Ipswich Town 0 AFC Wimbledon 0

March 8, 2024March 26, 2024 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

I’ve been waiting a while to see my team Ipswich Town play AFC Wimbledon at Portman Road. Sadly for me I missed the clubs’ first encounter back in September 2019 having been detained by the National Health Service; something to do with heart valves. Town’s 2-1 victory back then no doubt aided my recovery from surgery and now, re-built using bovine spare parts, I am fit enough to attend Portman Road, but circumstances have conspired against me again and the global pandemic means I along with everyone else must once again witness today’s match via the marvel of modern technology that is the ifollow. But with Town in a remarkable run of form that has seen them fail to score a single goal in five matches, mine and everyone else’s exile from Portman Road is probably for the best. Excited at the prospect of today’s game nevertheless, I have made the effort to order a programme, on the cover which is a slightly startled, or possibly forlorn, looking Kane Vincent-Young

Earlier today, as part of an attempt to ensure that the nation’s investment in one of my vital organs should not be in vain, I pumped up the tyres on my bicycle for the first time in three years and cycled a little over six miles. I had quite forgotten how uncomfortable a bicycle saddle can be and I am now only just able to walk, my legs feeling as if I am wading thigh deep through thick mud. Such exercise requires reward and I therefore enjoy a pre-match ‘pint’ of Fuller’s ESB (four for £6 from Waitrose) as I slump lifelessly in front of the telly catching the tail-end of Portsmouth versus Bristol Rovers on the ifollow, which my wife Paulene has been watching, Pompey being her team. Pompey win and Bristol Rovers are relegated. Coincidentally, Pompey and Bristol Rovers are the only two teams against whom Ipswich have scored in the last nine games; furthermore Town have beaten Bristol Rovers three times this season whilst Pompey have beaten Ipswich three times. I regale Paulene with these fascinating facts in the style of a radio commentator; predictably she is unimpressed, but it doesn’t stop me.

With tv pictures of Fratton Park now just a memory, I log on to the ifollow in time to catch the names of today’s virtual mascots who are Finlay, Harrison, and what sounds like RJ and Milan, but I could be wrong. It nevertheless sets me to hoping that Milan has a sister called Florence and that somewhere in northern Italy there is a child called Ipswich. In the manner of the FA Cup draw the next voice I hear is that of BBC Radio Suffolk’s stalwart commentator Brenner Woolley, who as ever has alongside him the redoubtable and legendary Mick Mills. “We really are at the business end of the season” says Brenner , by which I think he means that all the speculation since August about which teams would be promoted and relegated will soon be resolved. Ipswich will neither be promoted nor relegated, but their ‘business’ appears to be that of setting a new record for consecutive matches without scoring a goal; five and counting.

Brenner asks Mick to expound his current theory as to Town’s existence. Mick postulates that Town “…went from playing ‘A’ class football and not being able to do it and going for a more direct style”. Mick continues at length and I start to stare into the distance, but I get the drift. “No sign of the boys in blue” says Brenner as the Town team begin to saunter onto the pitch. I don’t think he’s talking about the police, he’s just not being very observant.

After the teams “take the knee” the game begins, Wimbledon getting first go with the ball and kicking towards the Sir Bobby Robson Stand. “Here’s Vincent-Young coming in-field with pink footwear” announces Brenner, eschewing deeper analysis for the sheer colour of the spectacle. “Not very much has happened so far but the one thing that’s happened is watching Teddy Bishop…” chips in Mick before completing his observation, which is that Teddy Bishop has been pushing forward down the left; so far he’s successfully been caught offside twice, but Mick’s advice is that he should keep trying.

“Paul Cook sipping on his coffee” says Brenner, introducing the by now obligatory mention of Paul Cook drinking coffee, and providing the sort of aimless detail worthy of an existential novel. It’s the fourth minute and Wimbledon’s Will Nightingale heads over the Town cross-bar. Mick Mills muses on how Town goalkeeper David Cornell stayed on his goal line but should have come to catch the cross. Mick is not impressed. Meanwhile Brenner tells us that Wimbledon have scored as many goals in their last four games as Ipswich have in their last nineteen, before reporting “Beautiful day at Portman Road, nil-nil, Town have now gone nine hours without a goal”. It’s a careful combination of facts from Brenner that leaves me not knowing whether to feel happy, disappointed or in awe. Wimbledon win a corner, Town win a corner. A punt forward sees Mark McGuinness head the ball away from David Cornell as he comes out to collect the ball. “McGuinness and Cornell got in a bit of a sixes and sevens situation” is Brenner’s peculiar description of events.

