Ipswich Town 4 Wycombe Wanderers 0

April 8, 2023September 30, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Four day working weeks are second only in my list of favourite working weeks to any weeks with fewer working days. But four day working weeks are definitely a good thing and so Easter week has therefore been a good week; and now, to add another layer of ‘good’, Town are playing at home to Buckinghamshire’s finest, Wycombe Wanderers, known as The Chairboys because of the town’s indiginous chair-making industry. I have however been dreaming again this week, this time about dating mysterious younger women; women who I do not recognise and who presumably are figments of my sub-conscious. These are pleasant dreams until I remember that I’ve been married for twenty-three years, although weirdly my wife doesn’t seem to mind, in the dreams at least; she probably just rolls her eyes.

I came to town early today to deliver a card congratulating two friends on their forthcoming wedding, which they are flying out to on Tuesday, because they are holding it in Las Vegas. Travelling 6,000 miles to get married is no way to save the planet, but at least I tried to off-set their profligacy by recycling old photographs to make their card. Having parked up my planet saving Citroen e-C4, I walk across Gippeswyk Park beneath blue skies decorated with cotton wool clouds. On Commercial Road a Range Rover speeds across the junction with the Princes Street bus lane and a youth calls out “Blue Army” through the open car window. Shouting youths aside, the streets are unusually quiet for a match day, until I reach Portman Road, where pre-match business is as usual and people hang about stuffing their faces with marshmallow bread and mechanically reclaimed meat products. The Wycombe team bus is parked opposite the Alf Ramsey Stand and on the back of the Cobbold Stand Bobby Robson appears to be squeezing his face through the top light of a window. I buy a programme (£3.50) from one of the blue kiosks; I check that I can pay by card and the young programme seller asks me how many programmes I want. I tell him I’m not exactly sure how much is in my account, so I’ll stick with just the one; fortunately, he laughs.

I leave Portman Road and walk on towards The Arb. By the underground spiral car park a man sits down on a bench to read the Daily Mirror and in the surface car park above another man swigs beer from a bottle, it reminds me of how in Montpellier fans have pre-match, ‘bring your own’ booze -ups in the park and ride car park next to the tram terminus. At The Arb there is no queue at the bar and I therefore waste no more of my life before ordering a pint of my ‘usual’, Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.60 with Camra 10% discount). I retire to the beer garden, which is busy with happy drinkers and diners enjoying the sun, I ask a couple of blokes if they mind if I ‘perch’ at the end of their table, they don’t. I read my programme and they talk to each other about holidays. One of them is thinking of going to Mexico, the other says that “Linda’s going to have the cat when we’re in Crete”.

It’s not two o’clock yet, but the would-be holidaymakers soon drain their glasses and leave for Portman Road, one of them says they can stop at the Arcade Tavern on the way if it’s too far. Mick won’t be joining me today because he’s on his way back from Antwerp; (he had wanted to go somewhere to celebrate his 70^th birthday to which he didn’t have to fly) but very soon I am not completely surprised when Gary sits down opposite me. We talk of mutual acquaintances, of quizzes Gary has recently participated in, of football in the Scilly Isles and how Gary saw Colchester United play Wycombe Wanderers in the FA Cup when Wycombe were still non-league; I tell him Wycombe’s old ground was called Loakes Park. Gary buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride, which is very kind of him. At about twenty-five to three we head for Portman Road, I think we’re the last to leave the pub.

Our conversation continues as we accumulate fellow fans all around us, all walking to the match. If everyone was singing in rounds it would be like that bit in West Side Story as the Sharks and the Jets gather for the rumble beneath the freeway flyover. Gary and I part at the corner of Portman Road and Sir Alf Ramsey Way and as a parting shot I remember to tell him how there’s been a new ice cream van stopping in my street this week; slightly weirdly however it is painted grey and black, and also carries the words “All events catered for” above the drivers cab, and I speculate whether it gets booked for wakes after summer funerals.

Leaving Gary to find the Magnus West Stand, I head down Portman Road to the new turnstiles at the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand, which are in use for the first time today; except that I walk past the entrance to those turnstiles and carry on walking out into Princes Street, and then onto Chancery Road and into Russell Road, and opposite the Ipswich Borough Council offices is where I find the end of the queue. “Flippin’ ‘eck” I think to myself, in the style of the class-mates of Tucker in Grange Hill. This is all rather annoying and once again proves change to be a bad thing. The queue moves quickly however, although it doesn’t stop one shambling, scruffy looking man from loudly moaning about the situation as he waves his season ticket about and tells everyone “Forty years I’ve supported this club”. I happen to know that the man’s name is Dave. I wonder if he’s worried he might have to spend the next forty years queuing.

I’m soon walking past the back of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand again and am pleased to see that there are still turnstiles numbered 61 and 62, and whilst I am inevitably drawn towards these, I am instead ushered towards an open gate and a man with a bar code reader. I feel like I’ve made the kind of entrance into the stadium that Watch with Mother’s Mr Benn would have made. After re-cycling some of my two pints of Suffolk Pride, I take my seat between Fiona and the man from Stowmarket who is probably really from Stowupland; ever present Phil who never misses a game, his young son Elwood and Pat from Clacton are all here too. With so many people still outside I am surprised there are so many people in the ground. I’ve missed kick-off and the first three minutes of the match. It might be the first time I’ve missed the kick-off since Town played away to Northampton in the League Cup on a very wet night in October 1987, but it might not be because I think I also missed the kick-off at Nottingham Forest as recently as November 2002.

I quickly work out that Town are kicking towards the Sir Bobby Robson Stand and Wycombe Wanderers are wearing red shirts, shorts and socks with white trim and that as away kits go it’s one of the more boring ones, as if they put all their thought into their groovy two-tone blue home kit and had no imagination left. “Alright?” says the bloke behind me to what I think is his son. “Yeeeah!” is the expected, but weirdly elongated answer from the sprog. I’m soon amused by the Wycombe number seven who is left lying in the middle of the pitch as Town attack; the ball is passed and passed again, and again and again. Play only stops when Town are awarded a free-kick, when the prostrate player then miraculously gets up and manfully carries on. The game isn’t very exciting, and I wonder whether it was more fun in the queue and how long it is now. Town aren’t playing badly though, it’s just taking time to find the key to unlocking the Wycombe Wanderers defence. But there’s a palpable sense of people willing the team to win and it manifests itself as a huge collective sigh of disappointment when what looks like it might be a crucial pass from Harry Clarke is intercepted by an opponent.

In the fifteenth minute Town score, there is a mighty roar from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but elsewhere we all saw the linesman raise his flag and we have retained our insouciance, although I am tempted to chant “You thought you had scored, you were wrong” because it doesn’t seem like the Wycombe supporters are going to bother, and they don’t. Five minutes later and a Wycombe player goes down as if hurt. As a track-suited angel provides succour it gives the opportunity for remedial touchline coaching for everyone else. All is quiet but for the beat of the drum in the Sir Bobby Stand, which is annoying Pat from Clacton; she doesn’t like loud noises.

