Leeds United form part of my earliest football memories; they were the dirty, losing 1970 FA Cup finalists; I watched them draw the first game with Chelsea at Wembley on the TV on a May afternoon at my grandparent’s house on the Isle of Sheppey.  Before that, I don’t remember any games, only World Cup Willie.  After that, there were the Esso World Cup coins featuring Madeley, Reaney, Hunter, Charlton, Cooper, Jones and Clarke in 1970, then the centenary FA Cup final victory in 1972, the fondly remembered defeat to Sunderland the following year and then their long unbeaten run in the First Division the season after, when Ipswich were the first team to beat them, albeit in the piffling League Cup. Added to that, I travelled on the bus to school every day with a boy called Andy and he supported them, although he had a good excuse, his whole family were extras on Emmerdale Farm, and whilst that is a lie, they really were from Yorkshire, some people are apparently.  Despite a wonky eye (we called him Cyclops), Andy was quite a tidy footballer, much better than me, and he wore blakey’s on his shoes, which clicked and sparked when we played at lunchtimes on the tarmac school tennis court.  Everyone who grew up in the 1970’s must have memories of Leeds United; they helped the whole country lose its innocence.  I almost feel sorry for the younger Generation X’ers and their successors who have missed out on experiencing 1970’s Leeds United first hand.

Playing Leeds again is therefore a good thing, and I am light of heart as I head for the railway station beneath a sky decorated with fluffy clouds which recede in layers, off into the distance. On the train there is a Leeds fan sat behind me, he’s talking boringly about some player getting “regular game time”.  The train smells of toilet cleaner, which I suppose is a good thing too, but then there is a whiff of cloying body spray; it smells a bit like Brut and I’m back in the 1970’s again.

Coming out of Ipswich railway station, by way of a change I turn right along Burrell Road towards what were the docks, but is now the waterfront, and the Briarbank Brewery where there is a beer festival today and bouncers at the door; it’s home fans only.  My wife Paulene has encouraged me to do something different and not stick with the routine of going to the ‘Arb’; she says it will be good for my brain, but that’s from the woman who tried to make coffee this morning without putting any coffee in the coffee machine.  I follow a bloke in a Town shirt with the name Counago on his back, but I don’t think it’s him.  At the Briarbank, I eschew the ‘Yogi Bear’ picnic tables in the yard and head upstairs to what I think is one of my favourite bars anywhere in terms of décor.  The wood panels have me in mind of being on a ship, but it also reminds me of the pub next to the high- level bridge in Newcastle, although I haven’t actually been in that pub for about forty years.  I order a pint of Briarbank Bitter (£4.20) and take a seat by the window looking out on the Lord Nelson pub opposite and St Clement’s church, it makes me think of Sir Thomas Slade, architect of HMS Victory who is buried in the church and after whom nearby Slade Street is named.  I also can’t help thinking of Noddy Holder and Dave Hill.

A bloke stood at the bar with another bloke says “The trouble is I can’t ignore social media all day” and I read the Summer edition of the local Camra magazine ‘Last Orders’.   The pint of Briarbank Bitter is so good I finish it and buy another, and watch the cars pass by in the street below, I am struck by how most of them are grey, black or white, it seems a pity.  Time runs down like the beer in my oddly shaped glass and after a comfort break in which I discover mats in the urinals which look like slices of melon, I thank the bar maids and leave for Portman Road. I am proud to be the last person to leave and the kindly bouncers bid be farewell and tell me to ‘take care’, which makes me feel like someone with ill intent might be looking for me; I do wish people wouldn’t say that.

There are long queues outside the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand, which I blame on all these bar codes and QR codes and the average Alf Ramsey stander being over sixty.  Getting through the turnstile just as Murphy the stadium announcer is reading out the Leeds team, I decide to syphon off more Briarbank Bitter to avoid accidents in moments of extreme excitement.  I am stood in front of the steel trough as the Town players are announced and tempted as I am to bellow out their surnames in the manner of a French football crowd, I remain politely silent.  Up in the stand, my seat is alone in being vacant as I shuffle past Pat from Clacton and Fiona towards the man from Stowmarket; two rows in front, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood are already here too, but then the game is about to begin.

