given that it looks like it is about to stop raining and any plans to build an ark will have been put on hold, particularly since no one is allowed to bring tools into the ground.

With about a quarter of an hour played Wimbledon’s Alexander Woodyard is the first player to get sight of referee Mr Rock’s yellow card after he fouls Joe Piggott.  “Your support is fucking shit” chant the Wimbledon supporters somewhat coarsely and unimaginatively and then Town’s Rekeem Harper takes a shot from 18 metres or so which is easily gathered by Wimbledon goalkeeper Nik Tzanev.  The clouds are parting to reveal blue sky and as if attempting to create some sort of allegory, Town breach the Wimbledon defence and make several forays down the right flank, with Kane Vincent-Young and Wes Burns getting in a number of crosses, although none of them is met by a Town player and when one is the shot is weak.  The first half is almost half over, and Town win the game’s first corner.  “Come on you Blues” I chant, to the apparent bafflement of those around me.

Town are playing some exciting football but have little presence in the penalty area.  “Chase it, put him under pressure” shouts a voice a few rows behind me as Joe Piggott pursues a punt up field.  Another corner comes to nothing after thirty-seven minutes and the linesman with the red and yellow quartered flag minces back to the half-way line as Tzanev takes the goal kick.  As the half draws to a close a man with a loud, penetrating, and annoying voice is sharing a conversation with all those around him, although I doubt any of us want him to.  We learn that he was ‘the editor’, of what we don’t know or care, but he was “furious with himself”.  I’m not too pleased with him either, he needs to find his volume control, or just shut up.  Happily, only a minute of added time is to be played so respite soon arrives.  It’s been a pretty good half, although I can’t help feeling that although Town look good enough to be winning, somehow we haven’t really created good enough chances; perhaps it’s because we still have not ‘gelled’ yet.

Half-time involves consumption of a Nature Valley peanut and chocolate protein bar and then a cupcake, which is one of a whole tray-full that Ray shares with those around him to mark the occasion of his retirement, something that is also recorded on page 55 of today’s programme.   The happy events of real-life retreat again into the shadows as the second half begins at two minutes past four and like last week there is a mysterious hush around the ground in the opening minutes, almost as if people are disappointed that the players have returned.  Within seven minutes however, Wimbledon’s William Nightingale fails to live up to the high ideals of his namesake Florence and comes closer to wounding Wes Burns rather than offering succour and from the resultant penalty kick, Joe Piggott gives Town the lead, placing his penalty in the right-hand corner of the goal as Tzanev stupidly dives to the left.  The Sir Bobby Robson stand reprises “Mary’s Boy Child” in a state of heightened ecstasy whilst the Wimbledon supporters chant “Sing when you’re winning, you only sing when you’re winning” to the tune of Guantanamera, thereby introducing a welcome Cuban folk vibe to the afternoon, something which is often conspicuously absent from Portman Road.  William Nightingale’s name is recorded in Mr Rock’s notebook to punish him further for being so unlike Florence.

With Town ahead Portman Road rocks to Boney M and thoughts of victory, and within two minutes Wes Burns doubles Town’s lead collecting a crucial pass from Kane Vincent-Young and smacking a fine shot across Tzanev into the far top left-hand corner of the goal.  Town will surely win now after four fruitless matches; on the basis of what has happened in the previous fifty-four minutes our lead is unassailable.  Four minutes later Wimbledon win a free kick, the ball skids off the top of Luke Woolfenden’s head and is set up ideally at the far post for Wimbledon’s Ben Heneghan, whose name makes me think of Feyenoord’s Wim Van Hanegem, to head down past Vaclav Hladky and make the score 2-1.  It must be Wimbledon’s first goal attempt on target.  “Bloody hell”, I think to myself.

“I don’t rate him” says a voice sitting behind me blaming Hladky for the goal “No, I don’t” says a neighbouring, voice “I don’t see how there’s any difference between him and Holy”.  It’s a point which I will hear no lesser expert than Mick Mills echo over the airwaves of Radio Suffolk as I drive home from the match in an hour’s time.  The discussion behind me continues as Hladky launches the ball up field; “He just boots the fuckin’ ball, he don’t look for no one do ‘e?

Dissatisfaction with the goalkeeper is however balanced by satisfaction with Wes Burns, “He’s superb, he is, he’s a helluva player” and it’s true, he is playing very well today and is linking up to goal scoring effect with Kane Vincent-Young down the right.   Within ten minutes Wimbledon have made their permitted three substitutions bringing on the more exotically and lengthily named Nesta Guinness-Walker and Dapo Awokoya-Mebude for plain old Luke McCormick and Aaron Pressley and swapping the fifty percent exotic Cheye Alexander for equally exotic Jack Rudoni, both of whom sound like they may possess an Equity card.

Seventy-four minutes of the game have got up and gone and Hladky has to save a shot from Ollie Palmer giving Wimbledon a corner.  Four minutes later and a hobbling Wes Burns is replaced by Janoi Donacien and less understandably Kane Vincent-Young is replaced by Sone Aluko.   The excellent Hayden Coulson also appears to be injured and is replaced by Matthew Penney.  Vaclav Hladky is booked for time-wasting, although it looked as if he merely didn’t understand Mr Rock’s wafting hand gestures about where a free kick should be taken from.  “I can’t help falling in love with you” sing the Wimbledon supporters enigmatically.  What is it with football supporters and naff “adult orientated” popular music?

“The momentum has gone” says one of the voices behind me and then repeats the phrase, perhaps for added emphasis, but possibly because it’s true.  Wimbledon now press as they have never done before in the game, it’s as if the two teams have swapped shirts.  The Wimbledon players seem to want to score a goal whilst the Ipswich players just want to get indoors and have a shower before driving home in their sickeningly ostentatious cars.  Time added on arrives and there are six minutes of it, Fiona and I roll our eyes.   Five minutes into the additional six minutes and what we have come to think of as the inevitable happens; a Wimbledon corner is headed goalwards by Ben Heneghan, Hladky saves but doesn’t catch the ball and Jack Rudoni boots the ball over the goal line, unable to miss, even if by some freakish desire to see Ipswich win, he had wanted to.

The final whistle follows soon afterwards and predictably a number of attention seekers in the crowd of 19,051 and people who were perhaps spoiled as children boo because their team hasn’t won.  Maybe someone will buy them an ice cream on the way home to appease their bawling and moaning.  I stay to applaud the Town players from the field and see them hang their heads in disappointment.  I’m disappointed, we’re all disappointed, but football is that sort of a game and when I get home I shall flush that cuddly Womble down the toilet.