Annoyingly, I cannot remember exactly when my first local derby was. It was at Carrow Road, it was in the 1970s, Trevor Whymark played for that lot, and that’s about all I have.
What I can remember vividly, though, is my first away derby. One that I was never likely to forget.
I lived then, as I do now, on the Norfolk/Suffolk border, and so have no option but to work, drink, mingle, play football, chat, and breathe the same air as ‘them’. And, believe it or not, most of the time it’s fine.
Not so much in the time either side of a local derby.
Bus journey for the ages
Which is why my late dad’s decision to take us to said local derby on a local bus, chartered solely to take Ipswich supporters to the game, remains a mystery to this day.
When I challenged him on said decision, I was met only with a wry smile.
But, anyway, to Ipswich on a coach full of ‘that lot’ it was, and this was at a time when they were flying high not only in the old First Division (the Premier League in new money) but also in Europe.
Even as a wet-behind-the-ears boy, I knew it was a big ask.
And boy, were they chirpy, once they knew they had a couple of Norwich supporters to bait.
Gurning galore
It was, probably, my first experience of Ipswich/Norwich banter, and the helplessness of not being heard amid the roar of dozens of gurning, guffawing binmen and bin-women hasn’t left me to this day.
Being thin-skinned doesn’t help on such occasions.
Of course, having travelled with a whole load of village idiots, we had no choice but to watch the game among them, with there being, apparently, no way of getting into the away end.
And so we did. And it was excruciating. And annoying. And exasperating.
Obviously City lost.
Obviously, they stunk the place out.
And, obviously, it was the most miserable experience of my then-young life.
The pain was tangible, and made worse by the fact that I knew what awaited on that bloody bus.
Gurning and guffawing on a scale previously unknown to Man.
Locals in full cry
For the record, Ipswich won 4-1, and this bloke called Mick Mills scored, who was a defender and had probably never scored a goal before in his life. And probably never did again.
But it was kind of a day.
The journey home was every bit as miserable as I expected. The local yocals were in full cry and were throwing single-syllable words at us like they’d gone out of fashion.
During one of the quieter moments, I tugged on my dad’s sleeve and whispered:
“What made you think this was a good idea?”
His response stayed with me forever:
“Think of it as part of your Norwich City initiation.”
Followed by said wry smile, which adorned his face every single time that afternoon was mentioned before his sad passing in 2025.
I’ve been to many local derbies since, some exceptionally wonderful and some excruciatingly awful, but none of them, whatever the outcome, have come close to triggering the emotions as that dreadful afternoon in the late 1970s.
Hopefully this Saturday at Carrow Road will usurp it for all the right reasons.
OTBC.