The half is already half over as Wycombe have a shot from outside the penalty area which flies over the Town cross bar, it came as a result of a set piece free-kick and that is Wycombe’s chief weapon, unlike the Spanish Inquisition who as men now in their sixties and seventies know, had numerous weapons in their armoury, none of which were set piece free-kicks. A sense of restlessness is beginning to gurgle through the Town support. “Come On Town” calls the bloke behind me and a chant of “Come on Ipswich “ is repeated with varying degrees of enthusiasm around the ground at least three times, possibly four. Harry Clarke has a shot, but it’s a relatively easy save for the Wycombe goalkeeper Max Stryjek. “Ooh, that bloody drum” says Pat from Clacton. There are a little over ten minutes until half time and Town win a corner as a Conor Chaplin shot is saved. The corner is hit low and is cleared, but three minutes later Town win another. “Come On You Blues” chant sections of the crowd, at least three times, and I blow the strange red and white reverberating plastic thing I found in the club shop of Racing Club de Lens in 2017. George Hirst heads the ball imperiously into the Wycombe net. Town lead 1-0. Relief and joy slosh about together in a heady cocktail.

Five minutes until half-time and Nathan Broadhead wins yet another corner. From the Sir Bobby Robson the strains of Joy Division’s ‘Love will tear us apart’ can be heard, although all I can make out of the lyrics is that something is “falling apart again”, I just hope it’s nothing structural. From Joy Division the choir soon flits to “When the Town go marching in” sung to an even more slow, turgid pace than usual as if the world was in slow motion, which is almost the title of a single by New Order. The ball is in the Wycombe penalty area, it’s at the feet of Conor Chaplin, time stands still, no one moves, Conor Chaplin kicks the ball into the goal past a static Stryjek and Town lead 2-0. Joy abounds once more. After three minutes of added on time I join Ray, his son Michael and grandson Harrison down at the front for some conversation about haircuts, queuing, the often-dubious use of the words ‘ethical’ and ‘affordable’ and the scandal of how the food stall beneath the stand had sold out of sausage rolls even before kick-off. Ray kindly ‘pours out’ four mini-Easter eggs for me from a polythene bag, I eat two having carefully and studiously peeled off the delicate foil wrapping, because it feels horrible against the fillings in your teeth.

The football resumes at seven minutes past four with Wycombe Wanderers getting first go with the ball, although they soon lose it, and Town quickly have another corner. I give the two remaining Easter eggs that Ray gave me to Fiona and Pat from Clacton; Fiona’s egg is in a blue wrapper, Pat’s is in a green one, but she takes it anyway and pops it in her handbag for later. Seven minutes into the new half and referee Mr David Rock gets to air his yellow card for the first time as Wycombe’s Chris Forino needlessly hurtles into Wes Burns and sends him flying. “The Town are going up, the Town are going up” sing the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson stand with feeling as Wes Burns darts down the wing to put in a low cross, which is diverted into the side netting by a Wycombe boot.

It’s the fifty-seventh minute and the ball is controlled by George Hirst in the middle and played out to the right, Harry Clarke and Wes Burns are both through on goal, but Wes is travelling faster and facing head on to the goal, Harry defers to Wes who strikes the ball; one split second the ball leaves Wes’s boot, later that same split second it nestles in the back of the Wycombe goal net. “Pick the bones out of that” is the expression that springs to mind and Town lead 3-0. What had started as a difficult looking fixture against a team eager to get into the play-off places now looks like an end of season romp against mid-table duffers keen to get away on holiday.

“I’m looking forward to my baked potato, salad and prawns now” says Pat, confident the afternoon is going to end well and explaining that although today is a Friday, it’s like a Saturday. Pat’s enthusiasm must be infectious and for a moment it seems like the whole crowd start to sing “We’ve got super Keiran McKenna, He knows exactly what we need, Woolfy at the back, Ladapo in attack, And now we’re gonna win the fuckin’ league.” But I must be hallucinating, may be it was the Easter eggs. “Hark now hear the Ipswich sing…” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand to the tune of ‘Mary’s boy child’, clearly totally confused as to which Christian festival is which.

I count seven seagulls on the cross-girder of the Sir Bobby Robson stand and Wycombe replace the prosaically named Nick Freeman with the more exotic sounding Tjay de Barr. News that neither Plymouth Argyle nor Sheffield Wednesday are winning prompts chants of “We are top of the league, we are top of the league” because we are, thanks to goal difference. A quarter of the match remains and it’s time for Town make a mass substitution, replacing over a third of the team in one fell swoop. As the changes are announced, the players draw the sort of personally directed applause they don’t get when they just leave the pitch with everyone else at the end of the match. Wes Burns, George Hirst, Nathan Broadhead and Conor Chaplin are the recipients of the ovations and the crowd sings “Ei, E-i, E-i-o, Up the Football league we go”. Stadium announcer Stephen Foster tells us that there are 28,511 souls in the stadium today with 643 of that number vainly supporting Wycombe when they could have been at home making chairs. Many of the crowd warmly applaud themselves for turning up.

Town win a corner courtesy of the clumsy looking Ryan Tafazolli, and Cameron Burgess heads over the cross-bar. Four minutes later and substitute Kyle Edwards gets the ball inside the Wycombe penalty box, but before he has the chance to control the ball he is barged over by Wycombe’s Scowen whose surname sounds as rough and unrefined as his challenge is. Appropriately, given that the referee is Mr Rock, it is a stone wall penalty. Freddie Ladapo steps up to score, shooting to the left as Stryjek stupidly but conveniently dives in the opposite direction. Town lead 4-0, it’s a rout, a sound thrashing, a gubbing and a stuffing.

The afternoon’s work is done; another substitution is made as the excellent Massimo Luongo is replaced by Dominic Ball, another corner is won, Wycombe make more substitutions of their own and Tafazoli receives the booking his savage play so richly deserves after he attempts to beat off Kayden Jackson with a thrusting forearm to the throat. At least five minutes of additional time is played out in which Wycombe succeed in extending Town’s run to nine consecutive clean sheets before the result is finally confirmed a bit before five o’clock.

To my right Fiona and Pat from Clacton quickly disappear back to their other lives and soon afterwards to my left the man sat there heads back to Stowmarket, or possibly Stowupland. Many linger to hail their conquering heroes. In all truth it’s not been the very best of games, but then again it has, and the excellent result has left me with the warm glow of satisfaction. Town have outplayed and outclassed a well organised team. I feel like celebrating , I wonder if the ice cream van will be round tomorrow.

Ipswich Town 2 Shrewsbury Town 0

March 19, 2023February 9, 2025 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

It’s been a beautiful wet morning of silvery grey light beneath a shroud of pale cloud. I woke early, before six, when the sky was blue and red as the sun came up, but that was too early, so I went back to bed, then overslept.

Earlier this week I woke up with my mind disturbed by vivid dreams of a time over forty years ago when I was a university student coming to terms with base desires to form shallow relationships with members of the opposite sex. Worryingly, in these dreams I fancied girls who at the time I didn’t think I did. Why my subconscious mind should want to re-appraise events of forty years ago I cannot fathom. The week has improved since then, and psychologically re-balanced I’ve now parked up my planet saving Citroen e-C4 and have stepped out across a slippery, soggy Gippeswyk Park, beneath Ancaster Road railway bridge and over the river to the old tram depot and Sir Alf Ramsey Way, where I cashlessly buy a programme for today’s match having waited my turn behind a man who called the programme seller ‘mate’ at least four times and possibly as many as six during the course of his brief transaction. I was tempted to address the programme seller as ‘programme seller’ but of course I didn’t. One day.