The match proceeds much as all recent games have done. “Bennetts; that was terrible” says Brenner as the oddly-named Keanan Bennetts runs at the Wimbledon defence and then sends a shot hopelessly wide of the far post. At the other end Wimbledon are no better. “Rudoni shoots wide, he should have scored”. Twenty minutes have passed. “Wimbledon on top at the moment; the better side” is Brenner’s assessment and then Wimbledon are awarded a penalty, possibly for shirt-pulling. Happily Joe Piggott’s spot-kick is easily saved by Cornell, albeit with his legs and feet. “ I didn’t like the run-up of the player” explains Mick relaying how he thought Piggott would miss.

“Bennetts; terrible lay-off” says Brenner, continuing the theme of inept play that has “ Paul Cook screaming his heart out down below” ; it’s a description from Brenner that suggests an image of the Town manager suffering infernal torment. There are twelve minutes of the half remaining. “Surprise, surprise it’s nil-nil” says Brenner, introducing an unwelcome note of sarcasm. Gwion Edwards shoots over the Wimbledon cross-bar; it’s Town’s second shot on goal in thirty-four minutes. “A massive difference in positivity in both teams” says Mick attempting to explain what we’re seeing.

Some passing breaks out. “Good play this from Ipswich Town” says Brenner as a corner is won, but then taken short and Mick shares our frustration. With none of the current Town team capable of scoring, Brenner resorts to telling BBC Radio Suffolk listeners that former Town player Will Keane has scored for Wigan Athletic and is currently in a “rich vein of form”. It’s just the sort of thing we all want to hear. Back to Portman Road and “Poor from Dozzell, ball out” are Brenner’s words. “He wanted to do something that wasn’t there” explains Mick raising philosophical questions about the nature of reality. Gwion Edwards wins Town’s third corner of the half with two minutes to go before a minute of added on time is…added on. It’s time enough for Brenner to refer to “Cornell…the Welshman” in much the same way that he usually refers to “Holy…the Czech”. Half-time arrives and Brenner concludes that “Ipswich continue to struggle”. “We are the inferior team” is Mick’s summation before he is rudely cut-off by the ifollow commercial break; it’s a phrase from Mick that would look good on a banner in the North Stand or on a t-shirt.

Half-time relief comes in the form of a mug of tea and two Christmas tree-shaped ginger biscuits; stocks of the un-seasonal confections acquired at a knock-down price remain healthy. All too quickly the game begins again. “Just three and a half more games for us to suffer” says Brenner. Armando Dobra has replaced the oddly-named Keanan Bennetts although “…anybody could have come off at half-time” is the honest assessment of Brenner.

Cornell is soon making a decent save at the feet of Wimbledon’s Ayoub Assal. “A lovely afternoon at Portman Road” says Brenner trying hard to look on the bright side of life before referring to “spring-heeled McGuinness”, which almost sounds like an epithet he’d pre-prepared. Ollie Hawkins appears to head the ball against the Wimbledon crossbar but Town earn a corner so he probably didn’t. “Nice little spell, it’s not lasted long, but it’s promising” says Mick as Town start to look more like a team that hasn’t just turned up because it’s a sunny afternoon and they’ve nothing better to do.

The game is nearly an hour old. “Nine and three-quarter hours since a Town goal” says Brenner, clearly not counting down the minutes until he can say that Town haven’t scored in ten hours. Kane Vincent-Young breaks down the right. “Vincent-Young has got open grass in front of him, just opening his legs” is Brenner’s slightly unpleasant description which probably sounds even more disturbing to BBC Radio Suffolk listeners who don’t have the accompanying tv pictures. Town players are moving and passing the ball well; another corner kick ensues which Gwion Edwards steps up to take and lumps way beyond the penalty area. “Ridiculous” says Mick “An awful corner kick”, and there is not a soul on Earth who would contradict him.

Woolfenden wrestles the ball from Assal; “…too big and strong for the young Moroccan” says Brenner, ticking another off the list of nationalities that he has referenced in his commentaries this season. Cole Skuse replaces Teddy Bishop and Armando Dobra has a shot on goal. “Tzanev finally makes a save after sixty-three minutes of this game” says Brenner. Mick then points out that Vincent-Young had made a good run ahead of Dobra “…if he’d rolled the ball to him” says Mick “I think we might have created a walk-in opportunity”. Oh for a “walk-in opportunity” I think to myself, whilst also reflecting that Brenner’s pronunciation of Tzanev sounds a lot like Sanef, the company that manages the best part of 2,000 kilometres of the French motorway network.

