Ipswich Town 2 Stoke City 0

August 13, 2023August 19, 2024 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

After the low key, League Cup game against the Rovers of Bristol on Wednesday night, which began mine and everyone’s new season at Portman Road, today is the start of the Football League season at home, and Town face the ancient City of Stoke, one of the founder members of the football league way back in 1888, before Sky television. August 12^th still seems a bit early to start playing football seriously, but Wednesday’s game has helped to immunise me against the shock and at about twenty minutes to one I am on my way out of my front door, setting off for Portman Road and the joys and horrors that may or may not await.

By way of a change from last season, I am leaving my planet saving Citroen e-C4 at home today and taking the train (£8.95 with senior railcard), at last feeling more confident or perhaps just blasé about my chances of not being struck down with the terrible lurgi that is Covid. If I hold my breath, avoid anyone who looks a bit peaky or coughs, and don’t touch anything I might be alright. The train is on time and the journey pleasant as I gaze out of the window at the world spinning by beneath a heavy grey August sky. I look on in wonder at the myriad of colours and shapes and textures within the plain, familiar streets and landscapes outside.

Alighting from the train in Ipswich, I talk to a man I know called Kevin as we cross the bridge from platforms three and four to two. We part as we cross the bridge over the river and I head first for Portman Road, where after a few moments hesitation as I think of the space they take up and the poor value for money, I decide I will nevertheless buy a programme (£3.50). I queue briefly behind two morbidly obese women one of whom ‘has a fag on’, before obtaining a programme in the modern cashless manner saying “Just the one please” to the youthful person in the blue sales booth who remains silent.

As I am about to turn the corner on to High Street, Mick appears on his bike, which having dismounted he locks to the railings outside the old art school before we enter the Arb together and Mick very kindly asks me what I want to drink. At first, I opt for a pint of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, but then seeing the array of other beers on offer I change my mind, selecting the altogether more exotic, Moongazer BellyWhite Belgique IPA. Mick chooses the same and we head for the beer garden which is busy, but there is one vacant table, the same one I sat at when I was here on Wednesday evening. Like the hypochondriac old men that we are, we talk of our physical ailments. Mick has had housemaid’s knee. He was lying in the back of a hearse cleaning the inside of the windows when he got cramp in his calf. The cramp went, but a couple of hours later his knee began to swell, although it’s okay now. From Mick’s knee we move on to his liver, our stomach’s, prostates and my eyes and heart. The beer is tasty and not knowing how long I have left I quickly buy another for myself and a single Jamieson whisky for Mick. Our conversation leaves the world of hypochondria for holidays, Haverfordwest County’s foray into the qualifying rounds of the European Conference League and Town’s new goalkeeper Cieran Slicker who, we discover through the wonder of the interweb, was born in Oldham, but has played youth football for Scotland; we agree that his surname can easily be imagined being announced with a Scottish accent.

When we come to leave for Portman Road at about twenty-five minutes to three, the beer garden is already almost completely empty and the people remaining do not look like they will be watching the football this afternoon. We join the gathering crowds on our journey to the match. Although we’ve had to wrench ourselves away from the pub, this is always one of the best bits of the afternoon with the steady accretion of souls and anticipation and the odour of frying onions all increasing the closer we get to the stadium.

Mick and I go our separate ways somewhere near where Sir Alf Ramsey stands cooly with one hand in his suit pocket. There are queues at the turnstiles, but they aren’t as long as on Wednesday and after waiting behind a man who has to present his mobile phone three times to let his family through the turnstile before him, I eventually walk into the Sir Alf Ramsey stand myself. After draining away some Belgique IPA, I emerge into the bright sunlight of the stand and after two and a bit months absence re-acquaint myself with Pat from Clacton, Fiona, the man from Stowmarket, ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his young son Elwood.

Today, I am in time for the announcing of the teams, and I shout out the surnames of the Town players like a Frenchman would. The ‘new’ stadium announcer Mark Murphy then proceeds to stoke up the crowd by asking, somewhat ridiculously, each stand in turn if they are ready. It’s enough to make anyone roll their eyes. The teams appear and bursts of flame shoot into the air like a Kevin Beattie barbecue; I can feel the heat from where I’m sitting. So much for football caring about global warming and its carbon footprint, but then we all join in with the na-na-nas of Hey Jude and the stadium is full of noise.