At ‘the Arb’, I am a little bemused that there is no Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride today, but on the barman’s recommendation I order a pint of Mauldon’s Silver Adder (£4.00) and retire to the beer garden, which is already occupied by several drinkers of late middle age. I drink alone today because my friend Mick might be required away at any moment to collect a ‘stiff’; my words, not his and is taking the calls. Despite Mick’s absence, death still stalks me as at a nearby table I overhear a man talking of a funeral he had recently been to at the Seven Hills Crematorium. “They just talked a bit about his life, played some music, and that was it” he says. Later, he will tell his fellow drinkers about watching football on tv in Arabic by means of his Firestick, and how Richard Keys and Andy Gray are still working for beinsports in Qatar, where their grubby attitude towards women is clearly tolerated. I would like to hear Andy Gray speaking Arabic.

I read my programme, gleaning from it the fact that Sam Morsy has been booked twelve times this season, which is four more times than any other Town player and twice as many times as the third most booked player, Wes Burns. Finishing the Silver Adder, I return to the bar for a pint of Lacon’s Encore (£3.51 with Camra discount), by way of an encore. At about twenty to three I depart for Portman Road. In Crown Street a young man steps out of a barber’s shop and sprays what I assume to be deodorant under his armpits from beneath his T-shirt. An ambulance speeds by with its siren blaring; “Go, go save that person” shouts a lairy youth, no doubt trying to impress his friends with his off-the-wall ‘humour’.

I reach Portman Road and behind what was the North Stand a bearded man I know called Kevin sidles up to me and says hello. Kevin’s pre-match ritual is to have a pint at St Jude’s Tavern; he would join me at the Arb but can’t not stick to his ritual in case it causes a calamitous result. We walk to turnstile 61 together; Kevin uses turnstile 61 because 1961 was the year he was born. On what used to be the Churchman’s terrace I edge past Fiona to my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket, although Fiona says he’s actually from Stowupland. Two rows in front of us are ever-present Phil who never misses a game and his young son Elwood. Pat from Clacton arrives a little after I do; she’s going to Great Yarmouth tomorrow on a ‘whist holiday’.

The teams process onto the pitch and Stephen Foster, the former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter and class-mate of my friends Pete and Ian, reads out the teams. Along with ever-present Phil, I bawl out the Town players’ surnames, pretending to be French. If I was French, I’d already be retired now, and depending on where I lived I might support Racing Club de Lens, Lorient, Clermont Foot or Montpellier. It’s something I think about a lot in my many idle moments. After a minute’s applause for former Town director John Kerr who died this week, Shrewsbury Town take the knee and applaud whilst Town players form a huddle, and then the match begins. Shrewsbury get first go with the ball attempting to send it mostly in the direction of the goal just in front of me, Pat, Fiona, Phil and Elwood. Shrewsbury are sporting a change kit today because their usual, distinctive blue and yellow striped shirts would clash with Town’s all blue shirts. Disappointingly, Shrewsbury have opted for all-black, the magnolia of modern-day football kits, for people who choose club kits but who also lack imagination. The addition of red smudges over the shoulders does nothing to alleviate the depressing absence of colour. The referees however are doing their best for us and are wearing orange shirts.

An intimidating, brooding wall of silence encloses the ground providing the soundtrack to the games’ opening moves, but a bit of noise eventually emanates from the Blue Action section in the lower tier of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand, followed by the curious chants of “Addy, Addy, Addy-O”. It’s damp, and a faint mist seems to hang over the pitch. Town have the ball mostly, but all of a sudden Christian Walton is leaping acrobatically to tip a header from Luke Leahy (I like to think Leahy is pronounced leaky) over the cross bar to give Shrewsbury the game’s first corner. Quickly it has been established that Shrewsbury are going to be one of those teams who are all free-kicks, set pieces and shoving people over. It’s a style of ‘football’ that is effective for a bit, but people soon get tired of it and that includes the players, just ask Mick McCarthy.

Town soon re-establish their superiority, which manifests itself in three corners in five minutes as crosses and shots are blocked. A dozen minutes have gone forever and half the pitch is now bathed in mottled sunlight and the other half wallows in the shadows of the stands. I am struck by how spindly the legs of Shrewsbury’s number 33, Tom Flanagan, are and just to prove the point he slips over like new born Bambi. The fifteenth minute arrives and Wes Burns scampers off down the wing, crosses the ball and George Hirst rises high, twists his neck, and heads the ball gloriously into the goal beyond goalkeeper Marko Marosi. It’s the sort of goal centre forwards used to score all the time, and at half-time Ray will tell me how it reminded him very much of Trevor Whymark’s best work, and he’s right. Town lead 1-0.

The sun is shining, the Town (Ipswich not Shrewsbury ) are winning and all is right with the world as I sit back and wait for Town’s next goal. Before that however, comes the first booking as Wes Burns is tripped by Jordan Shipley, who forty years ago might have been called Gordon Shipley. All twenty outfield players are within forty yards of the Shrewsbury goal as the resulting free-kick is taken, but the ball goes straight into the arms of Marosi.

With the game entering its second quarter, it feels like Town ease off a little as what had been a busy period of crosses and constantly probing possession comes to an end. But the rest, is just a rest and soon Town are winning more corners. “Come On You Blues” I bawl. “ They can’t hear you” says Pat from Clacton. “I don’t think anyone can” I tell her, disappointed that all across the bottom tier of the Sir Alf Ramsey stand people haven’t joined in with me. “I can hear you” says Fiona, sounding like she wishes she couldn’t.

We descend towards half-time and from another Wes Burns cross it looks as though the until now excellent Massimo Luongo has an open goal, but somehow he contrives to head the ball where we and presumably he didn’t want it to go, not into the goal. In the interests of variety, Shrewsbury are awarded a corner as Cameron Burgess clears the ball behind from a rare, but awkward foray forward by the visting team, and Christian Walton saves a shot from that Gordon Shipley, before Conor Chaplin restores order but shoots wide of the Shrewsbury goal. The half closes with an homage to BBC tv sitcom Dad’s Army as Shrewsbury number 15, Rekeil Pyke fouls Luke Woolfenden, and hopefully referee Ollie Yates adopts a German accent to say “ Your name will also go into the book, what is it?” From the touchline I think I hear Shrewsbury manager Steve Cotterill shout “Don’t tell him Pyke!” and both benches and Mr Yates fall about laughing.

With half-time, I hasten away beneath the stand to make use of the facilities and enjoy the luxury of the new hand dryers which since the last home game have replaced the old asthmatic ones. I return to talk with Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand. Ray seems disappointed with the first half because Shrewsbury have had a couple of reasonable chances and Town have only scored once, but he liked the goal and talks of Trevor Whymark and Alan Lee.

The football resumes at seven minutes past four and I eat a Nature Valley honey and nut cereal bar, which I finish before Town seemingly score again as Conor Chaplin taps the ball in at the far post after a deep cross, but apparently he is offside; he doesn’t argue so he probably was, or he is the first player to work out that referees do not change their decisions. The disappointment is only temporary however, but what isn’t? Two minutes later there’s a cross, a Conor Chaplin shot is blocked and Massimo Luongo places a precise hooked shot inside the far post to put Town 2-0 up.

It feels to me like we’ve won already and it’s just a matter of how many goals Town can get. Shrewsbury are putting up decent resistance but we’re too good for them and almost proving the point George Hi⁸rst thumps a shot against a goal post, although he must ask himself why he missed the 7.32m wide gap to its left. A minute later Shrewsbury’s Matthew Pennington is booked for reacting childishly to a perceived dive by Nathan Broadhead and then an unseemly melee ensues with all the usual posturing and macho behaviour that you would expect from the drivers of enormous black SUVs. When the free-kick is eventually taken, Leif Davis uncharacteristically launches it wastefully over the cross bar.

