Ipswich Town 3 Swansea City 0

March 1, 2026March 1, 2026 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It has been four weeks since I last travelled to Portman Road to watch Ipswich Town. Strangely forgetting about the away matches in between, I had started to wonder if the football season hadn’t already ended or somehow been cancelled amid claims from Reform UK Limited that the English Football League had been taken over by followers of Islam.

In keeping with my expectations of the end of February and life in general it’s been a drizzly, grey Saturday morning. But now as I step out for the railway station, leaving my Pompey supporting wife Paulene to watch her team head for defeat on the telly to visiting Hull City, the rain has stopped and I become aware of rooks building nests high up in the trees and buds beginning to flower. As I stand on the station platform a single blue tit chirrups every now and then. The train is on time and whilst it’s not full, the carriage I sit in is full enough to mean I can’t get far enough away from a loud group of men and boys. “We’d better eat this food then” says one of the men who has a particularly penetrating, rasping voice. My nostrils are assaulted by a terrible smell; God only knows what’s in their sandwiches, I don’t want to.

Gary joins me at the first station stop and we talk of Trump’s bombing of Iran, his blockading of Cuba, his Board of “Peace” and how Gianni Infantino will react to one of the host nations of the World Cup finals effectively declaring war on another before the competition has even begun. Hopefully, we can look forward to the USA being thrown out, like Russia; but awarding of another medal is probably more likely. So engrossed are we in our politically charged conversation that we almost forget to look for polar bears as the train passes through Wherstead, and when we do, we don’t see any.

Unusually, upon leaving the railway station we take the less convoluted Princes Street, Museum Street and High Street route to the Arb’, but this is because we are talking to Carole and her husband who are heading for something to eat in the town centre. Arriving at the Arb, we can barely get in the door, so crammed is our favourite hostelry with men queuing at the bar. Eventually however, and after Mick joins us, I obtain two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (one for me, one for Mick) and a pint of Lager 43 for Gary (£14 something with Camra discount) and we repair to the beer garden where there is now a heavy drizzle, although it soon stops. We talk further of Trump, Mick’s perfect hearing, the Housing Act in relation to private renting and tenant’s rights, today’s team, films Mick has recently seen at the cinema, the 1960’s and 1980’s BBC films/plays ‘Wargames’ and ‘Threads’ about nuclear attacks, and how Gary knows someone who always wants people to try some of her food when eating out. Mick returns to the bar to buy more Lager and Suffolk Pride for Gary and me, and a whisky for himself. At about twenty to three we set off for Portman Road, inevitably being the last Town supporters to leave the building.

There are no queues for the turnstiles at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand when I arrive and I stretch out my arms as I approach the bearded, middle-aged man who is going to see if I’m concealing any weapons or scrap metal about my person. “Scarecrow” he says. “Where?” I answer, looking around. It’s only when writing this now, that I realise he probably means I look like a scarecrow with my arms outstretched. I’m cleared for take-off (I was actually playing aeroplanes) and pulling the straw out from the sleeves of my coat I make for the hallowed turnstile 62, the stainless steel urinals, and then my seat in the lower tier of the stand, where naturally ever-present Phil who never misses a game, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket (Paul) and his grandson are already awaiting kick-off. Only ever-present Phil’s son Elwood is missing today, but I am here in time to join in with the announcement of the Town team. “He hasn’t announced the team yet” says Pat from Clacton almost as excitedly as the excitable young stadium announcer, who proceeds to tell us the Town team and I do my best to bawl their surnames as if I was awaiting the coup d’envoi at Stade Bonal in Montbeliard or Stade de la Mosson in Montpellier. After seemingly doubling up in pain as he shouts “Blue Army” into his microphone three times, the excitable young stadium announcer finally entreats us to “Be loud, be proud” as if we’re about to start protesting for gay rights.

Eventually, after a burst of communal singing of ‘Edward Ebenezer Jeremiah Brown’ and another of ‘Hey Jude’ the game begins, and it’s Town who get first go with the ball via the boot of Marcelino Nunez. Town, in signature blue and white are aiming for the goal just in front of me and my fellow ultras. Swansea City meanwhile look demure, all in white like an innocent Leeds United or oddly Cambrian Real Madrid, although there doesn’t seem to be a single Welshman or Spaniard among them.

