Wrexham

Ipswich Town 0 Wrecsam 0

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I am not ashamed to admit that I’ve got ‘a bit of a thing’ for Professor Alice Roberts the popular physician, anatomist, physical anthropologist, author and tv presenter.  I can’t help but smile, blush a little and feel a close affinity with her when she’s on the BBC’s ‘Digging for Britain’ programme and she uncovers some ancient artifact or other and comes over all misty eyed and wistful as she realises no one has clapped eyes on said artifact for a thousand years or more.  As a football supporter who keeps track of every game I’ve ever been to and every team I’ve ever seen, today is a bit of a Professor  Alice Roberts moment for me because today Ipswich Town are playing Wrexham (Wrecsam in Welsh) in the Football League, and that’s something neither I nor Professor Alice nor anyone else has ever seen before, not in a thousand years or indeed in the entire history of the planet or time itself.    Sadly, I doubt Professor Alice will be here today to see it, perhaps I should have invited her, but at least I will be here.

It’s been a miserable, grey, wet, November morning, lightened only by the occasional daydream  about Professor Alice sitting next to me at the match.  Fortunately, it’s not raining as I make my way to the railway station and board the train, which is on time.  “Going to the match” says a man on the platform. “Yes, well, I don’t usually wear this blue and white scarf” I say rather facetiously considering I don’t know the bloke. “Bit of a giveaway” he replies.  Of course, to make matters worse people do wear football scarves when not going to football matches, I’ve done so myself. 

The train arrives, it’s not very full and I find a window seat for what will be a lonely journey because Gary is going to the match with his brother today and will therefore not be on the train. Across the aisle from me sit an elderly man and what I assume is his wife, or lover. “More football” he says grudgingly as people in blue and white scarves, shirts and woolly hats board the train at the next station stop, I think they are the only words the couple exchange the whole journey.  Passing through Wherstead I spot a polar bear striking a Fox’s Glacier mint pose, well almost, and then the man opposite gets up fussily to take a bag down from the luggage rack. The woman glances at me fleetingly with a look of resignation that seems to say she realises he’s an idiot.

There are spots of rain in the air in Ipswich and only a handful of Wrexham fans are drinking in the garden of the Station Hotel.  In Portman Road, because this is the first time that Ipswich have ever played Wrexham here, I buy a programme (£4.00) from one of the booths that looks like they should sell ice cream.  Stupidly, I wish the seller “bon match” and then reflect upon the first time I ever saw Wrexham, in November 1978 at the Goldstone Ground in Brighton.  I will later decide I like the Brighton programme from that day forty-seven years ago more than today’s effort because it read ‘Wrexham’ in bold letters on the front.  Today’s programme just displays the two club crests in monochrome in the top right-hand corner, and they get equal billing with the flippin’ Sky bet/EFL logo.  Brighton won 2-1 back when Ipswich were the current FA Cup holders and the Wrexham team included players called Davies, Jones, Thomas and Roberts; very Welsh it was.  Having been born in Wales myself I am suddenly filled with bonhomie towards these immigrants for the afternoon and I half think about wishing any random Wrexham supporter “diwrnod da” but decide against it. 

‘The Arb’ is busy with drinkers and diners and when I eventually get served, I order two pints of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride (£8.40 with Camra discount) before retiring to the beer garden where I sit at a table beneath an umbrella.  I’m in the throes of texting Mick to tell him there’s a pint of Suffolk Pride waiting for him when he appears at the back gate.  “What a lovely thing to do” he says of my buying him a pint before he arrives and he then disappears inside to order some food and get the next round in early.  We talk of his continued lustful feelings towards Kemi Badenoch, blood test results, our disappointment that so many people are so willing to believe the worst, our continued and increasing despair regarding Donald Trump, mutual friends and the difficulty of describing one’s sibling.  Mick eats his food, cheesy chips, and I tell him of the ‘le Welsh’ festival in Lille next weekend, le Welsh being melted cheddar cheese with beer and an egg on top, served with bread and chips.  We laugh quite a bit and are dismayed that everyone leaves so early for the match and as per usual by about half-past two we’re the only drinkers left.

