Spread the love

 

The news this week that Portsmouth Football Club has been taken over by its supporters will, I’m sure, strike a chord with Bees fans, who experienced a successful and much-needed spell of fan-ownership following Ron Noades’ traumatic tenure at Griffin Park.

Pompey fans seem to have suffered so much pain in recent years, and although all their troubles aren’t fully behind them yet, at least the heart and soul of the football club is at the helm and the foreign owners that have done so much harm at Fratton Park are consigned to the history books as the club is rebuilt.

I was fortunate enough to produce a wonderful book for Portsmouth Football Club a couple of years ago, which captures the memories of Portsmouth’s die-hard fans, both young and old – and while I was working with their fans – I made some very good friends. They are true football fans, who love their proud old club, and because of that, I can only wish them well… after today’s match obviously!

Although the story that follows is not about Brentford, I know the sentiments will resonate with any true lover of our game… enjoy!

Dave Lane

 

pompey_toonIt was love at first sight

“Come on, son! It’s time to get up!” It was a very rare event for dad, a shift worker, to wake me, especially with a cup of tea, so I knew that today had to be something special. We were going out for the day! I puzzled over what it could be as I washed and dressed. There was no birthday or anniversary in the family and, as I was not required to wear my ‘Sunday best’, I had no clue. The questions asked as I ate my breakfast were met with either a vague answer that gave no clue or a ‘wait and see!’ Dad certainly knew how to keep a secret, which annoyed me, but that also heightened the excitement.

There were few car-owning families in the village in those days, and we were not one of the few, but we did have three other forms of transport. Bus, bike or walk. The bus was expensive, the bicycle often had a flat tyre, but ‘Shanks’ pony’ could always be relied upon, and was the first form of transport used on our day out. We walked the few hundred yards to the bus stop, to wait for the green Hants & Dorset bus that would take us to Southampton. We arrived in good time to ensure we did not miss one and be faced with a 20-minute wait for the next, and that ‘good time’ seemed longer than the 20-minute wait we wished to avoid.

It eventually arrived, and although I wanted to sit upstairs to get a better view, we sat downstairs because dad was a non-smoker. I had often heard the expression, ‘he, who pays the piper, calls the tune’ and now realised that similarly, he who pays the conductor decides where we sit! With a poor view from a downstairs window on a bus that appeared to stop at every stop, whether or not people wanted to get on or off, it made the journey seem much longer than the hour that the time-table had predicted. When the white tower of the Civic Centre came into view, I knew that our journey was nearly complete, and was most surprised when, instead of the bus depot, it was at Southampton Central railway station that we got off. Whilst visits to Southampton were infrequent, taking a train journey was a very rare occurrence, and I could think of no special reason, or distant relative, that would warrant such a treat. Dad certainly had me guessing!

Told to wait by the book stall, dad went to buy tickets, so despite the acute hearing of youth, there was no opportunity to get a clue as to our destination and, not being a regular visitor, the choice of platform was no help either. From the quiet of the countryside to the noise and bustle of a mainline station! Trains heralding their arrival from a distance with a high pitched scream, then arrived and came to rest with an out-pouring of steam — like a sigh of relief. Appearing refreshed, they then departed at the sound of a whistle and the waving of a green flag, seeming to flaunt their power with a mixture of steam and smoke. While some stopped, others hurtled through, as if our station was of no consequence, and giving no time for an interested youngster to count the carriages. The unusual ones were the yellow and brown Pullman coaches, on the London to Bournemouth line. I soon realised that they were not part of today’s plan! A combination of smoke, soot and steam made me wonder whether my early morning wash had been a pointless exercise!

I was beginning to have doubts whether we were having a day out, or whether dad had just purchased platform tickets for us to meet some mysterious person. Winchester. Andover. London Waterloo. Fareham. I had long since stopped listening to the station announcer, as I could not identify with any of the places that he mentioned. Although Aunt Susie and Uncle Jock lived at Winchester, I had already made a guess, to be told that we were not visiting them. Eventually, when told to get on the train and find a seat, I had no idea where it would take me.

On leaving the station, the train entered a tunnel, taking us under the Civic Centre, before emerging on the other side of the town, heading east. As we crossed the River Itchen, we had a good view of the cargo ships tied up at Southampton docks, dwarfed by the tall cranes used to load and unload them, in a less attractive area than where the Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth’s passengers had their first or last views of the town. We rattled on, with the joins in the track producing a rhythm as the wheels passed over them, to be broken by what sounded like an argument between wheels and track, as the train passed over points.