Within ten seconds Town have a corner and at least three of us are chanting “Come On You Blues” for all we’re worth but it comes to nought and I’m merely left to contemplate returning ex-Town player Cameron Burgess’s fashionable but terrible new haircut, a sort of ‘pudding basin’ but using a sprint-cyclist’s helmet not a basin. My disappointment is thankfully short-lived however as no more than two minutes later Leif Davis proceeds down the left, his low cross is not even a third -cleared and the ball runs to Anis Mehmeti, who rather beautifully arcs the ball into the top far corner of the Swansea goal. Town lead one-nil. We’ve scored early yet again, and I think I detect a feeling of inner peace.

Eight minutes have now passed and up in the Cobbold Stand those visiting from the lovely, ugly town of Swansea begin to sing of “football in a library” to show solidarity with almost every other set of fans who have ever visited Portman Road. “I was reading this morning on Twitter…” says the bloke beside me about something or other, and I feel an urge to tell him not to read things on what used to be called Twitter if he can help it. On the pitch, Swansea City are having possession of the ball more than Ipswich but don’t seem to be capable of doing anything meaningful with it. “Hot Sausage Company” announce the electronic displays on the Sir Bobby Robson stand. “One-nil and you still don’t sing” chant the Welsh in the Cobbold Stand to the tune of Village People’s 1979 hit record “Go West”, which is perhaps ironic because you can’t get much further west than Swansea, unless you’re in Haverfordwest of course.

Thirteen minutes have departed and the match is a little dull. I notice that the Swansea goalkeeper has the surname Vigouroux, which is almost the French word for vigorous (vigoureux), but he’s from Chile. Swansea’s number seven meanwhile is called Melker Widell and I amuse myself by hoping that the other players call him Jimmy in spite of his being Swedish and surely not pronouncing Widell to rhyme with riddle. Seven minutes later life takes a turn for the better as Town win a second corner. “Come On You Blues” chant the only five people in the stand who understand that supporters are supposed to encourage their team. Life fails to improve any more.

The visiting Swansea fans then chant “Sit down if you love Norwich” in what perhaps passes as an attempt at humour on the banks of the River Tawe, but more likely they’re delirious after their long journey. Above us grey cloud drifts across a sullen sky. The half is half over and Irishman Ethan Galbraith shoots over the Town cross bar from outside the Town penalty area. A minute later and Pat from Clacton exclaims that both teams are wearing white shorts; she didn’t think that was allowed. I almost tell her that both teams in my Subbuteo Continental Club Edition that I got for Christmas in 1970 had white shorts, but I’m not sure it’s strictly relevant.

Town win their third corner in the twenty-ninth minute. Unbowed by the ennui of the rest of the occupants of the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand the same four or five of us chant “Come On You Blues” with abandon and then do it all over again as Town win their fourth corner three minutes later. Our efforts are rewarded by an Ivan Azon header over the cross bar before Pat from Clacton tells us that she’s looking forward to her forthcoming whist playing weekend in Great Yarmouth. “You go there twice a year, don’t you Pat?” I ask her, thinking it doesn’t seem a year ago that she last went to Great Yarmouth”. “Yes” says Pat, “Don’t you remember? Last time I came back with flippin’ Covid” she continues.

Another seven minutes retreat into history and Anis Mehmeti is booked for fouling Ivorian Malick Yalcouye. Two minutes later however Leif Davis is again running down the left. A short pass finds Ivan Azon and he take a touch and very slightly curls the ball inside the far post beyond the vigorous but inadequate dive of the Swansea goalkeeper. Town lead 2-0. “Ole, Ole, Ole,” chant the home crowd channelling what surely amounts to a racial stereotype. “Hot Sausage Company” read the illuminated advert hoardings once again and I see that they cater for ‘events’ and weddings which must be a gift to any best man bent on giving a smutty, innuendo laden speech.

After a minute of time is stolen from all our futures to make up for other people wasting it by not playing continuous football, half-time is called. To fill the gap, I talk to the man from Stowmarket (Paul) about the game and a forthcoming operation on his left eye before Ray appears, back from his cruise in the Caribbean. Ray tells me that his son Michael and grandson Harrison are not here today because they have gone to see Morrisey at Wembley Arena. I should have asked “What difference does it make?” but it wouldn’t really have made much sense, and I didn’t think of it anyway.