Having negotiated High Street, Crown Street, Lady Lane, Civic Drive and the Portman Road car park Mick and I part ways beneath the blind gaze of Sir Alf Ramsey’s statue.  Mick asks what and when the next game is, neither of us has any idea. I mention that I think there is a midweek game versus Stoke at some time, but we both have faith that we will work it out in good time.  At the back of Sir Alf Ramsey’s stand there are no queues at all and I approach the Anglo-Asian man looking for weapons with outstretched arms. He asks what I have in my pockets and I reveal the pair of woolly fingerless gloves that my wife knitted for me. “No mobile phone?” he asks. “Ahh, that’s up here” I tell him as I unzip a breast pocket on my multi pocketed coat to show him.

Having syphoned off some spent Suffolk Pride I find myself in the stand shuffling past Fiona and Pat from Clacton to my seat just as the excitable young stadium announcer, who today is wearing a woolly hat, tells us today’s line -up.  I try to bellow the Town players’ surnames as a Frenchman would as the announcer reads them out, but he’s reverted to not being in-sync with the scoreboard today so it’s not a great success.  My fellow football fans in the Stade Geoffrey Guichard or Stadium de Toulouse would doubtless be disappointed. Quel dommage.

Inevitably, ever present Phil who never misses a game is here but sadly his son Elwood and the man from Stowmarket Paul) are not, and this is because they have both been unlucky enough but at the same time lucky enough to have been benefitting from our National Health Service and have not been in a position to even take late fitness tests for today’s game.  It’s Wrexham that get first go with the ball, which they launch in the general direction of Coe’s outfitters and the Halal butchers on Norwich Road.  With Wrexham wearing red shirts and white shorts, and Town in blue and white I am naturally reminded once again of the Continental Club Edition Subbuteo teams from my childhood.  Wrexham, however, seem to me to be wearing a particular shade of red that marks them out as being Wrexham rather than Bristol City or Barnsley or Nottingham Forest. But then again, I do know they are Wrexham, even if the front of today’s match programme was very little help in making that clear.

The early part of the game consists of Pat from Clacton telling me she’s wearing new glasses and they’re a bit wonky and also how she’s been a bit ‘chesty’ with difficulty breathing since she had Covid, whilst Fiona has lost her voice and sounds hoarse.  As if that’s not enough, Wrexham win a corner after seven minutes and Pat also tells us she has a large floater in her eye.  She then can’t help but mention the other sort of floater, although none of us admits to knowing much about these and the subject is quickly closed.

Eleven minutes gone and Town win two corners in quick succession giving us the opportunity to chant “Come On You Blues”, which we do and a loud bloke behind joins in too, which is nice.  Dara O’Shea volleys past the far post from the second corner.  “Come on Town, these are rubbish, and Welsh” says a bloke a couple of seats away and it seems that one of the other blokes nearby has Welsh ancestry and so his friends are behaving like Edward I would have if he hadn’t been able to build castles to suppress the Welsh but had been reduced to just taking the mickey.  

Another ten minutes elapse and it’s the Welsh who are avenging the deeds of Edward I with their wit as they sing “Football in a library, do-do-do” and Portman Road is quiet, like it always was when there were barely 15,000 of us here a few years ago. Wrexham fans know all about that scenario. The game meanwhile is frankly a bit dull, like the weather, which is at least wet as well and I start to wonder about the words “Tingly Ted’s Hot Sauce by Ed Sheeran”, which appear on the electronic advert hoardings between the tiers of the Sir Bobby Robson Stand.   Who the heck is Tingly Ted?  Why is Ed Sheeran making hot sauce for him, and now Sheeran has defected to Barcelona is he making Romesco sauce and Salsa dips for Kinky Carlos or Perky Pedro?  I am relieved when the following advertisement is for EMP Drainage who are promoted with the words “Domestic and Commercial Unblocking”.

Such has been the level of excitement since three o’clock, I am surprised to find there are only eight minutes until half time and the home crowd are suddenly enjoying the booking of Wrexham’s George Thomason after he does an impression of a combine harvester meeting an unsuspecting Chuba Akpom in a corn field.   I can’t help feeling that we’re all just clinging on to the hopes raised by occasional attacks that penetrate the Wrexham penalty area.   A single minute of added time brings nothing new but just before it arrives Jayden Philogene has a shot that the Wrexham goalkeeper Arthur Okonkwo, who is very large and bright yellow, only stops with a fumbling save.

Half-time is spent venting more spent Suffolk Pride and then chatting to Ray and his grandson Harrison at the front of the stand.  Ray kindly offers me a ticket to see Mark Steele at the Apex at Bury St Edmunds, because his wife isn’t really that keen, whilst Harrison tells me of someone he knows, who asked him if he was the same Harrison mentioned in this very blog.   Unable to tell a lie, not unlike George Washington but doubtless very unlike Donald Trump, the now famous Harrison naturally admitted he was.