It’s Leeds United who get first go with the ball and they wear all white, with pale blue and yellow stripes along the tops of their shoulders and down the sleeves, disappointingly they don’t have garters on their socks. Town as ever are in blue shirts and socks and white shorts.  “Marching altogether” sing the Leeds fans in the Cobbold Stand “…and that’s the way we like it , Wo-oh, Oh, Oh” chant the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. Suddenly Kayden Jackson is bearing down on the Leeds goal in front of us, but perhaps through lack of confidence he squares it hopefully to no one in particular and what looked like a chance dissipates into the mass of legs and turf before us.  Then Leeds are through on goal, but the shot is wildly off target and whoever it was, was offside anyway, so all the Town fans jeer derisively. It’s a good start.

“Hark now hear the Ipswich sing” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand, reviving a 1970’s Christmas song from when 1970’s Leeds United were well past their best. The seventh minute and Kayden Jackson races off down the left again and crosses the ball.  There’s no Town player to get on the end of this cross but there does not need to be as the ball hits Leeds defender Joe Ridon and rides on onto the net.  “Ipswich Town, one-nil up this afternoon, an own goal” announces announcer Murphy and I reflect on how many players have names that are nearly the same as those of American presidents.  “What a player, we should sign that centre-back and put him up front.” Says the bloke behind me.  Minutes later and Wes Burns has a shot saved and Town have their first corner.  “And it’s Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, they’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand to the tune of the Irish Rover, but then sixty-seconds on and a bloke with the unlikely name of Georginio Rutter sort of pirouettes and wriggles and turns between two or three Town defenders before placing the ball in the Town net to equalise.  Rutter is from Brittany, so his surname doesn’t sound so incongruous if you roll those r’s.  “We all love Leeds” chant the people who all love Leeds.

This is an unexpected set-back, but another corner goes to Town soon after and a couple of shots go wide to give us hope, but then a cross from the Leeds left perplexes the Town defence and Willy Gnonto is left to score from very close range and Town are losing.  Far behind us at the back the stand,  a Leeds supporter or supporters celebrate as one does when one’s team takes the lead and a few uppity Town fans are mortally offended and begin to rail and moan and whine  and generally behave as if someone has murdered their children and eaten them along with their pet dog, garnished with their favourite houseplants. In the Cobbold stand meanwhile, the Leeds fans who are as far as we know innocent of infanticide sing “Top of the league, You’re ‘aving a laff”, treating us to their short vowels and wit all in one fell swoop.

Just four minutes later, as the home crowd begin sixty-seconds applause for a supporter who has died, Leeds break down the left, the ball is crossed and after a first shot is blocked, another close-range finish, this time from Joel Piroe, puts Leeds into a 3-1 lead.  It hardly seems possible, we’d got used to always being the ones in the lead and not conceding goals, and the applause just adds to the surreal nature of it all.  The Leeds goals have been scored by a Frenchman, an Italian and a Dutchman.

Town settle down and still look capable of scoring and a Wes Burns cross elicits a Kayden Jackson backheel which produces another corner.  The Leeds fans of course remain horribly  buoyant, to the extent that like people on an 18-30 holiday they lose all self-respect and  sing “Agadoo” by Black Lace (1984) as well as “Rocking All Over the World “ by Status Quo (1977).  If only Stephen Foster had still been stadium announcer, he’d have played the originals I’m sure.

“Get a bit fucking tighter” bawls a bloke a few rows back as Leeds go forward again and the bloke behind me is similarly afflicted with doubt as he says to his neighbour  “He always fuckin’ loses it don’t he?” as Massimo Luongo is surrounded by Leeds players who he doesn’t manage to dribble between.   Another man, possibly the one who was so enraged by the Leeds supporter in the ‘home end’, shouts out something about Jimmy Savile and the Leeds fans sing a song which alludes to people with six fingers. On the pitch, Wes Burns is through on goal again but delays his shot, and a defender slides across to block it just as his foot makes contact with the ball. “De-de-de, Football in a library” chant the Leeds fans, possibly planning what they’re going to do with their time next week.  Half- time looms as Nathan Broadhead shoots wide, and Wes Burns shoots over.  There will be six minutes of additional time and Sinistrerra blazes a shot over the bar with spectacular aplomb for Leeds, Sam Morsy is booked and finally Kayden Jackson robs the ball off the toe of a defender and pulls it back from the goal line to Nathan Broadhead who makes the half-time score 2-3.   