The football resumes at three minutes past four with ‘Jimmy’ Widell kicking off for Swansea, who continue to have lots of possession of the ball, but rarely do they threaten the Town goal with it. After ten minutes Swansea make two substitutions, bringing on Franco and Ronald, who sound like a comedy double act evoking memories of the fascist Spanish dictator, the former governor of California and president of the USA, and Ronald McDonald. The bloke next to me wonders about what substitutions Town will make and I tell him that we’ll find out in two and a half minutes time because invariably Keiran McKenna makes his substitutions after sixty minutes. Like the trains (reputedly) in Mussolini’s Italy, McKenna is on time and Jack Taylor and Jack Clarke replace Nunez and Neil and the excitable young stadium announcer barks out the oncoming players names in a manner which I would like to hear used in a doctor’s or dentist’s waiting room.

The second half is a relaxed affair. More substitutions follow for both teams but Town seem happy to allow Swansea to have the ball as much as they want as long as they don’t do anything with it except pass it about. Cheekily perhaps, Swansea momentarily forget the agreement and Christian Walton has to make a diving save on one occasion, but such is Town’s dominance, even without the ball, that the possible appearance of the masturbating monkey good luck charm from Pat from Clacton’s handbag never even gets a mention. Barely twenty minutes of normal time remain when the excitable young stadium announcer thanks us for our incredible support ( he must mean the five of us who shouted “Come On You Blues” at corners)and tells us that overall we number 27,594.

Just four minutes later, victory is confirmed in the easily calculated currency of goals as Anis Mehmeti robs some slack Swansea-ite of the ball, runs to the by-line and delivers a low cross which George Hirst meets at the near post and diverts at an oblique angle inside the far post. It’s a fine, stylish finish from Hurst which belies the appearance of his haircut, which is not really any better than that of Cameron Burgess. Town lead three-nil and in celebration, “Hark now hear, the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” is the chant from the oddly festive Sir Bobby Robson standers sung to the tune of ‘Mary’s Boy Child’, a 1956 Christmas hit for Harry Belafonte.

A final Town substitution is made and four minutes of added-on time are added-on during which time the Sir Bobby Robson standers drearily sing “When the Town go marching in” and Anis Mehmeti is announced as ‘man of the match’ in the opinion of some sponsor or other and indeed he has played well. With the final whistle, Pat and Fiona are swiftly away to get to their bus and train but I linger to applaud the teams and kill a bit of time because my train isn’t for another twenty-five minutes. It’s been a comfortable win for Town, one of calm, studied authority decorated with moments of decisive skill. Swansea for their part have played nicely, but ultimately went gently into the good night, not that Dylan Thomas cares because he plays for Walsall.

Ipswich Town 2 West Bromwich Albion 2

February 11, 2024February 12, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leiston 0 Rushall Olympic 1