Aaron Drinan replaces Ollie Hawkins. Wimbledon are awarded a free-kick about 25 metres from goal after a foul by Andre Dozzell; Joe Piggott takes the kick, “The Welshman had to make the save and he did” Brenner tells us leaving radio listeners unsure if the shot had been saved by David Cornell, Gwion Edwards or Harry Secombe. The game reaches its seventieth minute; “Ipswich Town have now gone ten hours without scoring a goal” announces Brenner unable to hide the fact that he has been waiting all afternoon to say it.

“We’ve been better in this half” says Mick very reasonably. “Are Ipswich Town going to score another goal this season?” asks Brenner, rhetorically I assume and so does Mick because he doesn’t offer an answer. Kayden Jackson replaces Andre Dozzell and I begin to feel a little sleepy. Tzanev makes a block at the feet of Jackson. Mick suggests Town could score “since we’ve tinkered with a few changes”. Brenner guffaws loudly, seemingly amused by Mick’s tentative suggestion that this Town team “could score a goal against AFC Wimbledon”. How dare Brenner laugh at anything Mick says, particularly just two days before the forty-fifth anniversary of his testimonial match against FC Twente Enschede.

With the game into its final ten minutes of normal time, Town win a free-kick to the left of the Wimbledon penalty area. “It’s ten hours since Ipswich Town last scored a goal, is this their moment?” asks Brenner as Gwion Edwards steps up to take it. Edwards boots the ball high over the penalty area and cross-bar and into the North Stand. “Oh, Christ” Mick can be heard to say off-mike, sounding as glum as Marvin the paranoid android in the ‘Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’. Despite excellent comic timing Mick apologises for his blasphemy whilst Brenner laughs like a schoolboy. This is the sort of enjoyment supporters of clubs at the top of the table will never know.

Five minutes remain of normal time. My eyes close involuntarily and I have to try hard to stay awake; I blame strong beer at lunchtime. Wimbledon win a corner, Cornell takes a drop kick and “…hits it high into the Suffolk sky” according to Brenner. A throw-in is taken and “Dobra offers himself up” continues Brenner in his own slightly weird poetic mode. Three minutes of added on time are played and the game ends. “Another ninety-minutes in the can for Vincent -Young” is as good as it gets from Brenner who doesn’t bother to explain, depending on your choice of slang, either why he is now drawing analogies with film making or why Vincent-Young spent ninety minutes in the toilet.

The ifollow doesn’t allow us to enjoy Mick’s match summary before its broadcast effs-off into adverts and match statistics. For myself, I think the second half has been reasonably enjoyable despite the absence of goals, but after six and a bit matches I have now become accustomed to that and have sought my pleasure where I can. Today I have particularly enjoyed the exotic name of the Wimbledon right-back Nesta Guinness-Walker and every mention by Brenner of Wimbledon’s Ben Heneghan has to my addled mind sounded like van Hanegem, and has had me imagining I was watching Feyenoord or Holland in the mid 1970’s. On that basis, the wait to watch AFC Wimbledon play at Portman Road was worth it.

Three more matches, four and half more hours…plus time added-on.

AFC Wimbledon 1 Ipswich Town 3

January 7, 2024January 8, 2024 / martinpbrooks / 1 Comment

With the end of Christmas, the return to the drudgery of work, the promise of more short, dark days, miserable weather and stale mince pies, the start of January needs something to lift the spirits. Christians have Epiphany, and those football fans whose teams weren’t knocked out in the preceding rounds have the third round of the FA Cup; Christian football fans get both and no doubt count themselves blessed.

Having returned to the Second Division, Ipswich Town have this season avoided the first and second rounds of the Cup, and something like The Jam’s 1980 single ‘Going Underground’, which went ‘straight-in’ at No1 in the popular music chart, have gone ‘straight-in’ to the third round and a tie with fourth division AFC Wimbledon, who got here the hard way thanks to ‘going knap’ twice with victories over Cheltenham Town and Ramsgate. The joy of this third round tie is further enhanced by the fact that I haven’t previously visited to Wimbledon’s new ground at Plough Lane and they will become the first club I have seen play at five different ‘home’ venues. Take that ‘I-spy’ book of English Football League grounds.

