"The bells, the bells!" No, we haven't recruited Quasimodo to our GTST team of writers, it's just that Chris Smith back again, this time with his tales from Fratton Park, which are giving me nightmarish flashbacks about that annoying bloke ringing his bell all the flaming time. Sadly, the only clangers dropped whenever we went there were usually by our team, but at least Chris seems to have had a good time. All right for some...

I got into the habit of going to away games regularly with the aid of my student grant. As now, the country was gripped by recession and 20 years before we were exhorted to spend our way out of recession by the current PM, I was doing my bit by spending a small fortune travelling to distant points of the compass. Always in hope but with an underlying sense of futility.

I had graduated from Essex University in 1983 with a degree in Economics and was trying to rationalise this qualification with the fact that I was pretty much potless. To be fair, I didn’t leave University with the enormous debts that so many unfortunates do these days, but it was clear my meagre savings wouldn’t stand too much battering. I was temporarily in quite a good situation as I was paying very little tax (partly because I earned sweet FA as an ice pick swinger at a frozen food factory and also because of the period of grace that meant I was largely tax exempt having studied within that tax year). It was a close run thing but I seriously considered my long term future and maximising my savings potential for all of a few seconds and then calculated how much cider I could swill each week whilst doing the games.

It was November 1983 when I paid my first visit to Fratton Park. I had a brother studying at Southampton University so the fixture had the attraction of catching up with him. I also shared a flat in my last year at Uni with a Pompey fan and someone who shared my desire to rescue licensed premises from difficult trading conditions. He was working flogging newspapers at a North London tube station and as luck would have it, was working early every day as I had been the week prior to this game. Another friend from Essex had also just moved to Slough and was having a housewarming party that weekend and the opportunity to do a bit of networking was too good to miss.

My last good behaviour of that weekend was legging it back home after the 6-2 shift at Salvoes to have a good dinner cooked by my long suffering mum prior to going down to Town station for the next connecting train to London. I think I must have been there at about six, having replenished vital bodily fluids with a number of cans of Special VAT cider at the offie on Wellowgate. To this day, every time I walk past Victoria Wines or whatever it is called now, I associate it with cider fuelled railway journeys.

Unfortunately my Pompey mate was in a similar state of advanced confusion by the time we met at Kings Cross where we made up for lost time. I won’t say we reminisced as we could remember precious little of our last year at Uni, but eventually decided to move along to Paddington to catch the local Slough service. It gets a bit hazy here but we did get banned from the Grapes within 30 minutes of arrival on Slough High Street after my comrade in mischief passed out in the toilets there.

A bit of police dodging later and it was down to the party and the usual stuff that happened when some mouthy southerner took the p*ss out of my Northern accent, resulting in a repositioning of the kitchen door. Great start to the weekend and a hangover kicking in before Friday night was through.

This weekend was to be my introduction to the all-night kebab van, one of the few occasions that Slough was ahead of the times, although not in a positive way. Basically, if you lived anywhere near the A4, which runs right through the town, you could nip out any time of the night up until 5am for any greasy heart stopper that took your fancy. They did a roaring trade, as culinary judgement takes a back seat as tired and emotional behaviour kicks in. Indeed one of my brothers proclaims that you know you were really p*ssed if you see a KFC bucket when you wake up.

After a night’s lack of consciousness on the floor, I was unfit and ready for the Saturday festivities which meant a trip into London and then down to Waterloo for the boggler boggler service to Portsmouth. I hadn’t had a drink by early lunchtime as the distended stomach made agonised whimpering protests whilst my banging head tried to drown out recollections of the previous night’s activities.

We eventually arrived in Pompey, ending up in one of the many back street boozers where I managed to shovel down 4 or 5 pints which didn’t really shift the hangover. As I have come to learn bitterly over subsequent years, never rely on Town to cheer you up when you really need it. We were hammered 4-0, in no small part due to some lucky talentless tosser called Mark Hateley. (Well, I never forgave him for his consistent goalscoring against the Mariners)

The worse thing about it, apart from the hangover, was that when we were waiting to be let out after the game, the commentary of the goals was played back to us. I have to admit that, even on the pages of a family friendly Trust website, I took a quiet satisfaction in the behaviour of Brighton’s larger travelling support later in the season who demonstrated their disapproval at this treatment when they lost 5-0.