The game begins beneath azure blue skies punctuated with puffy white cloud and Stoke City get first go with the ball, sending it mostly in the direction of what was the plain, old, tatty North Stand the first time I witnessed Stoke play at Portman Road back in the 1970’s. Happily, both teams are wearing their signature kits which is particularly good in the case of Stoke because their red and white stripey ensemble is a classic, although if I have to be critical, and I do, I think the present incarnation has a few too many stripes.

“We’re the Blue Armeee” chant the Sir Bobby Robson stand to rhyme with something else ending in ‘eee’ and the bloke behind me joins in just as the chant fades away. The ambience in the ground is one of excitement as Town dominate the early part of the game inspiring more chants of “ Blue and White Army” and Wes Burns hits a shot which the Stoke goalkeeper Travers, who is dressed from head to toe in orange, tips spectacularly over the cross bar for the game’s first corner. Travers is a surname similar enough to Travis to have me suddenly thinking of Lyndsay Anderson’s brilliant 1968 film ‘If’ , but it soon passes as Town’s early pressure earns two more corners in quick succession and I bellow “Come On You Blues” in the vain hope that my vocal encouragement will result in a goal.

The immediate hope of a goal fades for the moment and Pat tells Fiona that when the Clacton supporters coach arrived at the ground today and went to park in the usual spot by the bus depot, the driver had been told “You can’t park here”. When he asked why not, the driver was told “Because someone might plant a bomb under it”. I didn’t realise Clacton people had such a bad reputation. Behind me the bloke says to the bloke beside him “We’re making it uncomfortable for them” which I think is in reference to what’s happening on the pitch, rather than the Clacton supporters bus.

Town continue to pour forward, threatening the Stoke goal with crosses and incisive passes but no proper shots. “Now switch it, switch it” calls the bloke beside me to Sam Morsy, but Sam ignores him. “Stand up if you ‘ate the scum” chant the Sir Bobby Robson to the tune of Village People’s ‘Go West’ and then, in a personal message to the Stoke manager and sung to the tune of the Beachboys’ ‘Sloop John B’ “You’ll always be scum, you’ll always be scum, Alex Neil, you’ll always be scum”. Believing in forgiveness, redemption and that people can change, it’s not a view that I agree with.

After eighteen minutes Conor Chaplin delivers the first half-decent shot on goal and the Town fans sing “ Hark now hear the Ipswich sing, the Norwich ran way”before Wes Burns is cynically blocked by some or other bloke in a pyjama top in the shadow of the west stand. Sam Morsy takes the free kick, curving a cross into the penalty area where Luke Wooflenden heads the ball into the net in the style of Terry Butcher, and Town lead 1-0. “Oh when the Town, Go marching in” chant the home crowd, a bit mournfully considering the score. Town are imperious, and a superb move between Conor Chaplin and Nathan Broadhead results in another corner. “Champagne Football” says the bloke behind me, oblivious to the fact that Stade de Reims will later take the lead against Olympique Marseille but ultimately lose 1-2.

The game is not a third of the way through but Stoke find it necessary to replace the economically named Wesley with the almost as economically named Chiquinho. I wonder to myself if Wesley has an appointment or an early bus and whether league rules stipulate that you can only replace a player with just one name with another player with just one name. Seven minutes on and Stoke have their first shot, which loops wide of the goal and then, after an unexpectedly long passage of possession, another shot has to be saved by Town ‘keeper Vaclav Hladky. The blokes behind me head for the bar as half-time approaches and the sky clouds over, Wes Burns sends over a low cross and George Hirst strikes the ball first time against the outside of the near post. Two minutes of additional time are played and on the touchline Kieran Mckenna looks agitated in a way he never did when we in the third division; I like to think that as manager of a ‘big club’ in the third division he didn’t think it was right to bemoan his team’s luck, whereas now, in a league full of Premier league wannabees it’s fine to get a bit huffy and precious every now and then.