November 18, 2018November 18, 2018 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Leiston is about 35 kilometres northeast of Ipswich and when my mother was a child she was taken there on the train to visit her grandfather who lived in nearby Aldringham. Remarkably perhaps, for a town of just five and half thousand inhabitants tucked away in a corner of rural Suffolk it is still possible to get to Leiston by rail today, but only if you’re the engine driver of the train collecting radioactive waste from Sizewell nuclear power station, a few kilometres east. Passenger services to Leiston ceased in 1966; the evil Dr Beeching saw to that, but on a Saturday afternoon the No 521 bus leaves Saxmundham railway station at 14:04, about ten minutes after the 13:17 train from Ipswich arrives there and it will get you to Leiston in time for a three o’clock kick-off at Victory Road, home of Leiston FC. Incredibly, there is also a bus back from Leiston to Saxmundham, at 1740. But with meticulous mis-timing however, the bus arrives in Sax’ three minutes after the 17:57 train back to Ipswich has left, giving you a fifty seven minute wait for the next one.
My excuse for not using public transport today is not because we are apparently being discouraged by poor timetabling from doing so, but rather because what goes around comes around and it’s now my mother’s turn to be visited, by me. Filial duty carried out, I proceed up the A12 on what is a beautiful, bright autumn afternoon. Letting the throttle out on the largely deserted dual carriageway between Ufford and Marlesford my Citroen C3 must feel like its back on the péage heading for Lyon, not Leiston. But Leiston it is and after skirting Snape and Friston, and passing pigs and pill-boxes outside Knodishall my Citroen and I roll into Victory Road at about twenty past two, where it is already so busy we are ushered into overflow car parking. I drive across the grass behind one goal and onto a field behind the pitch. Once out of my car a steward explains that entry today is through a side gate in order to keep pedestrians from slipping over where the cars have churned up the grass; health and safety eh? Entry costs £11, but I keep the gateman happy by tendering the right money. My wife Paulene has refused to join me today because she maintains that £11 is too much to pay to watch ‘local football’, and she makes a fair point, although today’s opponents aren’t exactly local, Rushall being about 285 kilometres away near Walsall in the West Midlands. In France it is possible to watch a fully professional second division match in a modern stadium for not much more than I have paid today, and sometimes for a bit less.
There is plenty of time before kick-off so I have a look about and visit the club shop where I witness its first ever ‘card transaction’. The middle-aged lady serving seems genuinely excited and I suggest she should be giving her customer some sort of commemorative certificate to mark the occasion. Sadly, I cannot lay claim to becoming the second ever card-paying customer of the Leiston club shop, as I all too easily resist the temptation of a teddy bear (£12), mug (£5) or red, white and blue painted football rattle (£2), although I do try the rattle to see if it works; it does but it’s quite small and the action is a bit stiff.
Leaving the shop I realise I don’t have a programme and I see if there is one available at the main turnstile, where a very apologetic man explains that due to printing costs and not selling all the programmes it’s no longer financially viable to produce one; he hands me a slip of paper which puts his words into print. I quite like the idea that the slip of paper could be distributed as a substitute programme if it was stamped with today’s date and name of the opposition.
Programme-less and therefore slightly crestfallen, I turn back from the turnstile but must wait as a steward ushers past a car towards the overflow car park, I tell the steward he needs a lollipop-man’s uniform or at least his lollipop, he doesn’t seem that keen. Still depressed at the state of modern football I head for the bar where a hand pump bears pump clips for both Adnam’s Ghostship and something called Garrett’s Ale. When I ask, the balding barman explains that Garrett’s is made in a micro-brewery down the road in the Long Shop museum, but then he says it’s not and he made it up. He says it’s brewed by Greene King, and he made the name up and then he says it’s actually Ruddle’s. Confused, I buy a pint (£3.20); it’s okay, but I wish I’d bought a pint of Ghostship.
I find a spot to drink my beer and speak briefly to a man who recognises me from matches at Portman Road; he is apparently originally from Aldeburgh and today is a guest of the match sponsors. Having drained my glass I head back outside to await the teams and in due course they emerge from a concertinaed tunnel, which is wheeled across the concourse from the side of the red-brick clubhouse.
Victory Road is not really an attractive or interesting ground; the clubhouse looks like a massive Council bungalow, there is a small metal terrace stand at one end and opposite the bungalow a row of low metal prefabricated stands join together to create the Leiston Press Stand, in the middle of which sits a large glazed press box. Between the clubhouse and the main turnstile is a ten or fifteen metre terrace which misleadingly looks like a good place to wait for a bus. The setting is altogether a little dull.

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The two teams’ arrival on the pitch brightens things up a bit however, with Leiston all in blue and Rushall Olympic in black and yellow stripes with black shorts and socks, although from behind they’re kit is all-black, so they look like numbered referees. To make matters worse the referee Mr Hancock is also wearing all black, the first of a number of poor decisions he will make this afternoon.
With the multiple handshaking malarkey out of the way, Rushall kick-off in the direction of Aldringham and the metal terrace, the front of which is adorned appropriately with a large advert that reads Screwbolt Fixings. The early stages of the game are rough and shouty with plenty of strength and running on show but not the necessary guile to score a goal. It’s entertaining enough, but is more like all-in wrestling than the working man’s ballet. I stand behind the goal close to four blokes in their sixties; one wears a deerstalker, another wears a ‘Vote Leave’ badge and swears a lot whilst complaining that people don’t know how lucky they are that a little club like Leiston is playing at such a high level, and he’s right because he can’t be wrong about everything. A Rushall player sends a shot high over the cross bar and off towards Aldringham. Everybody jeers, “Three points to Wigan” shouts a grey-haired man.
The game is a struggle, Leiston are having the better of it but neither goalkeeper is exactly rushed off their feet with save-making. The wannabe coaches in the crowd offer their advice “Simple balls man, simple” calls one as the ball is lofted forward hopefully. “Keep it on the deck” shouts another. “Go on Seb” shouts someone else, taking a more one to one approach. As half time nears I head back round towards the giant bungalow so that I can be handily placed for the tea bar when the whistle blows. As I watch on from behind the Leiston bench their number two Matt Rutterford commits a fairly innocuous foul, sidling up behind a Rushall player. Sadly for Leiston, Mr Hancock doesn’t consider that the foul is that innocuous and proceeds to whip out his yellow card in the direction of the unfortunate full-back, who having already seen the card once earlier in the game gets to see Mr Hancock’s red card also. Much wailing and gnashing of teeth ensues and there is a strong feeling that Leiston cannot now possibly win and Mr Hancock has ruined the game more than a few fouls ever could.
As the sun sinks towards the horizon everyone on the bungalow side of the ground has