Have you also realised that you can’t trust anyone who says “I know a good pub around here”? Take it from me, there was nothing in Havant at half past five on a Saturday evening in those days of limited licensing hours. So it was eventually a late evening arrival in Slough for another night of cider and burger excess before crawling to Kings Cross to pick up the early afternoon service after a few lunchtime heart starters.

That was the plan anyway, but there was a lightning train strike (about the only time they did move fast, an old cynic might say). However, as a union man I took it in my stride and got my mum to ring Salvoes and say I wouldn’t be in for my early shift the next morning. It was then back to Pompey’s gaff up near Turnpike Lane and a session down his local that Sunday evening and a rare pub that did scrumpy. Now now, I never said I learned my lessons.  

It was a rather dishevelled pair who made their respective ways home early on Monday morning and I felt a bit like a Scottish fan taking years to come back from an away international. It did strike me that there had to be an easier way to watch games but the thought of coach travel and arrival back in Grimsby after closing time was anathema to me. I got to work about 12 and worked until 8, before deciding to kill my hangover with a bottle of Gaymers Olde English (or finest as I called it) when I got in. But, such was the state of my ruined taste buds, I only realised halfway through that it contained my dad’s home made wine. As always when I’d recovered, I thought what a great laugh it had been and although the booze bit me badly in years to come, I type this with a smile.

It had nothing to do with this experience that I gave the FA Cup defeat in January a miss. In fact, Town were in fine form that season and had been prior to the 4-0 stuffing. Since that defeat we had been unbeaten in the league, including a 3-2 win at Chelsea, which was one of the few southern games I missed in several seasons (they’ve taken the p*ss out of me for many years over that but I still come back) and victory over Scum Wendy on Boxing Day.

We’d also played at Fulham on New Year’s Day a few days earlier and I must admit to preferring traditional festivities over undergoing a long journey on a coach when feeling a trifle unwell. Actually, I’d overdone it sufficiently to switch to drinking lager on New Year’s Day. None of those abstinence resolutions for this young lad.

Our paths next crossed in the home game at the end of March when Town had gone 4 months without a league defeat. We had missed Palace away as we were going to watch a highlights video a few days later in the Findus Bar. However, a technical hiccup meant that, not for the first time, a GTFC initiative failed, but in a rare good PR move, the club let us disappointed fans have a free ticket for the home game against Pompey in the top tier of the Findus.

This was the first home game I had seen outside of the Pontoon and whilst I enjoyed the view, I realised I was a Pontoonite at heart and didn’t go back there for many years. This game was notable for Town going two down, pulling it back to 2-2, then equalising from 3-2 down only for Hateley to score in the last minute and end our unbeaten home record. B******!

Can you remember the last time we were unbeaten at home in March? No, neither can I. In fact, I’m struggling to think of a season when we were unbeaten at home by September. Sadly, we won only 4 out of the last 12 games but finished a creditable fifth behind Chelsea, Wendy, Newcastle and Man City.

Given the success of the previous season, hopes were high for 1984/5, but it was to be remembered more for our cup performances than any consistency in the league. Even though Town scored goals for fun more often than not, we unfortunately let in loads as well. Nevertheless, this was definitely one of the seasons of which I have the fondest memories.

We played at Pompey in mid October and, prior to that, the only away game I had been to was Sheffield United away, a fine 3-2 win. Again, my brother was still at Scummer University so I decided to stay there for the weekend, turning my nose up at Slough and also reasoning that I might not be as welcome this time round.

Our Tony’s place was just off Derby Road, Southampton’s notorious red light district. His house was renowned for its slug population, exacerbated by damp and the smell of beer, which also attracts them. I was dossing on the living room floor, and given that my breath smelt like a cider orchard, I had this unspoken fear that I would wake up with one trying to get into my mouth during a wild yawn or snore. I had stayed in a similar property before where the act of lifting myself up by my hands resulted in me squashing a giant slug, with the juice going all over the place.