But life is never simple, and the journey to Wimbledon is paved with rail-replacement buses, added to the fact that the year has started badly as I have broken my glasses and cannot see well enough without them to drive; safely anyway. Just to add an extra layer of inconvenience to that, the match kicks off at the ungodly hour of 12:30pm in order that the good people of Aruba, Bolivia, the Central African Republic, Djibouti, Equatorial Guinea, Myanmar, Norway, Rwanda, Sudan and Venezuela, amongst many others may share in our joy via the medium of satellite television on such channels as Star+, SuperSportGOtv LaLiga, DStvNow, NovaSport3, ESPNPlay Caribbean and SportKlub5 Serbia.

As I leave home a little before 8am, my wife Paulene is only just stirring from her slumbers, but I think she understands when I kiss her goodbye and tell her the cup of tea I made her is probably nearly cold. I collect my train ticket (£26.60 with over 60s railcard) from the automatic ticket machine at the railway station. The train is on time and travels through long, broken shadows as the sun rises spectacularly in the East through bands of grey cloud. I look on in wonder through the carriage window, glad I don’t need my glasses to see the glory of this. “Welcome to this service for Witham, we will be calling at Witham” says the soothing female voice of the train announcement as we depart Kelvedon, and then after a short pause “Next stop, Witham”. In no doubt that this journey involves going to Witham, I am not surprised when I arrive there and then switch to a smart, bright blue double-decker bus with high backed seats and leg-room that would be uncomfortable even for Douglas Bader. In the seats behind me are three generations of a family. The grandmother and daughter talk of people they know who died over Christmas, but how they won’t be going to the funerals. The daughter says everything twice and her mother repeats it; the granddaughter just occasionally squeals. The bus speeds along down the A12, and the bit of the window beside me that opens shakes in the breeze, causing a draft, but at least it helps to stop the window steaming up.

The bus takes us to Ingatestone where we wait on platform 2 for a train and I talk to a fellow Town fan also on his way to Wimbledon. We share the glory of Ipswich Town in 2023 and agree that whatever happens, it has been, and still is wonderful, and it is up to everyone to just enjoy it. He’s had a season ticket since 2007; I don’t tell him I’ve had one since 1983, but hope he still has one in 2048. The train arrives at Liverpool Street and I take the Elizabeth Line one stop to Farringdon, where I arrive a half an hour earlier than expected and soon board a Thameslink train destined for Sutton, although I will alight at Haydons⁹ Road. It’s a marvellous ride over the river at Blackfriars and then on through the city’s ripped backside. I peer down into scruffy back gardens, amazed at the prevalence of plastic lawns. Rows of double-decker buses stand idle outside a depot. Vicious looking spikes deter trespassers on roofs and messy graffiti adorns crumbling walls and corrugated iron fences.

Haydons Road is a miserable little railway station, two scruffy, open platforms either side of two sets of rails; this is suburbia and it’s ugly, but mainly because of the roads and the traffic; if trees and grass replaced tarmac and cars it would probably be lovely. It’s cold and there are spits of something in the air, but it’s only a five minute walk along Plough Lane to the football ground, which is mostly hidden behind mixed-use development of plain appearance, but with attractive brickwork, which is preferable to render and cladding. I buy a programme and the woman selling the programmes seems to recognise me, almost as if I’m a regular at Plough Lane. I wonder for a moment if I have a doppelganger living an alternative life in suburban London, then I head into the club shop to admire the exhibits, which include bears, but not Wombles. Outside the shop are two display cases showing models of the previous Plough Lane ground and the Kingstonian ground plus other sacred artefacts.

As someone who has broken the habit of never missing a game home or away, I had no chance whatsoever of getting a ticket (£15) as an away supporter for today’s match. I have therefore employed guile and cunning to get an old friend, Chris, known as ‘Jah’ because of his knowledge and love of Reggae, who lives in relatively nearby Kingston, to acquire tickets, just as he did when Town played Wimbledon shortly before lock down in 2020. I had arranged to meet Jah at Haydons Road station, but my earlier than anticipated arrival has messed things up a bit and he was still in the shower when I texted him from Farringdon. But I get time to explore and enjoy the delights of a sculpture carved from a tree trunk, a bench that features Orinoco the Womble and an overflowing rubbish bin, the delightful street name ‘Greyhound Parade’, a featureless but clean alleyway behind the away end and a grotty looking pub called the ‘Corner Pin’. When we finally meet, Jah reveals that he has spotted a bar and cidery nearby which also looked enticingly grotty and we head there to find that it is in fact rather marvellous, being a small bar attached to a cidery inside a rundown looking industrial unit. It reminds me a little bit of a similar establishment called La Cave du Kraken, which is on the outskirts of Bruay-la-Buissiere in northern France. I order two pints of an unidentified Porter and a packet of Piper’s Jalapeno and Dill crisps (£13.50). Unfortunately, I couldn’t read the pump label without my glasses. We are soon joined by a friend of Jah, introduced initially only as Mr Lynch, who is also a Town fan and who now also lives in Kingston, but was originally from Tattingstone. Back in this same bar after the match, I will learn that at school he was taught geography by a man whose daughter I went out with in 1979.