Ipswich’s early dominance of the second half nevertheless inspires some noise from the home crowd and the Sir Bobby Robson stand treat everyone else to the usual truncated rendering of Harry Belafonte’s, or may be Boney M’s, Mary Boy Child with specially adapted lyrics that tell of what now seem like mythical fights with Norwich on Boxing Day. Shrewsbury are first to blink with regard to substitutions and two are made together, one of them being the aforementioned Pyke.

Time rattles on by twenty minutes and Shrewsbury win a corner and Nathan Broadhead is booked for being fouled in the Shrewsbury penalty area despite Shrewsbury players concernedly helping him to his feet rather than pointing accusing fingers. Todays’ attendance is announced by Stephen Foster as 26, 432 with 343 from Shropshire, and weirdly but as per usual, people applaud themselves or each other, or may be they’re applauding Stephen Foster. On the Clacton supporters coach the guess the crowd competition is won by Pat from Clacton’s great nephew Liam, who is just visiting for the weekend and is a West Ham United supporter. Understandably, Pat seems disappointed that this ‘part-time supporter’ has won the prize and suggests various other guesses on her list to Fiona and me that might be closer, but none of them are.

Fifteen minutes remain and it’s time for Town to begin their usual catalogue of substitutions and Freddie Ladapo and Marcus Harness replace George Hirst and Nathan Broadhead. Another Shrewsbury corner sees Chey Dunkley strike the Town cross-bar with a header, but typically for a team reliant on ‘big blokes’ there has been a foul, and Town are awarded a free-kick and Christian Walton receives lengthy treatment whilst everyone else enjoys a break by the touchline. “Get Up!” shouts a frustrated pre-pubescent voice behind me. His dad explains that you don’t shout “Get Up” at your own players, but the child simply replies ”But it’s taking forever”. When he’s older he’ll realise that some of life’s best moments are when nothing is happening.

The last ten minutes of normal time have found their way here and it still time for two more Shrewsbury players to be shown Ollie’s yellow card for fouling Conor Chaplin, and Kayden Jackson, who has replaced Wes Burns, although they probably would have fouled him too given the chance. The eternal treatment to Christian Walton results in only seven minutes of added on time and whilst I hope for a third Town goal which would mark out the result as a modest thrashing rather than just a satisfactory win, it doesn’t happen, despite two more Town substitutions and an outbreak of rhythmic clapping.

Finally, at a minute before five o’clock the game ends and my little band of ultras and I bid our adieus until Good Friday. It’s been a fine performance from Ipswich and ultimately a comfortable, if hard fought victory. I will travel home this evening content, and safe in the knowledge that in forty years’ time it is unlikely my subconscious mind will unexpectedly want to re-appraise todays events, because I expect I will be dead.

Ipswich Town 4 Burton Albion 0

March 5, 2023July 31, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

Another Saturday, another football match at the end of another week, another few hours from which to extract fleeting pleasure, one hopes. That is the nature of life, it’s what makes it bearable unless of course you are lucky enough to be constantly in awe and wonder of everything around you and struggle not to stand with mouth agape at the multitude of different arrangements of atoms and molecules before us and of which we are of course just a tiny part. All this, and football too.

The vanquishing of Burton Albion is the source of today’s hopeful pleasure for many; it’s a fixture that reminds us of life’s elixir, beer. Historically, Burton-On-Trent was Britain’s beer brewing capital and it would be nice to think that in the same way that Grimsby Town once made gifts of boxes of fish to their opponents, so Burton Albion donate crates of beer to the needy wherever they go. Perhaps in the past, when Burton was the epicentre of responsible drinking they did, it would perhaps help to explain the demise of Burton Albion’s predecessors Burton Swifts and Burton United. Burton Swifts were members of the inaugural Football League Division Two back in 1892 when Ipswich Town were still mucking about playing nothing but friendlies when not getting knocked out of the Suffolk Senior Cup and the FA Cup respectively by the public schoolboys of Framlingham College and Old Westminsters. The beautifully named Swifts lasted until 1901, when due to failing finances they merged with Burton Wanderers to become the boringly but accurately named Burton United. The new club lasted in the Football League until 1907 when they finished bottom of the table and were voted out. It would take well over a century for Burton Albion to get the town back into the Football League, although they didn’t start trying until 1950.

My mind teeming with thoughts of football history, the nature of existence and beer, I park up my planet saving Citroen e-C4 and step out across Gippeswyk Park towards Portman Road football ground. The streets around the ground are quieter than they have been before recent games, but there are still people sitting out in the cold enjoying grilled meat products and leaning on Sir Alf Ramsey’s plinth to eat chips. I stop at one of the blue booths where I dream of one day of buying an ice cream as well as a programme. Today, I must make do with just the programme (£3.50), which I pay for in the modern cashless way. I carry on to ‘the Arb’ past the spiral car park, which I would like to see become one of Ipswich’s many listed buildings. On the steps nearby I overtake a man and a woman who possess two of the largest heads of hair I ever seen in Ipswich; the style is hippie rather than beehive, although either makes a good match with the 1960’s car park.

At ‘the Arb’ I invest in a pint of Lacon’s Encore (£3.59 with 10% Camra discount), but only because the Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride has reached the end of the barrel. I retire to the beer garden and sit in the shelter between a man reading a book whilst eating from a piece of slate, and a family of three. I sip my beer and read the programme, intrigued that Lincoln City have only lost seven games but are fourteenth in the table. I begin to read a five page interview with Harry Clarke, but to my shame lose interest at the end of page three; in my defence however, I have read “Remembrance of Things Past” by Marcel Proust. Mick rescues me from the pages of the programme and after collecting a pint from a new barrel of Suffolk Pride, he joins me. Barely has our conversation got on to the usual subject of death before Gary unexpectedly arrives carrying a pint of lager. We continue to talk of death, sciatica, terminal illness, TV programmes we always watch (I always record Sgorio on S4C), and a friend of Mick’s who has a lifelong collection of football and speedway programmes, which he keeps in a shed. When his friend dies, says Mick, he expects his wife will just throw them all away. None of us consider that his wife might die first. Filled with bonhomie by the joy of pre-match conversation, I return to the bar to buy a half of Lager 43 for Gary, a single blended whisky for Mick and a pint of Suffolk Pride for myself; I casually pay for the drinks having no idea of the cost.

At some time around twenty to three we depart for the ground, going our separate ways in what used to be Portman Walk. The portentous turnstile 62 sees me safely into the ground and once in the stand I edge past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to my seat next but one to the man from Stowmarket and a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, although his young son Elwood isn’t here today. As former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster reads out the Town team, Phil and I shout out their surnames like a French football crowd would and hope everyone else will join in, but they don’t. Phil remains optimistic that everyone will have ‘got with the programme’ by the time of the play-off final at Wembley.

After some boisterous “Na-na-nas” and re-wording of The Beatles ‘Hey Jude,’ the game begins, and Town get first go with the ball , heading for the goal at the far end of the ground from me and my band of crazy Ultras. Town are as ever wearing blue shirts and white shorts, but sadly Burton have decided to forego their proper kit of yellow and black and have instead opted to appear disguised as every other dull, anonymous team that ever played an away match, and they wear all-black; it feels like they’re not really interested in being Burton Albion, they might as well give us the points now. In their yellow shirts and black shorts the referee and his assistants look more like Burton Albion than Burton Albion do.