With the half-time whistle I go down to the front of the stand to speak with Ray and his grandson Harrison. I give Harrison a copy of ‘Life after Infinity’ the latest album by the excellent Robyn Hitchcock, an artist who makes Ed Sheeran look and sound like Neil Reid. On the back of the programme I notice that the match ball sponsor today is Bob Harris and the home shirt sponsor is Henry Gibson; I am reminded the Old Grey Whistle Test and Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In.

The match resumes at five minutes past four with Stoke winning a very early corner and the ‘Stokees’ in the corner of the Cobbold Stand optimistically singing “When the Reds go marching in” . For a short while Stoke are the better side and only six minutes into the half the referee, Mr Smith even books Vaclav Hladky for perceived time-wasting as he waits to take a free-kick. Cameron Burgess heads away a second corner kick, and George Hirst has a shot easily saved.

In the first half, several fouls by Stoke players were spotted by Mr Smith, but despite some of them being serious foul play he only booked one Stoke player. It’s a theme that is continuing in the second half with Wes Burns and Massimo Luongo being hacked down without punishment. But Town have weathered the early Stoke pressure and the Sir Bobby Robson stand chant “ Ipswich, Ipswich, Ipswich”, interspersing the “Ipswiches” with rhythmic clapping. Pat from Clacton informs me that she is having chicken and prawn salad tonight with new potatoes, she won’t have a baked potato for her tea again until the autumn or the winter.

The final twenty minutes are approaching and with them come substitutions as Marcus Harness replaces the classy Nathan Broadhead and surprisingly perhaps to those expecting Freddie Ladapo, Kayden Jackson replaces George Hirst. Massimo Luongo shoots over the Stoke cross bar. Town win a corner. Stoke win a corner. Pat announces that the masturbating monkey ‘charm,’ which came from Cambodia, and which she keeps in her bag, has got something “…caught on his willy”. Stoke’s fascinatingly surnamed Ryan Mmae is then substituted by someone or other, but his surname has made me think too much of the Steve Martin film ‘The Man With Two Brains’ and the names of Miss Uumellmahaye and Dr Hfuhruhurr.

Just a goal ahead and less than fifteen minutes to go, and we’re all willing a second goal to help us relax. It’s not quite the same, but Murphy announcing todays’ attendance takes our minds off the close score for a moment, although he does spoil it rather by calling the attendance of 29,006 “staggering”. The last three league games at Portman Road have all had attendances of around 29,000 so 29,000 is now average. If the crowd had been 35,000, that would have been staggering because the ground doesn’t have that many seats. To cap things, Murphy then says “Give yourself a round of applause”. Why?

Back on the pitch, referee Smith shows his yellow card to Janoi Donacien, again for perceived time wasting, as he prepares to take a free-kick for a foul by a Stoke player. Mr Smith seems to have no problem with one player kicking another, as long as it happens quickly and doesn’t delay the game. But then Conor Chaplin is in space in the middle, he sends Wesley Burns away down the right and his firm pass into the centre of the penalty area connects with the boot of the incoming Kayden Jackson who side foots the ball into the net with grace and style and Town lead 2-0, and it’s no more than they deserve. Several of the 1749 Stokees in the Cobbold Stand evacuate prematurely.

There are ten minutes left plus ‘time added on’, but it feels like the game is won and so it is. Sam Morsy is announced by Murphy to be the man of the match, as selected by Jade Smiles, although I can’t decide if this is a person or just a sort of green-coloured, perhaps envious facial expression. Just four minutes of additional time are announced, despite several substitutions and all the apparent timewasting by Vaclav Hladky and Janoi Donacien, and Sam Morsy is booked for a foul, which is a novelty. The four minutes pass by without incident, but the home crowd is buoyant, thrilled by an exciting, fast, competitive match that Town have mostly dominated and deserve to win. When the final whistle blows, the feeling is not of relief but of pride and joy and expectation for the remaining forty-four games. On the basis of one home league game we have no idea if Stoke City or Ipswich are good second division teams or bad ones but we’ve not lost yet and for the moment everything feels good, and we’re all looking forward to being a part of more ‘staggering’ attendances at Portman Road.

Ipswich Town 6 Exeter City 0

April 30, 2023May 3, 2023 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 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.