The bar is only small and has perhaps eight or nine tables, so it is odd, given that is no more than 150 metres from the football ground that it is not full. Odder still, it is only ten past twelve and people are already supping up their beer and leaving. When we eventually depart, about twelve or thirteen minutes later, we discover why, as there are long queues at the four turnstiles to the economically named Ry stand. We miss the first six minutes of the match. Once we find our seats, Jah, who is a Newcastle United supporter, asks me who he should look out for in the Ipswich team. Town have a corner. I tell him Nathan Broadhead and no sooner have the words left my lips than Nathan hits a shot from the edge of the penalty area which he skilfully deflects off the heels of one and then a second Wimbledon player and into the corner of the goal. Town lead one-nil and having just sat down and advised Jah to look out for the Nathan Broadhead I claim some of the responsibility. The bloke next to me curses the Wimbledon defence with tsks and sighs for their failure to stop the goal.

Wimbledon wear all blue with a yellow band across their chests, whilst Town look like Walls Calippos in all over orange, and clash somewhat with goalkeeper Christian Walton who is in pink, or as Jah suggests, ‘rose’. In front of us, a large Womble trails a blue wheelie bin behind him and occasionally stops to rhythmically bang the lid as a prelude to the crowd shouting “Wombles”. We join in because it’s fun, and already not being in with the Town fans has worked out quite well. I haven’t long enjoyed the sight of a large electricity sub-station in the corner near the away end, when Wimbledon are awarded a penalty, I’m not sure why, even with the aid of the glasses Jah kindly lent me when we were in the pub. “That’s what you need” says the bloke sat next to me, and Wimbledon equalise less than ten minutes after Ipswich went ahead.

The goal inevitably excites the home crowd who begin to celebrate the smallest victories all across the pitch; throw-ins, the easiest of tackles and any small failures by Town players are either cheered or jeered enthusiastically as if instead of the Town shirts bearing the Ed Sheeran logo thing, they bear the words “We are mighty Ipswich and we’re loads better than you, you snivelling little menials and we are gonna stuff you at least 10-0”. Sadly however, I think there are some supporters who would like this printed on the Town shirts.

Town win a corner and a chant of “Come You Blues” drifts up the pitch. The corner comes to nothing, as they often do, but being camped in the opposition half is always nice, even if fleetingly. Their defensive successive inspires more rhythmic clapping and chants of “Wombles” from the inhabitants of the quaintly named Reston Waste Stand to our left behind the goal that Town are attacking. Taking the home supporters’ lead of cheering their team, the Town fans shout “Ole” as one Town pass follows another, but may be they had hoped for more consecutive passes. Oddly, Town are giving the ball away more cheaply than usual. It’s just gone one o’clock and Nathan Broadhead displays excellent dribbling skills to set himself up for a shot for which he displays not quite so excellent shooting skills; both the words ‘high’ and ‘wide’ are unfortunately accurate descriptions. “Championship, You’re ‘avin’ a laugh” sing the home fans to the tune of “Tom Hark” by Elias and his Zig Zag Ji-Flutes and later The Piranhas.

Marcus Harness is the first Town player to see the referee’s yellow card following a foul but not before referee Mr Donohue first bends down to speak to the prostrate victim, as if to ask him “Would you like me to book him for you?”. Town haven’t done very much of note since Wimbledon scored, and with Town fans rarely ones to help their team in adversity, ⁹the home fans ask the question “Can you hear the Ipswich sing?” before slightly annoyingly telling us the answer, “No-oo, No-oo”, but then admitting this is because they are all profoundly deaf, singing “ I can’t hear a fucking thing”. It is to be hoped however that it’s due to nothing more than a build-up of excess earwax.