It takes a while for any football to break out and it’s the team in black who win the first corner of the game, neither with nor against the run of play, but following a poor kick by Christian Walton. “Blue Army, Blue Army” shout the home crowd after the corner leads to Town breaking away with Conor Chaplin whose deep cross is easily claimed by the goalkeeper. “Pushing high, in’t they” says the bloke behind me of the away team, and he’s right, they are putting Town players under pressure as they attempt to pass the ball about at the back; this should be creating gaps in the middle of the pitch for Town to exploit, but mysteriously the gaps are not appearing. Ten minutes have disappeared into the past and whoever this away team are, they win another corner.

The twelfth minute, and Freddie Ladapo impersonates Pele. The ball is played high towards him, he’s going to jump for it, but then doesn’t and instead turns and chases it as it sails over his marker’s head. It’s a piece of inventiveness that’s worth a goal, but the referee, Mr Boyeson, has no soul and soon awards a spurious free-kick to the opposition. To celebrate the first sixth of the game passing Harry Clarke gets booked. “If you can’t get the ball get the player, it’s what they’re taught” says the bloke behind me and Harry Clarke holds up his hands as if to say “It’s a fair cop guv’nor” . It’s a booking that underlines the fact that the away team, whoever they might be in their mysterious all-black kit, has so far had the best of the game, although they have not once come close to even threatening to score a goal.

If Clarke’s booking was a meaningless 1-0 to the opposition, then Town quickly equalise, as two minutes later Nathan Broadhead is scythed down by Jasper Moon, who sounds as if he has escaped from a novel. “ He can’t get it out quick enough” says the bloke behind me excitedly as Mr Boyeson reaches for his yellow card and indeed the referee would appear to enjoy this part of his Saturday job. A minute later Mr Boyeson is at it again and it’s as much as he can do not to smile widely as Freddie Ladapo is tripped by John Brayford whose swept back receding hair has me asking myself whether he looks most like Ray Reardon or Jack Nicholson.

The match is almost imperceptibly swinging Town’s way and Freddie Ladapo produces Town’s first shot on goal sending the ball beyond the far post. “ Ole, Ole, Ole” chant what used to be the North Stand and spits of swirling drizzle are being blown into the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. Town win their first corner which is sent straight into touch as if we didn’t really want it. Twenty-seven minutes are up and Wes Burns shoots over the cross bar. Four minutes later and Conor Chaplin turns, shoots and scores as he so often does, despite Town apparently not having a 20-goal-a-season striker, and Town lead 1-0. That’s a relief.

The bloke behind me says something about the game changing now Town have scored, and clearly he is on as good a form as the team today as once again he’s proved right. An injury to Wes Burns allows time for both teams to gather by the dug outs for a remedial coaching class and drinks party, and it’s Town that benefit most. When play resumes Harry Clarke heads off down the right flank, passes to Wes Burns who crosses low for Nathan Broadhead to put Town two-nil up. Even from the far end of the pitch it’s a thing of grace and beauty.

Another visiting player is booked for fouling Conor Chaplin and then in an act of clear revenge Conor slips the ball to Freddie Ladapo to score Town’s third goal. Unlikely events notwithstanding, Town have won the match in the space of ten minutes and despite not having the mythical forty-goal a season striker, and they are still the division’s top scorers. Fear amongst Town supporters remains however and as the final minutes of the half and four minutes of added on time are played out there are desperate shout of “Get rid of it” whenever Christian Walton has the ball at his feet.

With the half time whistle I watch Mr Boyeson leave the pitch zealously holding the match ball, before venting some pre-match beer and chatting with Ray and his grandson Harrison who wants to hear all about the Robyn Hitchcock concert I went to in London last Saturday at the Alexandra palace theatre. I tell him it was fab because it was. Ray lets me know that he and his wife Ros have decided to help save the planet too and get solar panels fitted, and we laugh about the Tory government and how Rishi Sunak tells us with an almost straight face that Northern Ireland will benefit from something wonderful and new due to unique access to EU markets.

The football resumes at six minutes past four and, as with the Morecambe match a few weeks ago, the fear is that we’ve had our fun for the afternoon, and although logic predicts a 6-0 win, in all likelihood there won’t be any more goals because half-time cups of tea are laced with beta blockers and regret. This proves to be only partly correct however, as within a minute Massimo Luongo launches a curving shot wide of the post after Wes Burns runs down the wing and lays it back to him, then the all-purpose visiting team even dare to shoot past the post too; our post, not theirs.

The fun continues as Wes Burns again makes hay on the right pulling back the ball again , this time for Conor Chaplin to not score the fourth goal. “Blue and White Army” shouts the bloke behind me unable to contain himself, but then Cameron Burgess makes a superb ‘last-ditch’ tackle after Luke Woolfenden is all too easily turned by someone in black shirt and shorts. Town concede another corner and then a number of throw ins which the opposition cunningly employ as attacking moves in the absence of proper passing football.

An hour has passed and Ray Reardon is substituted, Christian Walton makes a low diving save and the team in black win three successive corners. Three Canada Geese fly over in tight formation and from another long throw the ball pings about the Town box like we’re suddenly watching Bagatelle or the Pinball Wizard. Mr Boyeson indulges himself with a final yellow card for the afternoon as Nathan Broadhead is fouled by Conor Shaughnessy and a pigeon lands on the cross bar of the goal at the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand end of the ground. The pigeon remains unmoved as Nathan Broadhead sends a curling shot narrowly passed the angle of the post and cross bar with a bit more than twenty minutes still to play. Two minutes later, and Town lead 4-0 as Leif Davis sets up Conor Chaplin and his shot catches a slight deflection to take it past the goalkeeper.

The game is now as good as over and the mass substitutions can begin, not to affect the result, but just so fewer people feel left out. First to go are Broadhead, Chaplin and Ladapo who have all been excellent. The clock ticks down further towards going home time and today’s attendance is announced as 25,003, with 147 of that number turning up from Burton-On-Trent to watch a team who based on their boring away kit might have been from anywhere. The crowd applauds itself and the travellers from Burton, who I like to think blush a little in the face of this show of affection. On the Clacton supporters’ bus the winner of the ‘guess the crowd’ competition is just forty-five out with an estimate of 24,958. Ten minutes of normal time remain and Leif Davis requires treatment leading to another opportunity for remedial coaching on the touchline, but it’s too late for that and Burton are left to just guzzle their isotonic drinks and regret their choice of kit. Davis is replaced by Janoi Donacien and the Sir Bobby Robson Stand sing what sounds like “Bluey, Bluey, you’re a cunt” at the cuddly and permanently startled looking Town mascot, striking the only unseemly note of an otherwise pleasant afternoon’s football. Bluey reacts playfully as if the crowd are merely chanting something like “Bluey, Bluey, you’re a one”. Perhaps they are and it’s me who is coarse and reliant on sexual swearwords to amuse myself.

Despite the stoppage for the injury to Leif Davis, and both teams making the utmost of available substitutes, the fourth official sensibly calculates that only three minutes of additional time should be played, what’s the point of playing more? It’s been a lot of fun, but no one wants to stay here past five o’clock and the final whistle brings the final joyful release of the afternoon before we all head off into the deepening gloom of a damp, grey Ipswich evening.

IpswichTown 4 Forest Green Rovers 0

February 20, 2023February 20, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

I hadn’t realised that Ipswich Town were playing Forest Green Rovers today until perhaps Tuesday evening of this week, when after casually noting Town’s goalless draw with Bristol Rovers, I idly wondered whom the football team I claim to follow were playing this Saturday. Since then, I have been looking forward to the fixture with an increasing sense of anticipation. I have often seen people state on social media that they are eager for Ipswich to get out of what they refer to as this ‘damned’ or ‘shitty’ or ’terrible’ league, but personally I rather like the third division and if we weren’t in it we wouldn’t be meeting interesting clubs like Forest Green Rovers.