The second half begins at three minutes past four and regrettably fails to differ very much from the one that preceded it.  Philogene has another shot barely saved by Okonkwo, Wrexham number eighteen Ben Sheaf is booked for fouling Azor Matusiwa, there is a scramble in the Wrexham goalmouth and Egeli shoots over the Wrexham cross bar but the causes for celebration are limited as evidence by the bloke behind me breaking into a joyous chorus of the “Scum are going down” when he learns that Norwich City are losing 4-1 at Birmingham.

An hour has left us for ever.  “Wrexham, Wrexham” chant the Wrexham fans to no particular tune as their team indulges in some rare passing and retention of the ball before Matusiwa is booked, unfairly of course, and Keiran McKenna makes the first much needed substitutions, bringing on George Hirst and Jack Clarke for Ivan Azon and Jaden Philogene.  Jack Taylor has a shot over the cross bar and Town win a corner but with no success from that Pat from Clacton takes things into her own hands and removes a blue Dodo from her handbag, which she bought in Mauritius, the Dodo that is, not the handbag, which given Pat’s age might have come from Salisbury’s.   The Dodo passes to Fiona, to me and back again into Pat’s bag and we just hope he’s more successful than the masturbating monkey from Cambodia, who has been the ‘lucky charm’ until today.  Fiona and I decide to call the Dodo Derek.

Less than twenty minutes remain for Derek to work his magic but a Town corner is easily headed away, and more substitutions quickly follow with Nunez and Cajuste replacing Akpom and Taylor. Wrexham continue to get to every Town cross and shot before Town do. Today’s attendance is announced as being 29,147 and we are thanked by the excitable young stadium announcer for our “Incredible support”, although the Wrexham fans remain unconvinced as they launch into a reprise of the old favourite “Football in library do-do-do” after first telling us we’re “Only here for the Wrexham”, which frankly seems unlikely unless anyone is a fan of stifling defending and zero excitement.

Less than ten minutes of normal time remain, and another Town corner comes to nought before Keiran McKenna goes for broke by bringing on Kasey McAteer, who immediately begins to live up to previous performances by being flagged offside.  Only four minutes of normal time remain now, Wrexham win a corner and referee Mr Whitestone books Wrexham’s Lewis O’Brien when Jack Clarke runs into him.  Up in the Cobbold Stand, the Wrexham fans suddenly come over all Welsh and start singing Men of Harlech.  The end of normal time is now imminent. Town win a free-kick but like everything else this afternoon they might as well not have bothered although after some more bagatelle the ball runs to Kasey McAteer for possibly the best chance of the game. McAteer blasts the ball spectacularly high and wide, seizing the opportunity to be crowned the new Lee Martin.

Four minutes of added on time prove as disappointing and sapping of optimism as the previous ninety-one and with the final whistle from Mr Whitestone Pat from Clacton and Fiona quickly take flight, along with Derek the Dodo, which is at least a first for him.  I’m not far behind as I console myself with the thought that at least I hadn’t witnessed Town lose like I did in Wrexham back in January 1995 in the FA Cup third round.  I can be glad too that Professor Alice wasn’t with me, she would probably never have spoken to me again, and so I can still look forward to the first time.

Ipswich Town 2 Accrington Stanley 0

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It’s Saturday again.  It’s football again.  The week has been worthwhile after all. Today sees a return to Portman Road for Ipswich Town, after a very successful excursion to Blackpool, and a return to the ifollow for me after the football of imagination through the commentary of Radio Suffolk.  Today has been a good day already, the postwoman having delivered a brown cardboard sleeve containing a pristine copy of ‘Snapshot’ – Scenes and stories from the heartlands of Scottish football.  I’m hi on the stink of glossy ink after burying my head in this wonderful book intermittently throughout the morning.  I’ve only ever been to one football match in Scotland (Hibernian v Raith Rovers, a one-all draw in January 2015), but leaving aside the boring duopoly of Celtic and Rangers I perceive the same humanity and lack of pretence in Scottish football that pervades much of English non-league football, with an added bleakness courtesy of its latitude.  The reverent prose of Daniel Gray and photographs of Alan McCredie bring it to life and are an absolute joy; recommended (£12.99 from Blackwell’s with free postage).