I decided to get well wrecked at night so I didn’t have to stay awake worrying about it all, preferring to lose consciousness and take my chances. Just as well, as there were the familiar slime trails all over the living room carpet the next morning but my mouth didn’t taste any worse than usual for a Saturday or Sunday morning so I think I got away with it. 

Anyway, after a couple of sherbets near Southampton station, it was a short hop over to Portsea Island. It seemed business as usual when we went 1-0 down but a turnaround in the second half meant that two goals from Paul Wilkinson put us in the lead and the driving seat and me nearly in hospital as Tony bounced up and down pulling the scarf, which was tied round my neck. However, a 3-2 defeat ensued and the jinx continued, but it was tempered by handsome wins over Rotherham in a cup replay, Wolves and, a month later, THAT 1-0 win at Everton.

One thing that has to be mentioned is that the away terrace was as manky as they come. It was completely open to the elements and accessed via a narrow alley leading to a footbridge on the way to Fratton station. Had we ever had problems with Pompey fans, this would have been a nasty bit of ground to negotiate.

To be fair, Portsmouth had a stronger team than the previous year and the home fixture in March turned up the same scoreline and signalled the end of any promotion ambitions. I’d like to give a more detailed account of the match than that, but an alcohol haze prevents me from doing so.

The less said about the 1985/6 season the better. It was the start of the, no, I’m not even going to star out his name, era. We didn’t win a game until we beat Carlisle at home on a September Friday night. Crowds were dropping to levels similar to what we have now, assisted by Heysel, Valley Parade and a general air of despondency. It was the end of an era with Dave Booth moving on, good players being sold and a feeling that perhaps our best seasons were past. For me, home fans being placed in the Osmond just didn’t sit right. I don’t mind it when Town were trying to fill the ground in our battle against relegation last season, but to move us out of the Pontoon….

When we played Pompey at home in November, we had finally managed to win a few more games including a 5-1 spanking of Millwall. I didn’t view the Pompey game with any great expectations, as they were a side looking to move up to the top flight and had the hex sign over us, so I went bonkers when Bonnyman converted a penalty for a 1-0 win. It seems strange that I could view this as the ending of a jinx, as they had only beaten us in five consecutive games, but back then it was a rarity for us to have such a poor record against one team. Now we can substitute Darlington and Rochdale amongst others.

I particularly enjoyed any wins I saw that season as I knew I would soon have to bite the bullet and move out of Grimsby to get a job befitting my further education. The final impetus was the 1985/6 winter where it was colder outside than it was in the Salvesen Cold Store on some mornings. So it was that I ended up in a job which involved working nearly every Saturday, meaning that games were on the thin side for a few years. Fortunately, this coincided with two relegations. For the record, we lost 3-1 at Fratton Park late in the season during a poor run of form. I caught the result whilst delighting in dealing with Stoke Newington’s finest as a trainee bookie.

Unsurprisingly, Pompey did the double over us the next season and I was grateful to be missing it. This lucky karma has now gone full circle and I now find myself missing our bigger wins whilst suffering the real cack (which I remind folk of endlessly) when I should be grateful to be baking myself in a hotter climes.

The next visits to Pompey started from the 1991/2 season when we had climbed back to our rightful place in Division 2, or Division 1 as it was called from this season. My modus operandi had altered now. I was firmly based down south and was going to most away games with the London Mariners, a fine collection of beer monsters (or, in my case, cider).

Away games were now akin to a military option so that all could be satisfied. I’d sort out the trains where necessary and plan the pubs to meet in using the CAMRA real ale guide to keep the bearded beer Nazis happy. For anyone who hasn’t spent any time in Portsmouth, it is absolutely full of boozers, many of them traditional backstreet alehouses. I used to work on relief down there on the cross channel ferries most summers and made the most of them. Many of them did top nosh grub as well to soak up the beer so we usually had something to take out of the day.