I go down to the front of the stand to chat with Ray and his grandson Harrison, who enjoyed the Robyn Hitchcock CD (Life After Infinity) which I gave him at the Stoke game.  Ray thinks Town are not quite as quick as Leeds, he might be right.

With all the goals and shot of the first half I feel as if I’ve already seen a whole match, so it’s almost a shock when the second half begins and Leeds begin by substituting the substitute who they brought on just twenty odd minutes ago.   I think we can take a lot of positives from this says the bloke behind me,” sounding like someone who has watched too many football managers being interviewed on TV.  The Sir Bobby Robson stand reprise “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran away” as Town begin to dominate possession and push for an equalising goal.  Massimo Luongo is booked, and I opine to Fiona that it’s his first foul. “But it was a good one” she says, referring euphemistically to its severity as ‘good,’ and I can’t really disagree.

Leeds full back Ayling emerges as this afternoon’s pantomime villain as he collapses under a challenge from Leif Davis, but the referee Robert Madley and his assistant aren’t fooled and give a free-kick to Town. “Ayling wasn’t ailing” I tell Pat from Clacton, who says she might have to get ‘Monkey’, the Cambodian masturbating monkey charm out of her bag if we don’t score soon.    Then Vaclav Hladky makes a good save; Fiona had thought it was going to be a goal and with about twenty minutes of normal time left Town make mass (three) substitutions with Nathan Broadhead, Harry Clark and Kayden Jackson swapping places with Omari Hutchinson, Bradley Williams and Freddie Ladapo.  It’s a change which brings almost immediate results as five minutes later Williams fails to prevent the appropriately named Sinisterra running down the left, cutting into the penalty and shooting beyond Hladky to put Leeds 4-2 ahead.

Behind us, at the back of the stand the Leeds fan or fans show their pleasure again and the grey-haired man who got so upset before becomes apoplectic with rage, as do several others.   He’s running up the steps of the stand demanding that the Leeds fan is evicted from the ground.  I think he might be a Nazi.   “Who cares?” I ask the bloke behind me rhetorically. “I expect there are people in the crowd who vote Tory, but I don’t want them chucked out, live and let live, surely?”  There’s enough hate and intolerance in the world without people getting weird just because someone cheers for another football team, or worships another God.  Happily, I think it is the Nazi who gets removed from the ground.

With the uproar over, we return to contemplating defeat. “We can’t win ’em all” says Pat from Clacton philosophically. “Yes, but we had started to”, I reply.    The fourth goal has made a comeback unlikely, but we continue to live in hope and Town are dominating the game.  More substitutions are made in the absence of the ability to perform ‘fresh leg’ transplants and the search for at least two goals continues. Pat tells me that she’s having chicken drumsticks and salad for tea, she bought them from the new ‘out of town’ Marks & Spencer store in Clacton. After a couple of corners,  five minutes of added on time is eventually all that holds our slender hopes of avoiding defeat.  The stands start to empty out as those of little faith and others who never stay until the end because of a morbid fear of queuing traffic, or because they ‘must get home’ bugger off. The game is nearly over when Conor Chaplin scores; a typical shot into the corner, and hopes, though slender, suddenly fatten up.  The re-start after the goal is greeted with slightly tired encouragement from the crowd and for a moment, Town surge forward, but only for a moment, and then time inevitably runs out.  We’ve lost.

It’s been a great game, very entertaining and Town have played well despite losing.  The analysis will perhaps suggest both team’s defenders were outplayed by their opponents’ forwards, but the Leeds forwards outplayed Town’s defence just a little bit more than Town’s forwards outplayed the Leeds defence.  Either way, as Pat from Clacton rightfully said, we can’t win ‘em all.