More Portsmouth, this time from Pompey’s golden season of 1949-50 as they retained the League without the help of overpaid foreigners (i.e. the good ones) and dodgy VAR decisions.
This 1-0 win against the Magpies was unfortunately deemed to have insufficient goals for 1949 TV audiences and is unavailable on You Tube.
Their Christmas Eve fixture V the giants of Portsmouth Electricity would have been illuminating.*
My Dad, who is featuring so much in this blog he may get a contract, claims to have seen this great Pompey side with a mate in the Forces, but since he was 14 I doubt that. He also claims to have stood in the “wrong end” at an Old Firm game in the late ’60s.
The programme is one sheet of paper folded twice to give six pages of staple-free stuff. It’s a design classic.
Oddly, I was a teenage Pompey fan during the glory years (Div 4); an attachment based seemingly only on a visit to a Chichester convent and Bognor Regis Butlins in 1979.
I still have the scarf.
In 1992 I spent a honeymoon in Portsmouth; I still have the wife.
It was 1993 before I actually made it to Fratton Park, but in the last decade I’ve been back annually to tick pubs.
As Duncan and Simon will confirm, Southsea is the southern home of Proper Pubs.
Near the ground, Fratton Road is the least gentrified of the city’s many ungentrified suburbs, replete with kebab shops, carpet centres, gaming arcades, and surprisingly great street art.
Rather like Norwich, but with less obsession with guest beers, the area is full of attractive corner pubs like the Rutland Arms, which offer little but comfortable seating, cheery locals, the Pogues on repeat and decent Goddards.
But you’ll be wanting the Spoons, I guess. Just think, in 1949 those supporters were still 30 years away from the first Timbo emporium.
The take home points from the John Jacques were; “Gary Anderson can’t check-out, that’s his problem” (something to do with darts rather than hotels apparently), and “Bournemouth are gonna score any minute” (to be fair, hey did, just as I left).
There was also a vigorous argument over which county Farnham was in (“It’s ‘amshire, innit ?” “Nah, it’s Lunnon !”, and on and on). Pub Curmudgeon would have exploded with rage.
I drank my £4.50 bottle of near undrinkable fizz on a high table watching West Indies v Sri Lanka, and hoped Mrs RM was proud.
“Undrinkable fizz ?” you ask.
To make it worse, nearly everyone else was on the cask. And singing “Nellie the Elephant”.
*Oh, you do better.