| Steve Morgan - South West London "Wide awake at 6am – something else that never happens in real life. Eamonn Holmes so annoying eventually have to get up two hours later.
Jo returns from droppping Holly off. FA Cup final breakfast, morning papers, Sky TV. Shots of Jaegermeiser take the edge off. My new best friend Henry Winter has reproduced the first verse from Abide Pompey in his column. Good omen.
65 bus to Ealing. 83 bus to Wembley, joined by about eight Cardiff fans. They tell us how much they love Redknapp. Chat about Gary O'neils loan spell.
Get off bus early and shake Cardiff fans' hands, apart from one
bloke. Go to shake his hand to discover he his holding his **** with it while trying to pissing into a bottle. God bless the Welsh. They sing the Chimes as we get off the bus. Get good feeling.
The long walk – all Cardiff, apart from enormous Pompey limo. Not bothered. It was all West Brom last time and we won that. Wembley looks even more of a ****hole in the rain. These people deserve better than this.
Pace frantically up and down outside – tickets to disperse so have to wait. My sister is late (again). Miss "Abide With Me" and shrieking opera bints, but see world's most drunken man collapse outside gates and bash head on floor. What a waste of a ticket. Jack (my son), visibly upset, asks if we can help him. Try to explain pointlessness of helping man in coma to crying eight-year old child.
The game. Club Wembley seats from work – same lucky ones as last time. Have Cardiff fans in front and behind, though, which makes goal hard to celebrate. Try my best and then shake hands apologetically. It's us or them, they know that.
Game passes by quite fast, weirdly. Diarra's non-stop running,
Distin's brilliance, Campbell heading everything at the end. Wonder if HR chose THE BOSS for his Cup-winning pedigree (have been hoping all week he would play 4-5-1).
Time ticks by and by. Counting the seconds – at any given point in
the game, know how many are left (wonder whether might be ruining my enjoyment through stress).
Go out and pace concourse for two minutes between 82 and 84. 360 seconds now, plus 240 additional. Squeeze leprechaun (bought by Jo shortly before the Great Escape started) and promise him he can retire if we win.
We win. Am crying like spotty girl at disco when last dance comes
round and everyone's paired up. The Chimes, the Chimes, the Chimes.
Sol goes up to lift the FA Cup.
Feeder's Feeling A Moment starts up and I pick Jack up and I cry,
cry, cry. My body is shaking as I sob and squeeze his little frame.
Love my son. Love this song, but this is the best it has ever
sounded. Don't normally like music at these events, but here it makes sense. Think about all the people who can't be here today, dead or alive. All terrible away-day miseries washed away like a tide. Linvoy's cheer, Hermann's tongue (out more often than Biffer's, FFS), Davis' dancing, Barry Harris, Kev the Kitman. So much to see, so much to savour. Each blink is like camera snapshot.
Dance to James Brown like biggest idiot at a wedding. Watching Jack in world of his own, waving flag, eyes wide with excitement. Some ****er has stolen my bag. Who are these people? Luckily have taken £200 ticket money collected out of it before end of game. This country, FFS.
Meet Jo, my Sis and Boyfriend. Hugs and tears. Again.
Buy terribly tacky T-Shirt with glee of someone who has found best fashion bargain ever.Find discarded cardboard FA Cup left by Welsh. Jack carries it. It's bigger than him.
Meet Mike Hall on tube station – looks as stunned as me.
Trafalgar Square in the rain – like the end of Jaws when Brody finds Hooper. Drink can beer, get wet. Mood is quiet to begin with, one of shock. Man in fountain. Tourists surprised. TB sadly slips away.
The pub. All the greats are assembled. Duncan Hart – a boy at
Bradford, all grown up now, Les, Shrimp, Humber, AG, Pagey, Gaz, Angry, Walt, Bob Herbertson – finally. And his lovely wife. Biffer, Raftery and entourage, Daz, Reece, Gina, Donny, John H (never got to chat properly, wish I had), Ems. Wish SW1 had made pub. And GOG.
ABBAWA – into the realms of the tribal here. Have shiver down spine.Am grabbed in headlock by Ian Burrell.
One more `one more drink'. Home on train, Jack clutching FA Cup. More beer, more fags. Put Jack to bed. FA Cup by bedside.
Watch TV stuff – check new shiny DAB radio has recorded the lot. It has. John Motson says: `And Portsmouth have won the FA Cup' so it must be real.
Crying again. Bed at 5am. Best night of my life. Don't even know if I need to ever see it again. Feel like I've taken off really heavy
coat.
Played up, made up. And I only talked about music the once.
What a day. What a club. What an amazing bunch of fans. Am proud to be part of this group. Is this the end of the story – or is it just the start of a new chapter?"
____________________________________________________________ Gina Jackson - Richmond The cake was made for Greg, the tickets collected (with an
impersonation of Mr Humber) the gallery viewed. Chandos was calling, or more specifically Humber was sending texts that Angry was fretting over the tickets.
Chandos was packed with smilie, happy but worried faces. More faces than the semi but slightly more worried. I can't wait for tomorrow but today we can still win it, tomorrow might be different...
