The future's bright, the future's blue!

Last time I penned a blog it was during what I thought was our darkest hour, 13 months on and little did I know that Pompey fans would experience many, many more dark hours before our now glorious emergence into the light.

What a 13 months it's been, to say it has been like a roller-coaster would be too obvious an analogy - it's been a bit like a lingering death at times, but for all the suffering we are now at the dawn of a bright new beginning.

This bright new era has been brought about by a small group of professional, committed and quite brilliant Pompey fans. A 'band of brothers' who have refused to give in to provocation, scare-tactics, slander and even doubt amongst supporters, stoked by publicity seeking, egotistical 'fans' looking to make a name for themselves.

Quite rightly the names of Ashley Brown, Mick Williams, Mark Trapani and Iain McInnes will all go down into the history books as the core of the bid team who made this impossible dream a reality.

But there was also a small army of people behind them helping to ensure the bid gained momentum and finally came over the line at a little after 8pm on19th April 2013. It has been a pleasure to get to know some of these people and see at first hand just how much they love the club and were willing to put on the line to save it.

From the thunderbolt and lightning duo of the blogosphere - Micah Hall and Sue Maskell, the unflappable spokesman that is Colin Farmery to the engine room of the share conversion team - Dan Fearnley, Tom Dearie, Ian Peach and Pompey's very own charity mega-walker Scott McLachlan. Not forgetting the hard-core originators of the trust itself - people like Bob Beech, Mark Dewing, Brendon Bone and the much missed Tony Goodall.

There are many more people other than those mentioned above (including the HNW investors) but let's not forget behind every good man or woman is a long suffering partner and they deserve much gratitude for having given up their loved ones for long periods over the past year.

To all these people we owe a simple but heartfelt 'thank you'. It's true what they say about this city you know - zeal does not rest.

Play Up Pompey.

Thanks for the memories

I’ve never written a blog before and given the current parlous state of the club I love this could be the first and last that I do, so if you’ve gotten this far in reading firstly thank you and I’ll try and make it a worthwhile read.

I can remember my first game at Fratton Park vividly. It was February 4th 1989. I had played football that morning, Dad had watched me play then drove us down the Eastern Road in his clapped out Vauxhall Chevette.

We parked up and walked towards what seemed to me as a kid a massive stadium, having negotiated the heavy iron turnstyles and paid the princely sum of £1.50 I took my place on the terrace in the ‘Junior Blues’ enclosure down in the South Stand by the dugouts.  Truth be told we played pretty poorly that day and lost 1-0 to the now super-rich Manchester City, but it didn’t matter, that day was the beginning of a life long love affair for me.

Over the following seasons Dad and I would follow the same ritual and during the drive he would tell me the stories of his favourite players and memories from Pompey from the very pinnacle of the English game in the fifties right down to the bottom of its league pyramid in the early eighties. Fortunately over time the cars improved but often the football didn’t. That was of course until Jim Smith and his young guns including the likes of Symons, Awford and Anderton started to play the kind of football I had only previously seen on the TV – we were winning most weeks and in some style.

My first true Pompey idol came from this period – the midfield enforcer and ‘footballing genius’ Martin Kuhl. Dad has always preferred a bit of pace and guile down the wing (he still goes on about Stevie Stone!) but for me Kuhl epitomised how I thought footballers should play. I did have my memories of him somewhat shattered when I saw him turn out in a Kanu charity match a few years back, let’s just say I think he has spent the time since giving up the game eating pretty much anything and everything in sight!

There was that magical trip to Highbury and the long drive home from Villa Park in ’92 and the promotion we missed out on by goal difference to West Ham - I still hate Leicester and Ian Ormondroyd to this day.

The middle nineties brought us a succession of new managers and players, but still Dad and I would go down every week and cheer on those lucky enough to wear the star and crescent, I remember some odd games from that period – when we were 3-1 down to Leeds with injury time left to play for example, but somehow Corporal punishment turned it around to salvage a draw, the cheers we could hear walking away were enough to ensure we never ever left a game early again.

I’ve been lucky to witness some great matches and memories but that Tuesday in February 1998 when a less than half empty Fratton Park generated the kind of noise a full Old Trafford would struggle to match against Stockport County to start our ‘great escape’ under Bally was right up there – my voice was still hoarse the next day at college and as ever Dad was there singing and clapping alongside me.

We’ve ploughed up and down the motorways of Britain together to Bradford (Dad won a bundle on Festa scoring in his last game!) Newcastle, Liverpool, Norwich, Walsall, Manchester and many others – often on the end of a hiding but still I’ve enjoyed quality time with my Dad.

During the nineties Mum had been getting progressively more poorly with Multiple Sclerosis and finally succumbed to it in January 2003. It’s fair to say the tears Dad and I shed on that night in April when we celebrated promotion against Burnley were tears of joy and great sadness, I remember hugging him tight that night.

I can scarcely believe when I look back but I’ve been to Wembley five times with him times to watch us play, I’ve seen Arnold Mveumba of all people (remember him?!) score a belter on a Baltic night in Wolfsburg and the mighty AC Milan come oh so close to being beaten at a rocking Fratton Park. The premiership years were full of great results against the mighty sides of the English game and that goal by Mendes against Jamo in the City goal still makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck when I think of it. But for all the great results and great players it was the beginning of the fiscal irresponsibility that has led us to the position we now find ourselves in.

By my reckoning Dad and I have been to more than 400 games together since that Saturday in February 1989 and whatever happens those memories can’t be taken away from me.

But what Chainrai, Gaydamak and the various other foreign owners of ill repute will it seems take from me is the simple pleasure of a Saturday afternoon spent with my Dad watching the team we both love. For that I will never ever forgive them.