Clearing my head with a walk over the fields near my house I return for a lunch of last night’s leftover home-made curry and a pre-match ‘pint’ (500ml) of Dark Star Revelation (£1.50 a bottle from Waitrose). Agreeing to let my wife Paulene enjoy the comfort and warmth of the living room to watch the Giro d’Italia cycle race on the telly, I consign myself to the kitchen where I log on to my lap-top and connect it to the kitchen telly in time to catch the announcement of the names of today’s virtual mascots; kids lucky enough to have parents with 25 quid to ‘spaff’ on a video message and signed letter from a favourite player, a choice of drawstring bag, gym bag, pencil case or beanie hat all costing a tenner in Planet Blue, a programme with their name in, a certificate and that ‘shout out’ on the Radio Suffolk ifollow commentary.  The fact that I am firmly into the second half of my lifespan is brought home to me as I smile at what I perceive to be the weird first names of today’s under tens; they sound to me like place names, surnames, occupations and the names of random objects not the names of people, but a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

Brenner Woolley and Mick Mills snap me from my ageist reverie as Brenner asks Mick to provide some sort of summary of the state of the team, which he does, but stutteringly at first as he punctuates his monologue with frequent  ‘you knows’ until he gets into his stride, when he begins to talk quite normally.  It’s as if Brenner had asked him when he wasn’t quite ready.  In the background the teams appear and the Portman Road tannoy is blaring out the recently deceased Eddie Van Halen’s “Jump”, a tune I had hoped, vainly it turns out, would die with the sixty-five year old Dutch born rocker.  Brenner comments on how the Accrington manager John Colman and Town’s Toto Nsiala embrace, describing them as the “two Merseysiders”, which I like to think was the working title for the 1970’s BBC tv situation comedy the Liver Birds.  Clearly Brenner has still not caught up with the fact that Toto was born in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

The game begins. “A throw in for Accrington inside 90 seconds” says Brenner as if that is significant and thereby suggesting that he is perhaps commentating for the benefit of some sort of spread betting syndicate.  Meanwhile on screen, views of the interior of the stand roof and empty seats suggest that Luis Bunuel, Yoko Ono and Marcel Duchamp are taking it in turns to direct the camera. Town are looking timid and Accrington have the ascendency. “Trying to play football, Accrington Stanley” says Brenner trying to construct a sentence in the right order whilst simultaneously being patronising and stating the obvious.

“Accrington goalkeeper, young goalkeeper, very alert” says Brenner still struggling with his sentences and possibly implying that he would expect a young goalkeeper to be a bit sleepy.  Out on the left Miles Kenlock and Andre Dozzell pass the ball between each other four or five times without moving as if saying to each other “No, you have it, I don’t want it”.  It’s a cameo from the two Town starlets that sums up the team’s apparent absence of a plan. “Sears scythed down by Sykes” says Brenner offering some satisfying alliteration in the absence of exciting action. But then out of very little Freddie Sears is as good as through on goal, only for the Accrington ‘keeper, Toby Savin, who is sporting a shirt and shorts ensemble the same colours as the Ipswich Buses livery, to make a good save.  Quickly Toto Nsiala is making a weak, headed back pass and Stanley’s Matt Butcher,  appropriately wearing the number six shirt, has his shot saved by Tomas Holy.  The goalkeepers are the best players on the field and Brenner tells us that we “…don’t see many 20 year old goalkeepers at this level” implying that Savin is very young but clearly forgetting that Town’s last opponents at Portman Road, Rochdale, had a ‘keeper who is just 18  years old.

The camera work is moving from avant garde to a hint of inebriation in the cameraman and I wonder if James Norwood has arrived by taxi to join Luis, Yoko and Marcel up on the gantry.  Hopefully the ineptness is not a symptom of Covid-19, but it seems to have become contagious as a goal kick from Savin carries all the way through to Tomas Holy who boots it straight at Andre Dozzell; the ball falls to Stanley’s Colby Bishop who instinctively shoots wide of the open goal.  In midfield, Gwion Edwards keeps pushing the ball past opponents and forgetting to run after it, whilst the camera work evolves further to a state where it seems to be predicting where the ball is going to go, thereby showing an empty patch of grass whilst unseen Savin takes a goal kick.

Mick Mills’ first meaningful contribution to the afternoon is to remark that Stanley’s Ross Sykes, who incidentally is a towering 1.96m tall, reminds him of Allan Hunter or Jack Charlton, players who had retired almost 20 years before Sykes was born.  Brenner suggests that Sykes would be flattered, but I think Mick was merely implying that Sykes main ability is to kick people up in the air.  Accrington are looking more likely to score than Town and Tomas Holy saves a free-kick with a smart dive to his right .“ Well done by the Czech” says Brenner reducing our goalkeeper to a mere nationality.