The compartment was full, and the well-padded seats retained the strong smell of stale smoke, both tobacco and coal. The window was open a fraction as a compromise between being baked like a potato in the compartment’s heat, or smoked like a kipper by the smoke from the engine. Like our bus ride, the train seemed to stop at every station, and leave to the sound of the guard’s whistle and frantic waving of a green flag. We crossed the Hamble, which, with the tide out, was not a pretty sight, exposing areas of mud littered with old boats in various stages of decay. There were also some that appeared to have people living on them as they had smoke coming from galvanised iron chimneys, and I wondered whether they would be more comfortable than the hundreds of prefabricated houses that we had seen, grouped together like little white boxes. As we passed Fareham, I was most interested to see the strawberry fields, and thought how much more enjoyable it would be to work there, instead of working in the fields at harvest time. Portchester Castle and the view toward Portsmouth and its naval ships, with the Isle of Wight in the distance, was replaced by the airport and an increased in density of housing. At each stop, fewer stations were mentioned by the announcer — so we must soon be there!

“This stop is ours…” I was told, as the train approached Fratton station. Fratton? Where’s Fratton? Not a name I was familiar with, but on leaving the station and seeing the smart, clean, maroon trolley busses, carrying the city crest and the words Portsmouth City Transport, I was left in no doubt, and at last I had a clue where we were heading.

We turned right and walked to Fawcett Road, and a short distance from Fratton Bridge, we saw a cafe where we had egg and chips and a cup of tea. Eating out, even with a very limited choice of menu, was a treat in itself at a time when there was still rationing. With stomachs full and thirsts quenched, we made our way back to Goldsmith Avenue, which was now a tide of humanity — all heading in the same direction — like a trail of worker ants. I had never seen anything like it! We joined the throng, and in my mind, our destination was confirmed. We reached Frogmore Road, at the end of which was one of Portsmouth’s multitude of bomb sites, where a local man, with an eye to business, was selling blue and white rosettes from a stall, and was doing a brisk trade. I bought my first Pompey rosette! Although it was a warm, sunny, summer’s day, there were many making their way to football wearing hand-knitted blue and white scarves and hats, all different, but making the same identity statement.

Standing there, my father asked me whether I could see Fratton Park yet. I told him that all I could see was a Tudor house, not a football ground — there were no floodlights in those days. “That is not a Tudor house! That is Fratton Park!” I was informed, and as we drew nearer, I could make out the words ‘FRATTON PARK’ above the main entrance.

If the crowds in Goldsmith Avenue had surprised me, the sight of the dense crowd in the Pompey Arms defied belief. I swear that the walls of this Brickwoods pub, now Pompey’s press room, were bulging to contain its thirsty customers. To reach the bar appeared to be ‘mission impossible’, with space to lift a glass to lips yet another unlikely task. Obviously, many achieved the impossible! With me being under-age and dad being more intent on buying our tickets, neither of us took more than a passing interest.

We queued at the turnstiles, paid our money and climbed the steps to take our seat, a number painted on a bench, in ‘A’ section of the South Stand. The lower steps were not very well lit, but as we climbed the second set, which took us to our seats, so the light increased until, at last, there spread before us, bathed in glorious sunshine, was the lush, green turf of Fratton Park. It looked better than many a bowling green and it made a great impression on me! A sight I will always remember. I was smitten! What had warranted the long trek from a New Forest village on the western shores of the Southampton Water to the City of Portsmouth? Why this day in particular? There could only be one answer! Blackpool were the visitors, and Stanley Mathews was in town!

In the days when footballers were known for their football ability, not their off-field activity, Stanley Mathews was the idol of all schoolboys, and an excellent role model that parents were happy for their boys to emulate. As if he was not a big enough draw, there was the added attraction of seeing other famous footballers that I had only read about or seen on newsreels in the cinema. George Farm in goal and Stan Mortensen, the England centre-forward, also had their fair share of fans.

Strange as it may seem, having travelled all that way to see Stanley Mathews, I did not leave as a Blackpool fan, even though they won with two Mortensen goals and one by McIntosh to Portsmouth’s two scored by Ike Clarke and Len Phillips. I had been thrilled by the ‘Mathews Magic’, but was also captivated by the all-round team performance of Pompey, under the captaincy of Reg Flewin, spurred on by the Pompey Chimes, sung by a choir of thousands, of which I had become the newest recruit. The first of so many visits to Fratton Park, on 27 August 1949, made a big impression on this 12-year old boy, providing a lasting memory of a special day out with my father. For me, it was ‘Love at first sight’, and you always remember your first love!

Cyril Saunders

Copies of Portsmouth ‘Til I Die are available for just a tenner by clicking this link