It’s been a grey morning, with the occasional unfulfilled threat of Spring sunshine. Parking up my planet saving Citroen e-C4, I step out across Gippeswyk Park for Portman Road. The beer garden of the Station Hotel is conspicuously free of Forest Green Rovers supporters, but in Portman Road their team’s white liveried coach is backing up behind the Sir Alf Ramsey stand. On the bus windscreen, in fancy white lettering it reads ‘KB Coaches’, I wonder what KB stands for and quickly decide that Kate Bush has moved into luxury coach travel in the face of dwindling album sales. I then wonder why Forest Green Rovers don’t travel by train to reduce their carbon footprint. Forty-three years and three weeks ago I recall travelling up by train from Brighton and alighting at Ipswich station along with Alan Mullery and Mark Lawrenson and the rest of the Brighton & Hove Albion first team squad. As we left the platfrom and handed in our tickets I wished them luck in the next day’s game, though I later wished I hadn’t as Gary Stevens equalised for the Seagulls in the final minute of the match. Some things never change, others go backwards.

I buy a programme (£3.50) in the modern cashless manner and spot an FGR fan wearing what I can only describe as a magnificent psychedelic cardigan. If I were some sort of deity responsible for creation, I would make all FGR supporters look a bit like him. The sniffer dog outside the Cobbold Stand is likely sniffing for dope today, not pyrotechnics. Arriving at the ‘Arb’ I order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.51 with 10% Camra discount) and head for the beer garden where to my surprise and pleasure I find my friend Gary sat at a table with a pint of an unidentified lager, although I suspect it’s something created in a vast factory and given an improbably exotic foreign name. Our conversation begins with death; Gary had returned this morning from Slough where he had attended a funeral, and carries on through the whereabouts of Mick, TV comedy, pensions, the dissolution of the ’Postman Higher Grade’ within Royal Mail, Colchester pubs and how enjoyable it has been watching Ipswich Town this season. So good is the conversation that Gary kindly buys me another pint of Suffolk Pride and a half of lager for himself. A bit after twenty-five to three we depart for Portman Road.

Gary and I part in Sir Alf Ramsey Way where he enters a turnstile for the Magnus West Stand whilst I dodge between the supporters’ buses from out of town as I make for the Constantine Road entrance and am pleased to find turnstile number 62 open. “My favourite turnstile” I tell the lady operator “The year we won the League”, and she says “Yes, we’re going to win today” and I believe her. In the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand I edge past Pat from Clacton and Fiona to sit next but one to the man from Stowmarket and a couple of rows behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood. As Stephen Foster reads out the Town team I join in, shouting out their surnames like football crowds in France do.

When the game begins Town, in blue and white get first go with the ball and are aiming it mostly in the direction of Pat, Fiona, me, Phil and Elwood. FGR are in an unnecessary change kit of pink with black tiger stripes; it is probably one of the most bizarre football kits I have ever seen, but it contrasts nicely with the leaden grey cloud above us and as I will remark to prog rock fan Ray at half-time it makes me think of the 1971 album by Caravan ”In the land of grey and pink”.

Within 40 seconds of the game starting Town almost score as Wes Burns’ run and cross ends with Conor Chaplin’s shot being saved. Despite the early excitement, the crowd is largely silent but for a drum in the Sir Bobby Robson stand. Two minutes later and despite the lack of support from the fans, Town lead as Conor Chaplin scores from close range after a move which cuts through the FGR defence like a hot knife through butter or any sharp implement through the soft substance of your choice. Joy abounds for several minutes, but people soon recover.

“Warm isn’t it?” says Pat from Clacton explaining that she’s not wearing an excessive number of layers of clothing. I agree and Pat raises the possibility that I might be going through ‘the change’. “Addy, addy, addy-O” sing the Sir Bobby Robson stand lower tier briefly and the bloke behind me says “There’s a team that always finishes strong at the end of the season and we need to be that team”. Three seagulls are sitting on the girder from which the roof of the Sir Bobby Robson stand is suspended, they appear to be watching the match. FGR win a corner. “Rovers! Rovers!” chant their supporters up in the Cobbold Stand, but without results. “Ipswich Town v Accrington Stanley, Buy Tickets” announce the digital advert displays around the edge of the pitch boldly in glowing blue and white, lending the fixture an allure I normally only associate with cheap global brands like Coca-cola and McDonald’s .

Town win a corner and Pat, Fiona and I talk about veganism as ever-present Phil chants “Meat pie, Sausage roll, Come on Ipswich score a goal!” . Fearful of offending any vegans I provide an alternative lyric of “Thomas Wolsey, Peggy Cole, Come on Ipswich score a goal”, the impact of which is lost a little I feel because I have to explain to Pat from Clacton who Thomas Wolsey and Peggy Cole were. The crowd is still quiet despite ever-present Phil’s best efforts and I introduce a few quiet “Come on You Blues” which are meant rise to a crescendo but the impact is almost instant and another decent passing move ends with George Hirst striking a shot against the angle of goal post and cross-bar. “Burns is always off the pace” says the bloke behind me as a pass runs ahead of Burns and into touch.

The first half is half over and Nathan Broadhead produces a superb turn followed by a shot which isn’t as good and is directed straight into the arms of FGR goalkeeper Ross Doohan. “Come On Rovers!” chant the FGR fans probably sensing that their team isn’t doing much that is likely to change the current scoreline in their favour. The lovely smell of damp turf caresses my senses – but mostly my sense of smell. It’s nearly half past three and it’s time for a break as an FGR player goes down and every one else congregates by the dugouts for drinks and a chat. With the game underway again it’s Wes Burns’ turn to shoot at the FGR goalkeeper. A slightly half-arsed chant of “Ole, Ole, Ole” rolls down the pitch from the Sir Bobby Robson stand, but is beaten back by nothing in particular and Town win another corner and then another and I smell damp turf again . Corners gone, Harry Clarke and Luke Woolfenden pass the ball between them six times just outside the Town penalty area. It’s just gone twenty to four and Town win another corner and after a low cross to the near post Nathan Broadhead emerges from the mass of other players into space where he receives the ball and passes it beyond Doohan to put Town 2-0 up. It looks so simple you wonder why we hadn’t done it several times before.

For the few minutes until half-time it seems like the crowd might be enthused as they suddenly and unexpectedly roar on Sam Morsy as he dawdles on the ball. Stephen Foster tells us there will be four more minutes of play at least, which is enough time for another corner, but then it’s time for applause and a rest. It’s been a decent half, but FGR aren’t putting up much resistance.

I speak to Ray and his grandson Harrison, and hand Ray a piece of paper; we joke in the voice of Neville Chamberlain about peace in our time, but in fact the paper has printed on it the details of the solar panels on my house and how much electricity they have produced in the past year. How appropriate that Town should be playing FGR, the EFL’s greenest team today, even if they have chosen to play in pink. I tell Ray about how I thought of “In the land of grey and pink”, and he tells me that Caravan are still touring, although perhaps only one of the original members is still alive; Ray’s favourite track on the album is the 7 minute 46 second long “Winter Wine”.