Town win a corner and the camera zooms in on the corner flag before travelling up into the Cobbold stand for a close up of the rows of blue seats.  I expect Brenner and Mick to quote lines from a poem by Andre Breton.  The corner comes to nothing and my frustration grows.  I am happy to get to half time with the score still goalless.

I enjoy my fifteen minute respite from the combined hopelessness of Town’s performance and that of the ifollow cameraman through the medium of tea and a Nature Valley chocolate and peanut protein bar.  Adverts for products and services I do not fully understand are interspersed with the half-time scores from League One and match statistics, which reveal Ipswich have had three shots on goal to Accrington’s ten.  Ipswich however have had about 10% more possession and a slightly better passing accuracy; a paltry 73% for Town against a miserable 69% for Accrington.  But it is generally easier to pass the ball accurately if you don’t pass it forwards.

The games resumes and Brenner enlightens his radio listeners that it is blues versus reds with Town kicking off from right to left.  I of course already know this thanks to my possession of a colour television and having witnessed the previous 45 minutes.  Mick soon adds to the new found clarity advising that Sears and Edwards are now playing in their preferred positions (the middle and the left respectively). Accrington however have the first half-chance of the half as a through ball outpaces their number eight Jonathan Russell, who Mick tells us “…didn’t look like he could get away from the defenders” with something Mick calls “ a turn of foot”; I’m not surprised. 

Fifty-two minutes have passed and Teddy Bishop shoots past the post, “Better from Ipswich Town, a lot perkier” says Brenner. Two minutes later and Town lead after Gwion Edwards finishes a fine passing move. “Really incisive football from Ipswich Town” is Brenner’s wholly accurate assessment.  I cheer loudly out of sheer relief. The lifting of spirits caused by the goal is palpable and Mick introduces some jocularity into his co-commentary as he refers to the former Allan Hunter and Jack Charlton imitator Ross Sykes as “Big Sykesie”, an epithet Brenner considers “Brilliant” for its “familiarity”, something which is in itself brilliant. 

The goal has worked wonders and Mick is now clearly smitten with Ross Sykes.  Gwion Edwards runs in to the penalty area again. “Edwards absolutely ghosted past Big Syksie” says Mick now unable to stop saying “Big Syksie”.   This is the ingredient Mick’s co-commentary has been missing all season, a catch phrase character to liven it up like a few well-placed jokes in a best man’s speech.  I’m feeling a lot happier now and am still confident when Tomas Holy is forced into making another low diving save with about twenty-five minutes still to go.  My confidence is well placed and four minutes later a poor pass out of the Accrington defence is seized upon by Town and Freddie Sears is released in to the penalty area to ‘dink’ the ball over Sivon and make the score two-nil.  I cheer loudly because I think Freddie deserves it.

Nolan replaces Huws. Town play the ball around at the back like they’re in Ligue 1 not League One. Accrington’s Cameron Burgess becomes the first and only player to be booked as he fouls Luke Chambers.  The oddly named Keanen Bennetts replaces little Alan Judge.  Bennett has a shot on goal but “ It’s a trundle straight at Savin” says Brenner, unintentionally reminding me of Lee Trundle, the former Neath, Haverfordwest County, Llanelli Town, Rhyl, Swansea City and Wrexham striker.

An Accrington corner is cleared and an Accrington player is left in a heap on the ground.  The game carries on but is eventually stopped by referee Mr Lewis.  “He let play go on too early, he should’ve stopped it” says Mick confusingly, seemingly muddling up not stopping play soon enough with the abstract and illogical concept of letting it carry on too soon.  The game enters time added on, “Long kick from Holy and Sears is on his bike” says Brenner, attempting not to be outdone by Mick’s efforts to rival the weirdness of the earlier camera work.   Sears and his bike are quickly substituted before the referee notices, with Tyreece Simpson coming on in their stead.

Ninety four minutes have passed and a bit more and Mr Lewis the referee confirms Town’s third consecutive two-nil home win.  Despite entreaties from Brenner during the game to phone 0800 212121 after the game to speak to Mick or to comment by text I decide that like all the people who will phone and text I have nothing worth saying and nothing to say that anyone should want to hear. Anyway, I’d rather return to the heady smell of the pages of Snapshot – Scenes and stories from the heartland of Scottish football.