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to shield their eyes. Half-time can’t come soon enough. “How long to go lino?” asks the Rushall manager as the clock ticks past ten to four. “How long would you like?” says a voice from the crowd. With the half-time whistle I go indoors for a pounds worth of tea. Behind me in the queue is a man with white flowing hair and small beard, he looks like Buffalo Bill, but is wearing an Ipswich Town branded coat. “Don’t I know you from Portman Road or from a holiday in Majorca?” asks another man of Bill. “No I don’t think so, I haven’t been on holiday since I was thirty” says Bill. I tell him that his coat is a bit of a giveaway that he might have been to Portman Road. Tea in hand I seek the fresh air outside, and it is fresh. There has been a stingy east wind all afternoon and with the sun going down it’s getting even colder. Happily my tea is warm, but it’s also a bit weak and I suspect Leiston FC are cutting costs on tea bags as well as programmes, but I’m not surprised given the distances they have to travel to games in this very silly league, which stretches from Lowestoft in the east to Stourbridge in the west, a distance of over 330 kilometres.
At six minutes past four Mr Hancock begins the second half and the Screwbolt Fixings terrace is now occupied by about a dozen men, half of whom unexpectedly begin to sing. They go through a variety of chants and tunes including ‘Tom Hark’ and also Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’, betraying that they too may have been to Portman Road. What I like best about the Screwbolt choir is that they are all over forty and half of them are probably over fifty, something they confirm later when substitute Harry Knights comes on and they break into a chorus of Sham 69’s ‘Hurry Up Harry’.
Over by the main stand is a line of Rushall supporters some of whom sport black and gold scarves, like Wolverhampton Wanderers supporters on a day off. I sit for a while at the front of the stand. A Rushall shot hits the cross-bar at the Theberton end of the ground. Mr Hancock makes another dubious decision. “This referee’s from another planet” says a thick West Midland’s accent. Behind us the sky glows a violent red, but nobody panics because Sizewell nuclear power station is in the opposite direction. A man in the stand shouts “Come on Leiston” very enthusiastically; he’s the reporter from BBC Radio Suffolk. A Rushall player goes down “Get up you worm” shouts someone else, not very charitably.
As darkness shrouds the ground it loses its plainness and takes on a new atmosphere. The long shadows have gone to be replaced by the glow of the floodlights. On the pitch Rushall push forward and Leiston defend; their goalkeeper Marcus Garnham makes a couple of smart saves. Leiston try to catch Rushall on the break with quick, astute passes and diagonal punts but it doesn’t feel as though Leiston or their supporters expect to win, and holding on for the goalless draw will be victory enough, of a sort. The story is a simple one; Leiston must keep Rushall at bay. But there have been injuries and delays and time added on at the end seems interminable. It’s the ninety fifth minute and Marcus Garnham makes a spectacular reaction save, followed quickly by another but before we have time to applaud the ball runs to Rushall substitute Keiron Berry stood just three yards from the open goal, a prod is all that’s needed.
Back behind the goal the Leiston supporter who owns the flag that hangs over the pitchside rail says he’s “had it” with the referee and he’s going home, he starts to untie his flag. Another group of young lads head off too. “Fucking Toby’s fault” says a lad with long curly hair like Marc Bolan “it’s the same every time we come here with him”. The despondent occupants of the Screwbolt Fixings stand shuffle off with Mr Hancock’s final whistle whilst jeering at the Rushall goalkeeper Joseph Slinn, “Cheats” they shout, rather un-sportingly. In return the ‘keeper tells them how much he enjoyed their Neil Diamond song, but such is their disappointment they’re not listening and he was only trying to be friendly.
I head back to my Citroen C3 and catch a glimpse of the Rushall players enjoying a post-match cuddle through the side gate. The result leaves Leiston in fourth place in the Evo-stik Central Premier League, five points behind Kettering Town who are top and six-points ahead of Rushall Olympic. The last time I came to watch Leiston, they lost 3-1 to Gloucester in the FA Cup, I begin to wonder if I’m not a bit like Toby.