At six minutes past four the football resumes and within two minutes Town have a shot cleared off the goal line. I look up at the stands and think of the quiet surrounding streets of the town and how great it is being here with 20,000-odd others on a winter Saturday afternoon. I am shaken from my reverie by Conor Chaplin jinking and making a marvellous pass to Wes Burns, whose cross is blocked to give Town yet another corner. There are more seagulls watching the game from on top of that girder and the cloud that hangs over the pitch is still fashionably grey; if only the render, horizontal boarding and grey window frames that people like to stick on their houses looked half as interesting. Pat from Clacton shows Fiona and me the entries in today’s guess the crowd competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus. There are guesses from both the squirrel and the blue tit who frequent Pat’s back garden, although the squirrel’s guess is over 27,000 so he seems unlikely to win. I tell Fiona and Pat that I hadn’t realised squirrels were so optimistic. Fiona says any squirrels in her garden have to contend with two dogs, so I guess they’d need to be optimistic if they were going to hang around for long, or very quick, which of course squirrels generally are.

Despite thoughts of squirrels and blue tits, time hasn’t stopped draining away, unsurprisingly, and with nearly an hour played FGR win a rare corner and then another and I think of the hope kindled amongst their supporters by these brief interludes. Soon after, the substitutions begin as Massimo Luongo replaces Cameron Humphreys. Weirdly, Harry Clarke takes a pace or two towards the touchline as the fourth offical raises the substitute board, as if he half expects he might be substituted. Then Town score for a third time, Conor Chaplin shooting crisply and accurately as ever, after a low cross from Leif Davis; it’s no more than Town deserve and FGR are definitively beaten. The goal inspires a burst of high-pitched noise from the family enclosure up in the West Stand. Pre-pubescent voices en masse somehow always sound so well spoken, it’s like they all still watch Valerie Singleton era Blue Peter .

The main batch of mass substitutions takes place for Town to much applause and then Stephen Foster announces that there are 24,804 of us are here today with 225 of that number supporting FGR. Many in the crowd seemingly applaud themselves whilst others raise their clapping hands towards the visitors from rural Gloucestershire who deserve something for following the team that is bottom of the third division to the far side of the country, although I happen to know at least two of them actually live in Ipswich. “I’m Rovers til’ I die” they sing. What happens then I wonder?

The game is won and it’s just a matter of whether Town will score more goals or will they give away a consolation to FGR? As it happens Town score a fourth, Freddie Ladapo heading in a headed pass from Cameron Burgess after Kyle Edwards is fouled whilst the crowd applaud the seventy-ninth minute to commemorate Bobby Robson leading Town to FA Cup glory in 1978. It’s a fittingly inaccurate celebration to mark the birthday of a man who would have been 90 years old yesterday if he hadn’t gone and died in 2009. A fifth goal would be nice and it almost happens as a Leif Davis shot hits a post in the eighty-second minute as the crowd now applauds Town’s UEFA Cup win under Sir Bob back in 1981. In France, supporters of Montpellier HSC applaud the 73rd minute of every match to mark the age at which their forner chairman Louis Nicollin died. In future it might be more meaningful if Town fans did the same in the 76th minute of every match, although we should also do the same for Sir Alf Ramsey who is always ignored, probably because he committed the terrible sin of trying to ‘talk posh’.

The FGR consolation goal never looks likely but in the 87^th minute Cameron Burgess stretches for, but can’t quite reach a through ball from Charlie McCann; Tyrese Omotye chases the pass, he’s one on one against Christian Walton, he shoots, he misses and is offside in any case. The attacking prowess of FGR summed up in one incident too late in the game to have had any impact on the result even if he had scored.

With the final whistle the crowd is appreciative; recent failures to win seemingly instilling gratitude in the home fans for a victory that has been everything it needed to be. Town are back on the road to salvation and an exit from the third division, at least until the next time they don’t win.

IpswichTown 2 Sheffield Wednesday 2

February 12, 2023 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

In my near fifty-two seasons of watching professional football, I’ve seen Sheffield Wednesday play twenty-five times, and today will be the twenty-sixth. The majority of those games have also involved Ipswich Town, with just two being against Colchester United. Like those Colchester matches, today’s game, in common with the previous two is a third division fixture. This is a very boring introduction to this match report, but it’s about history, which for many is possibly the whole point of watching football. Both Ipswich Town and Sheffield Wednesday have a history of glory which they currently exist in the shadow of. Ipswich’s glory was over forty years ago, but it’s recent compared to that of Sheffield, which was over forty years before that, with Wednesday last winning the FA Cup in 1935 and the League in 1930, beyond living memory for most mortals. Today is important therefore.

Looking forward and only in my rear view mirror when necessary I park up my air-quality enhancing Citroen e-C4 and head across Gippeswyk Park for Portman Road and the joys of ‘The Arb’ beyond. The streets are full of policemen in uniforms that look as if they have been designed to be wipe-clean. A tall, wide-eyed man approaches me and asks what the score will be. “2-0 to Town” I say because I always expect Ipswich to win and he cheers and lurches off up the road. Two policemen eye him suspiciously as if it might be a crime to be a bit eccentric or off your gourde. In Portman Road, the boringly grey Sheffield Wednesday team bus is backing into its parking space behind the Sir Alf Ramsey Stand. I stop at one of the kiosks which look like they should sell ice cream, and attempt to buy a programme (£3.50) using my season ticket card. Predictably this doesn’t work, but I realise my mistake at the about the same time as the young man in the kiosk and blame it on my bank card and season ticket card both being blue.

At ‘the Arb’ I order a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£3.41 with the 10% Camra discount) and retire to the beer garden where the covered shelter is occupied by people who seem unable to talk without shouting; it’s as if I’m hearing a conversation between a group of town criers. I move away into the beer garden fearing permanent damage to my ears. Mick soon appears, unexpectedly making his entrance through the side gate. He disappears into the building and quickly returns with his own pint of Suffolk Pride and packet of Fairfield’s Farms cheese and onion crisps. We talk of our distrust and dislike of Ipswich’s Tory MP’s and their attempts at political point scoring off Ipswich’s Labour led council, of forthcoming fixtures, of Grayson Perry, of transitioning and of sexual politics.

At about two-thirty the beer garden suddenly falls silent as everybody else departs for the match leaving just Mick and I supping alone. For a moment we don’t know what to say other than to remark on how quiet it is. We drain our pint glasses and it’s not long before we leave for Portman Road ourselves, feeling like reluctant followers of fashion. We part in Sir Alf Ramsey Way as I head off between the assembled supporters’ buses and coaches towards the Constantine Road entrance and Mick finds a place to park his pushbike. At the portal to the Sir Alf Ramsey stand there are no queues and of turnstiles 59 to 62, only the latter is not open, I choose turnstile 61 and am entreated to “enjoy the match” by the brown-haired woman who nonchalantly scans my season ticket card. In the stand, Pat from Clacton, Fiona, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, the man from Stowmarket, and his grandson are all here and the sense of anticipation is palpable.

As stadium announcer and former BBC Radio Suffolk presenter Stephen Foster reads out the Town team I shout out the surnames in the French style and am pleased that ever-present Phil joins in , although I botch it a bit because the scoreboard isn’t keeping up with Stephen Foster and I find I’m not quite as good at picking the right surnames to match the first names as I ought to be. It’s a lot of fun nevertheless, but then we pause to show our respects to the many thousands who have died in the recent earthquake across southern Turkey and Syria. The silence is well observed as it should be; the only sounds being the squawking of seagulls and shushes from the Sheffield fans to those of their number emerging onto the stand ignorant of the gesture being made.

