Team – Ipswich Nickname – The Tracker Bars
DEM BLADES showed a spirited away performance and for context, if you’ve not seen Spirited Away, it is a Japanese animated fantasy adventure where the protagonist’s parents turn into pigs. It’s safe to say that I’ll refocus on the pigs in the coming days, for now, let’s stick to the F.A Cup.
[Further commentary on Mick’s McCarthyism might add a sour taste to what was a delicious F.A Cup beverage and who wants that? We’ve heard it all before and little has changed in the intervening seven weeks, so if you want to read about the red peril then read this…]
DEM 90 MINUTES
The match itself was a typical cup tie insofar as the Tracker Bars lost, which they’ve done quite consistently in every year of Mick’s tenure. Conversely, DEM BLADES line-up was atypical insofar as it included players on the fringes of the first-team squad and a rare appearance for young Nathan Thomas.
It was a superb curling effort by Thomas that ultimately won the game for DEM BLADES against a depressed-looking Ipswich team. Billy Sharp and [unspellable] Lavery could’ve added a second, as could Samir Carruthers who is desperately in need of a slice of luck – but it wasn’t to be. Over the course of the game, DEM BLADES certainly deserved to win and had four more shots on targets than their long suffolking opponents, who had zero.
The game ended and the away tie away, which on paper looked about as interesting as Owen Jones article, was as fun and merry as a Donald Trump tweet. Chris Wilder’s changed eleven performed well and, as the players came over to applaud the away contingent, our Lord Wilder pushed the “made in Sheffield” academy prospect, Regan Slater, toward the crowd to soak up the adulation. Pushing Regan might be exactly what the socialist-loathing McCarthy would’ve wanted, but Wilder doesn’t give a flying f*** – we play our game (well), they play their game (boring football, well), and life goes on.
The Magic of the F.A Cup
Ipswich and indeed, Suffolk is a place where the hipsters have yet to take over. Contactless isn’t a thing and you never have to ask the bartender “do you take cash?” like you do outside of most third-world counties.
Before the match, I was able to exchange less than three-quid for a pint, all in shrapnel, and as I passed the 5, 10, 20 and 50 pence pieces to the bartender, it hit me that I should coin the term – the magic of the cup. People talk about the romance of the cup and that’s fine. Until now nobody had ever made use of the phrase the ‘magic of the cup,’ so I’ll kick-start a trend.
Sat comfortably in Portman Road, the magic of the cup played-out right in front of my eyes, about two rows down and three seats to the left. She had dark black hair which rested heavy on her shoulders, as did her chin. Her quick but lumbering breaths gave the perception of liveliness but this lady was most certainly asleep. On the pitch, Billy Sharp was seizing upon a chance to score and, as Sharp and Lavery narrowly missed adding a second goal, the gasps and grunts of the crowd woke the lady up.
Momentarily, the startled mother had no idea where she was and her bewilderment peaked as her son chanted “We’re on the march-“ loudly in her face and then she looked at him and gave a blood-curdling cry of “Get the fucker off Warnock.” Embarrassed and bemused, her son’s face drained of all colour as the encircling group of DEM BLADES fans tittered and hollered in hysterics. It was as if some red and white wizard had given a swish of their wand; the son transformed from a reddish-pink hue to the palest of pale whites and, like the heat-sensitive mug, this was evidently the magic of the cup at work.
Man of the Match
Well done Couttsy, once again.