It certainly wasn’t the results. We drew 1-1 in our home fixture and lost 2-0 near the end of the season in a game unmemorable except for the fact that Alan Buckley employed a strange “diamond” formation. At this time, the only diamond I was interested in was Diamond White, so don’t expect me to explain it here.

We were still in relegation difficulty but ultimately survived and 1992/3 saw a big improvement in Town’s fortunes, as we recorded a 3-0 win at home early in the season and a week after won at Newcastle. Me and Gary, now living in Bournemouth, were travelling up to most home games that season on half price tickets and, after a big dinner at my folks’ house, my dad decided to come along for only the second time ever, having seen the Mariners beat Watford 3-2 earlier in the season.

My dad has a 100% record watching Town but feels it would be unfair to the other teams to keep coming. As if this wasn’t surreal enough, we decided to try for a drink at half time and he got served despite being at the back of the bar because the barmaid recognised him. He’d never been in the place before! All I can say is that the drinks were passed over to us without demurral despite a blatant queue jump, possibly in recognition of a true master at his trade.

The rematch was the very last game of the season and Pompey were vying for promotion with West Ham and had to go two goals better than the Hammers’ result. We went in 1-0 up at half time singing “We’re so good its unbelievable” at a silenced Fratton Park crowd. Given that the half time score at West Ham v Cambridge United was 0-0, Pompey had nothing to lose and, rather inevitably, ran out 2-1 winners but we were quite happy.

We hadn’t been bit part players and had contributed to a good game played in a good spirit. We’d also had a good season where many fans of clubs in our division regarded us rightly as the best footballing side on our day. As I pointed out earlier, we never had any trouble at Portsmouth (probably due to our awful record there) and after a few uneventful drinks, made our way back to Waterloo where we were recognised by a group of Surrey based Hammers who treated us to rounds of drinks after thanking Town for making a game of it. They had won 2-0 in the end and had been promoted to the Premier League.

The next four seasons saw four away defeats although we manged a couple of home wins in between. We were then mercifully relegated, much to Pompey’s chagrin at losing three guaranteed home points. But then it happened! One Sunday in December 1998, in a televised game no less, Groves scored a good one and we walked off with a 1-0 win.

Ten consecutive league defeats there and you can throw in an FA Cup loss in that sequence and whilst the home fans demonstrated against the board for the benefit of the cameras, we implored them to stay. Many hostelries were visited afterwards and we even managed to get in one close to the home end before kick off which had opened early for the event. Due to a number of personal reasons, I had become less involved in Town’s travails, but I was glad I was there for that one.

The next season saw a win and draw, which I missed as a result of overindulgences, before normal service was resumed with two clatterings and we bowed out of that exalted company. I have to say that despite our poor returns on the south coast, Portsmouth was an eagerly awaited away day if only because of its proximity to London and because you were spoiled for choice with hostelries. It also involved leaving from Waterloo and The Hole in The Wall close by (five different draught ciders-surprised I can remember that).

The city has a proper maritime atmosphere, which I could appreciate having been raised in a port myself. I ended up with close connections to the city as my in-laws all lived in the area with my wife a nominal Pompey fan. I took one of her nephews to a few games and went along to the Pompey v West Brom game in the last game of the 1993/4 season when 11,000 away fans took over as they got the win to stay up in probably the only time that Pompey were outnumbered at home.

Much as I hate the team for the hex they had over us, there is no doubt that they are a passionate loyal crowd housed in a tip of a ground (not that we have anything to boast about). A mildly spoken colleague took me to a few games as well, and any doubts about how I would have to behave were soon dispelled after kick off. When I was at Uni, I listened to a midweek Liverpool v Pompey League Cup game on the radio. Portsmouth took 12,000 there despite being a Third Division club at the time. You can’t knock that for support.

I’d happily take a good day out there in the future with no expectations of victory if it meant we were playing at a higher level. I can stand losing all the time in a higher league, but it really is galling when most of the teams we play nowadays in League Two are bogey teams!