At two minutes past three o’clock the games begins with Town getting first go with the ball and hoping to stick it in the net closest to me, Pat, Fiona and Phil. Town are in resplendent in royal blue shirts and white shorts whilst Wednesday are anaemic in pale yellow shirts with pale blue sleeves and pale blue short; it’s a kit that looks like it’s been washed too many times or has faded in strong sunlight whilst on the washing line. “Hark now here the Wednesday sing, United ran away” chant the northerners in the Cobbold Stand showing an unexpected appreciation of Harry Belafonte and Boney M, which is matched by the Town fans in the Sir Bobby Robson stand who proceed to sing the same song but about Town and Norwich. Other parts of the ground remain silent as if still remembering the earthquake victims.

Almost a quarter of an hour passes before any football breaks out and supporters are reduced to jeering and cheering throws and mis-placed passes. A tall man sat next to me tenses and jerks forward every time it looks like the ball will come near the goal. Conor Chaplin bounces a shot into the ground which is easily collected by the Wednesday goalkeeper Cameron Dawson, who is a vision in cerise. A Wednesday shot travels spectacularly high over the Town cross bar. “Tell you what, they’re big at the back int they” says the bloke behind me of the three Sheffield defenders Akin Famewo, Dominic Iorfa and Aden ‘Larry’ Flint. Iorfa previously played for Town, but looks to have been on a course of steroids since then.

The afternoon is dull and still, the flags on the Cobbold stand hang lifelessly beneath heavy grey cloud, it’s like a summer’s day, just a bit colder. The fifteenth minute brings a corner to Town and then another. With the second corner kick Wes Burns falls to the ground inside the penalty area. I see him fall but don’t spot the perpetrator who must have had a getaway car waiting, and it seems like that is everyone’s experience including the referee’s assistant who gingerly and briefly signals for a penalty kick. The referee, Mr Geoff Eltringham walks over to speak to his assistant before a posse of Wednesday players run over to argue the toss like professional footballers always do. “Get over it” I shout, uncharacteristically. “Haven’t you ever conceded a penalty before?” I’m not sure what’s the matter with me.

Eventually, about four minutes later, the penalty is taken and Conor Chaplin’s kick fails to find any of the important corners inaccessible to goalkeepers and instead it strikes the diving figure of Dawson. What disappointment. But life and the game carries on. “He’s a unit, we’re not gonna beat him in the air” says the bloke behind me of ‘Larry’ Flint, still obsessing about the size of the Wednesday defenders as a Wes Burns cross is repelled. It takes twenty-five minutes, but finally the Wednesday supporters find their Welsh hymn books and sing “Your support , your support , your support is fucking shit”. Two minutes later their piety and use of rude words is rewarded as Town ignore the fart-joke aficionados’ favourite player Josh Windass, allowing him as much time and space as he wants to cross the ball for the more prosaically named Michael Smith to twist a spectacularly decent header from near post to far post and into the Town net, and Sheffield lead.

Depression is setting in at Portman Road and only mild relief comes from Geoff the ref showing Wednesday’s Will Vaulks his yellow card for aimlessly wandering off with the ball in an attempt to waste time. The pleasure this brings is soon lost however as a minute later Wednesday score a second goal when the ball is crossed and then drops to the ground conveniently for George Byers to smite into the goal. Another goal almost follows as Town get in a muddle and Vaulks has a shot saved by Christian Walton. A few rows behind me it’s all too much for one bloke who erupts into a tirade of expletives and sounds like he might burst into tears at any moment. A woman with him seems to plead for a more rational approach but this only seems to fuel his ire provoking a full scale ‘domestic’ which ends with what sounds like him telling her “Leave me alone”. All this and a football match to watch too!

The quiet, even silent brooding of the home crowd ,with the obvious exception of the two having the domestic, is worrying me and as Town win a free-kick for a foul on Nathan Broadhead near the penalty area I begin to sing “Come On You Blues” and “Allez les bleus” in the hope that others will join in to build a crescendo of noise which will carry the team to victory. Ever-present Phil joins in and I think Fiona and Pat do too; I keep it going for long enough for several people to look round fearfully to see who the weirdo is. Then Nathan Broadhead takes the free-kick and hits the top right-hand corner of the goal net with the ball, it’s a fantastic goal. “Your singing, it worked” says a young girl in front of me smiling broadly amongst the cheers and the joy. Well, why wouldn’t it?

Four minutes of added on time are the prequel to half-time and I go down the front to see Ray and his grandson Harrison. The consensus is that Wednesday are big and physical and do a lot of pushing for which the Geoff the ref has not given us the appropriate number of free-kicks. Also, until we let Wednesday score we were doing alright; after that it wasn’t so good. Ray asks about my solar panels because his wife has asked him to ask me about them. Regrettably I have not come to football armed with the facts and figures, so I tell him I will have to gather the data and let him know, although the main point is that money aside, whilst the solar panels are making electricity no one is having to burn fossil fuels to power my house or car, hence life on Earth will be saved and future generations will be able to enjoy football like we do.

Returning to my seat, the bloke behind me apologises for his language, I shrug my shoulders and purse my lips as if I were French. I hadn’t really noticed to be honest, and he should probably apologise to Pat rather than to me. The game resumes. Within five minutes the scorer of Wednesday’s second goal, Byers, is booked for a foul on Conor Chaplin and from the free-kick Leif Davis launches the ball into the top corner of the goal. That’ll teach Byers. It’s a fabulous comeback by Town and without doing much more than taking a couple of free-kicks after getting hacked down by the dirty Wednesday players. I am at once both ecstatic that we are no longer losing but disappointed that we haven’t yet scored a proper goal by carving open the opposition defence with cunning passes and superior wit. Pat from Clacton reveals that in the ‘draw the correct score’ competition on the Clacton supporters’ bus she has drawn 3-2 to Town.

The second half largely belongs to Ipswich. Corners are won and the ball is passed and seldom comes near Christian Walton’s goal. Town have shots on goal, but most are blocked and when Conor Chaplin fashions a seemingly spectacular effort, turning and striking the ball athletically in a single movement it seems impossible that it ends up going straight to the goalkeeper for an easy catch. The usual clutches of substitutions are made, and for once they don’t make much difference. For a short while Wednesday get back into the game as they hurl in some long throws and win a couple of corners that threaten, and ‘Larry’ Flint finds space to head across goal and then blast the ball over the cross bar. Today’s ‘sold out’ attendance is announced by Stephen Foster as 29,072 with 2,148 fans from Sheffield although he doesn’t mention that where I am sat there are at least six empty seats within a couple of metres of me. For a sell-out crowd the level of vocal support for the Town has been very disappointing however, just as it was against Plymouth, with an aire of tortured anxiety pervading the stands.

The game rolls on towards its not fully satisfactory conclusion. Desperation arrives as Pat from Clacton releases the figure of the masturbating monkey from her bag and rubs his head for luck. Sadly, the powers of this Cambodian or Vietnamese lucky charm seem to have drooped or left him altogether. Sheffield Wednesday substitute their small Scottish captain Barry Bannan for Dennis Adeniran and I remark to Fiona that there have never been many players called Barry, past or present. We try to think of some, but all I can come up with are Barry Sheen and Barry White, neither of whom were footballers. At primary school a teacher sat me next to a boy called Barry, hoping I would be a good influence on him, but sadly it was bad Barry who had more influence on me. A late flurry sees Freddie Ladapo have a shot which looks like it is goalward bound, but it flies past the side of the goal post that doesn’t have a net to stop it and that’s that, the game is drawn.

It’s both a point gained and two points lost for Town today, so it’s best not to dwell on it, we can leave that for the future when it won’t feel like it matters so much and it’s just history .

Post Script: I remember Barry Butlin playing for Luton Town.