Half-time will be here in less than ten minutes and Freddie Ladapo gets in a shot, but it is weak and easily saved by the Wimbledon goalkeeper Alex Bass, a player who shares his surname with a very tasty type of fish. Another superb piece of foot-based trickery from Nathan Broadhead then earns Town another corner from which Axel Tuanzebe stretches to head the ball into the Wimbledon goal and Town are back in the lead. The goal excites the crowd again and the home fans once more clap rhythmically and shout “Wombles” and it’s too silly and too much fun not to join in. “You ‘af to win that, he’s a foot taller than the other geezer” says the bloke beside me as some Wimbledon player loses out in a struggle to head the ball before we learn that the first half is going to last forty-nine minutes instead of forty-five. It’s a four minutes in which Omari Hutchinson has a run and shot, the bloke next to me says that at least Wimbledon have got good full-backs, Freddie Ladapo shoots over the cross-bar, Town fans sing “Addy, Addy, Addy-O” and the home fans respond with “Come On Wombles” and “Ole, Ole, Ole, Wombles, Wombles” despite not having heard the Ipswich fans singing.

With the half-time whistle Jah and I drain off some excess Porter and then tour the street food vendors which line the perimeter wall of the stadium offering a wide range of foods. We look for the shortest queue and separately join queues for crispy pancakes and pies to see who gets served first. The queue for pies moves much more quickly and I buy us each a sausage roll (£7.00 for two), although the pies have sold out. When we get back to our seats the game has re-started and I will never know which team kicked off first; not unless I ask someone who knows. I enjoy my sausage roll and Jah enjoys his too as Wimbledon earn a corner and their number eight, Harry Pell, glances a header into the arms of Christian Walton. Ten minutes later and Pell is booked for a second time this afternoon and is sent off, we’re not sure why. “It looked like a head butt” says Jah, “But it didn’t seem that bad” he adds, revealing a worrying indifference to casual violence.

This is a reasonable game of football, with both teams mostly playing nicely and just trying to win, rather than not lose. It’s what used to make Cup matches more of an attraction than dull, same old same old league games, but times change and people seem more serious and earnest nowadays. Ipswich mostly dominate possession, but every now and then Wimbledon get the ball and quickly put in a cross to see what happens. For Ipswich, Marcus Harness shoots weakly at the end of a flowing move and Walton makes a decent save from the interestingly named Armani Little after Axel Tuanzebe gives the ball away in the penalty area having earlier been booked. With fifteen minutes to go Luke Woolfenden has a goal disallowed following a corner and Sone Aluko and Wes Burns replace Omari Hutchinson and Marcus Harness. I tell Jah that Wes Burns is another player to watch and I realise I forgot to tell him about captain Sam Morsy.

I decide I like Plough Lane football ground, it’s very much what a football stadium should be like in a big city, pressed up close against neighbouring buildings, but somehow quite spacious too. The main stand (The Cappagh Stand) is quite impressive even if it does look a bit like it’s been transplanted from a racecourse and Jah and I debate how it should be pronounced; is it Capparff as in laugh, or Cappa as in Fermanagh or perhaps Capparrrrrr as in some made-up, more amusing pronunciation. Either way it gets us through to late chants of “Come On Wombles” and an almost frighteningly inaccurate Sone Aluko shot before Wes Burns runs, crosses and Jack Taylor taps the ball in from close range and Ipswich have won 3-1. The attendance is announced as 8,595 with 1,390 from Ipswich, although the latter figure is actually at least 1,393 if you count me, Mr Lynch and the bloke sat next to him who Mr Lynch later tells us is Mick Stockwell’s cousin. Four minutes of added time make no difference except to our ages, but then not much.

It’s a lovely feeling winning a Cup tie, especially away from home when there is no need to rush back, and instead we adjourn to the Against the Grain cidery just round the corner, and Jah is elated too because Newcastle have thrashed Sunderland three-nil. After leaving the cidery and Mr Lynch, Jah and I will head ‘into town’ for we have unlimited travel of tfl services and we will talk of all manner of things long into the evening, or at least until about ten past seven when I reckon I ought to be getting home. We’ve had a lovely day, which is probably pretty much what the Magi said when they turned in for bed 2024 years ago.

Ipswich Town 6 Doncaster Rovers 0

September 30, 2021April 1, 2022 / martinpbrooks / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ipswich Town 2 AFC Wimbledon 2

August 29, 2021March 1, 2022 / martinpbrooks / 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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