An hour and a half to Smiths, I was quite calm just happy to be
involved, but getting a tube in the wrong direction, getting stuck
because the train in front smelt of smoke. I'm glad I've got my
ticket, I'm fretting just a little.
A full English, a cup of tea and a pint of orange juice, I want to
remember every second of this, no senses dulled. I've lost my wig, eyelashes and Gilbert's finest lucky sweet. An intro to Lord and Lady Shrimpton and a group photo outside. The tube is quick but filling fast with Cardiff fans, not much singing. I just want to be there now. Wembley way is packed but I just want to be inside, I want my stuff and to be ready, in my seat, soaking it all up.
A respectful nod to Bobby Moore, Adam's on his way in, I follow Urb's quiz show host blue suit and Donny's coach driver tie around the gates to entrance A. I catch up with Les and Hedley. His teeth are sparkling, Los and Jo are behind us on the escalators, Andy George is queueing at the bottom. He he we're all at Wem-ber-ley.
Pagey's turned into Tigger, he's at block 203, I'm at 223, I rush
round, groups of fans all a dither, some drunk, some too excited all grinning like Cheshire cats. At last at block 202, last entrance,
Pagey with my stuff, Faggy who flanks my other side in FF, Colin and Daz. A quick change to become Astro Dora, a quick pint to calm the nerves, this is really it. I rush back, diving between fans to take my place between Hedley and the half naked man in shorts and a flag and delight at seeing Ems, Nick, Dunc et al 4 rows in front. Only Nick could come in an ironed pink collared shirt.
Catherine Jenkins kicks starts the Welsh, what a sound, a few spoil it with whistles. Lesley bashes out God save Liz, we're ready. The first 15 minutes could have been 90, I wave my free flag a little to hard. The lucky sweets pull out fillings and keep us quiet. We score but they could at any moment. 4 minutes extra time. We won, Les bounced so hard his trousers fell down, a bare chested Pedro bounced on the pitch. Distin's gone crazy, the Africans are dancing. Oh my god! It really means something to them too, we're all in tears, Les sobs into my shoulder.
The roar for Sol, Linvoy and Harry, we were there, we were there.
It took some time to find everyone, a skip with Faggy from Trafalagar Square and we're all in Weatherspoons, it gets a little hazy, the manager apologises for warm champagne, there's not a lot of call for it here, a pondering from La di da on the intellect of Duncan's sperm, a pregnant Sarah, (how I miss standing next to her Pagey's ok now he looks like Pedro but he knows nothing about football), Angry on his people, a fight with Kim over Dunc's proposal, Jo's new man, a hug from Reece, a grin from Gary, an invite to the Morgan's to have a re-run on every type of media, an arse grope from Denzel Dollymore, a declaration of admiration to Andy George, a round of "Kevin Harper
Football Genius"
I'm not a Hampshire girl, just an interloper, a Johnny-Come-Lately, who fell in love at Tranmere away on a Tuesday night, not with PFC but with the fans. I was "Pompey til I die" by half time and I've never looked back.
Eleven years, 48 grounds and bucketfuls of new friends later we've won the FA cup but more than that we celebrated together, all of us. Whatever happens, in Europe, in a relegation battle or on those cold orange ball games where we couldn't score to save our lives we'll always have Wembley or more precisely we'll always have that night in Whitehall...
| | Paul Raftery - South London Cut - to three blokes in a pub in Tooting on Friday night pouring
over a bookies spread sheet, studying the odds, kanu at 25/1, Niko at 45/1. Yeah but who will score the three wonder together. Can we score even one is the well-versed fear. A couple of beers later the three are very apprehsive about the coming day. A curry does nothing to a lay their fears. Early night (ish) though lads for tomorrow we march (© S. Morgon)
Jump - to a convivial south London scene where two young boys bounce around a kitchen helping to make breakfast for assorted guests. Four large men tuck into a full on English breakfast washed down with bottles of champagne. The sole woman of the party looks on with some amusement as she sips from her solitary glass. The texts from absent friends start to arrive and at this point one of the group realises that today is a day of destiny and that it is our destiny to win come what may. Henceforth fear is banished. The party leave and buy a selection of tins for the trip.
Fade - to just below the steps of Wembley Station where our party are emptying the tins whilst waiting for yet another Paris based true blue. All around despite the rain the raucous Pompey fans march past.Again two boys are bouncing around. This time on a wall waving flags including a large Union flag carrying the inscription “Portsmouth” At last the bedraggled party set off for the Green Man seven fellas, two boys and one long long suffering girl friend. The party on arrival is quickly swept up into the bosom of the anorak throng.
Cut - to one small boy in yellow Pompey goalie kit playing football in the rain in the grounds of the pub whilst his brother sits in the
shelter of a tent nervously reading a book.
Jump - to outside Wembley and the group spilt up to reconvene later.
The game passes in a trance for all concerned whilst at the final
whistle a man and his eldest son both draped in a union flag dance
and wave their arms around barely containing their excitement.
Ironically they reserve their loudest cheer for a player who hasn’t
played all season through injury.
Wipe - to a rain swept Trafalgar Square where our bedraggled party are beginning to reconvene after seeing various members of the party on to the Eurostar via the station bar. More tins are bought whilst again two boys can be seen convorting with a flag, this time aided by a third lad who arrives. The three drape their flags over the lions filling at least one father and I suspect a second with immeasurable pride.
Cut - to heaving throng in a pub in Whitehall, the children have
miraculously disappeared with their mother leaving only our four
intrepid breakfast eaters. Rounds are bought and quickly drunk, old friends arrive and are warmly hugged, more drinks are bought and then the cry goes up “ Alan Ball’s Blue and White Army” and the whole day falls into place. There is no future without the past and the future is best shared with loved ones and like minded friends. The pub was full of loved ones and like minded friends and so hopefully will be the future.
Fade - to our breakfast boys (middle-aged men) in a curry house in
Tooting (again) via the Bedford pub in Balham. Only this time to be confronted by a mouthy young scummer and girlfriend. One of the party politely (sic) tells the scummer to turn around and leave the cup winning fans to their party and stop being so lippy. He does so. Whilst his girlfriend gives us the finger.
Fade to credits ___________________________________________________________ Phil Cresswell - Central London Cricket Friday seemed like the ideal diversion from a subject which had been engaging and niggling me for weeks. Needless to say, sat down for breakfast in the hotel opposite and our hosts opening line, of course 'all set for tommorrow then Cress?' (I'm a man with many names). So the day continued, many pints of finely poured Marstons Pedigree and discussing the game with various London clubs supporters. Strangely I'd reached a peaceful and confident state about the game a couple of weeks before, knowing we would win by one goal and that cardiff could not possibly score against us, this continued throughout the day, unshakeable and unrelenting. All I was worried about and all
that mattered to me was delivering what I had promised many times to myself, my wife and most importantly to my two boys. A Pompey win at Wembley.
Chandos was good for the short time I was there, determined not to ruin Saturday with a screaming hangover I left sharply after saying hello to so many friends that I know closely, yet strangely hardly, if ever, meet.
Saturday arrives, strangely calm and very early I make breakfast for all.Electricians arrive at 8am, the only day they can do, they arrive forewarned and are rebriefed.
We wait. I am strangely calm.
They finish and are sent on their way at 9.30. Everybody is ready to leave, I'm not, slowly and calmly getting ready, preoccupied and hardly knowing what to do, get told to hurry up. Into the car and away, returning 5 minutes later for foam Pompey
thumbs and honking horn things.the car and away again.
Bad traffic, I am strangely calm. Anticipation seems to wear on
everyone, Radio 5, kids are happy waving Pompey thumbs at all.
Smiths. Not in the least bit sociable, make sure the family are happy, on the edge but determined not to loose control. Table, food, piss, edgy, piss, talk to La Di Da, don't engage, must deliver promise.
Tube, much waving of Pompey thumbs, listening to chanting, WembleyPark walking carefully out, the Arch, the Pompey, the cardiff, look at the boys, they're smiling, good. Hooters hoot.
Up Wembley Way refusing to read Olympic Way signs, buy flags for the boys, they are fully equipped for the day. Photos and then handing out the tickets, escalators, nearly there, the moment long dreamed and promised up the steps with the boys to the never dull glare of green grass in a football stadium, part of the promise delivered, much ooohing and aaaahing from them both.
Everyone is settled, I take myself to the bar, one beer, alone,
confident and unshakeable, Pompey people watching a feeling of calm contentment at delivering promises, half way there. Back to the seats.
Abide, can't sing, choking, anthems, can't sing, choking. Once
underway i look round at the family, all absobed in the action. Ref
seems biased, (text from brother at half time tells me he's actually
pretty much 50/50), Kanu must score! No. Never mind, we will score and we do, in my mind the game is over cue much jumping and shouting. Ref, signals handball, cardiff put the ball in the net, not a flicker from me having seen the signal and heard the whistle. Kids still engrossed.
There seemed to have been no half time, just remember that we were kicking the other way. Nugent! Oooooooh! Corners with moments to go. Calm the mush two seats along getting stressed that nobody wants to take it. 'We're not in a hurry' I
advise, he looks quizzically then it seems to dawn on him and he
smiles a natural smile of sudden understanding. Then it's over.
Promise almost completely delivered. Sol went up, and we were there.
Kiss the kids, kiss the wife for the second time ever at football
(2002) kiss the sister. Watch and take every last drop in.
Calmley back to Wembley Park with no worry of queues or delays,
Farringdon, home.5 glasses of champagne, two with orange juice, chilled since West Brom, a toast to Pompey. Kids to bed happy.
My promise as their father fully delivered, I think of those I love
and have loved, who couldn't be there.
Sunday. The dawning reality I am physically and mentally exhausted.Nothing is left but the husk of a man who has given without realising every ounce of strength and energy, physical and mental for so many years to finally, finally get the result at football, thank you Pompey, thank you all. ____________________________________________________________
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