The Large One
Who's Next?
Someone told me that NSC can be a place of catharsis; of sharing, so I hope I can beg your indulgence and tell you a story of my Dad, me and The Goldstone Ground. I wrote this last year for the Goldstone Days evening at the Theatre Royal.
Why am I posting this? My father, my mentor, my friend, and the man who took me to the Goldstone Ground for the very first time, passed away yesterday. I'd wanted him to take me, and when he finally did, it was brilliant. This is for my Dad - I hope it strikes a chord with you...
In the mid-late 1970s, my father was a self-employed carpenter. Most Saturday mornings he would head to the small industrial units in Newtown Road, Sackville Road and Conway Street where there were painting and decorating shops or an electrical store or a general hardware store. These stores always stank of white spirit – whatever they were selling – and ran by a kindly old fella called Reg or Stan. Think The Two Ronnies’ Four Candles sketch, and you’ll get the picture. This was way before the DIY sheds came along.
His eight year-old son (me) being keen to know what his Dad was doing, would merrily bowl along, in the oft-forlorn hope that he would be able to take a left turn to watch Brighton play at The Goldstone Ground.
In those days, Brighton were on the up. Recently-retired firebrand Alan Mullery was the new manager, and a cocky upstart called Peter Ward was banging the goals in for fun. It was a good time to start being interested in football in Brighton.
Every Saturday afternoon, we’d have to traipse to my Nan and Grandad’s house to see the rest of the (large) family. The room was full of cigarette smoke and endlessly boring chatter. My Nan and I would watch the wrestling on ITV; Nan spitting venom at the baddies, me waiting for the football results to come up.
I’d sit patiently waiting for the Division III scores to come in, not having a clue where the Albion were playing, nor against whom on any given day. But we seemed to win most weeks, and we were always near the top of the table.
I’d been pestering Dad about when we could go to the Albion. I had no idea how dangerous it might have been – there was a lot of hooliganism back then – I just wanted to see my (as yet unseen) heroes play.
So it came to pass, we were on another visit to Hove one Saturday lunchtime in September 1978. I assumed I was merely accompanying Dad on another white spirit-sniffing escapade. We parked up somewhere nearby and, as we were walking along Old Shoreham Road past the North Stand turnstiles, he turned to me and said, “fancy watching the game...?”
HALLELUJAH!
We eventually found a turnstile to Dad’s liking leading to the terrace in the West Stand, north end. I had to go in a separate entrance to him, so Dad gave me my 20p to get in, and in I went. From there, everything was simply magic for me. All the things I’d dreamed going to a football match would be was all perfectly true.
I can vividly remember so many details – the sunny day, the loud noise from the North Stand about Peter Ward being magic, all being sung by skinny blokes in their late teens and early twenties with massively flared jeans and ridiculously androgynous hairdos. Scarves – blue and white, of course – were worn on wrists, and everyone smoked.
And I also learned a fair few words of Anglo-Saxon I only thought the naughty children in the playground said. I had no idea adults swore; I thought they’d grown out of it by then.
We won 1-0 against Oldham Athletic. Wardy claimed the goal, but it went down as an own goal. I couldn’t see the south goal from where I was standing. So it was great when I saw Gary Williams (I recognised him from the Evening Argus) taking a corner. Peter O’Sullivan was flying down the wing. Brian Horton bawled lumps out of everyone, friend and foe...
As much as I’d pestered Dad to go before, this was nothing compared to how much I wanted to go again. He never did take me again though, so as soon as I could, I went on my own.
From the age of 12, I walked from our home near Preston Circus to The Goldstone Ground every home match, and took my place in the North Stand. I met up with a few of my schoolfriends there, and we had a good time. In the 19 years between my first and last game at the Goldstone, I probably went about 300 times.
While we’re at it, let’s call the Goldstone for what it was – a dump. Behind the North Stand, the food kiosk was next to the toilets, and most times you couldn’t tell which was which. As the years passed, the terraces were crumbling, neglected by the arrogant local businessmen who ran the club who seemed to care not one jot for the welfare of the lifeblood of the club – the supporters. But it was our dump, and we were proud of it. It was home.
So when it came to the club announcing that they were selling the ground and moving to Portsmouth, I was intrigued, then concerned, then outraged.
I’d kept my spot in the North Stand for years (aside from the times they closed it to build the new roof – and the time they handed it over to Pompey fans for one match). Now it seemed someone wanted to end all that; not just the Goldstone, the club. Some things are sacred; this must not happen.
The story of how things turned out between 1995 and 1997 is now the stuff of legend, and everyone who played their part knows who they are – as should every single Brighton fan. Me, I did more than some, less than others – but i can confidently raise my glass high and say with satisfaction that I was there.
But, like the Bobby Goldsboro song, I’ll always go back in my mind, to the very first time - and that piece of magic, going to the football with my Dad, will stay with me forever.
RIP Dad. And thank you. UTA.
Why am I posting this? My father, my mentor, my friend, and the man who took me to the Goldstone Ground for the very first time, passed away yesterday. I'd wanted him to take me, and when he finally did, it was brilliant. This is for my Dad - I hope it strikes a chord with you...
In the mid-late 1970s, my father was a self-employed carpenter. Most Saturday mornings he would head to the small industrial units in Newtown Road, Sackville Road and Conway Street where there were painting and decorating shops or an electrical store or a general hardware store. These stores always stank of white spirit – whatever they were selling – and ran by a kindly old fella called Reg or Stan. Think The Two Ronnies’ Four Candles sketch, and you’ll get the picture. This was way before the DIY sheds came along.
His eight year-old son (me) being keen to know what his Dad was doing, would merrily bowl along, in the oft-forlorn hope that he would be able to take a left turn to watch Brighton play at The Goldstone Ground.
In those days, Brighton were on the up. Recently-retired firebrand Alan Mullery was the new manager, and a cocky upstart called Peter Ward was banging the goals in for fun. It was a good time to start being interested in football in Brighton.
Every Saturday afternoon, we’d have to traipse to my Nan and Grandad’s house to see the rest of the (large) family. The room was full of cigarette smoke and endlessly boring chatter. My Nan and I would watch the wrestling on ITV; Nan spitting venom at the baddies, me waiting for the football results to come up.
I’d sit patiently waiting for the Division III scores to come in, not having a clue where the Albion were playing, nor against whom on any given day. But we seemed to win most weeks, and we were always near the top of the table.
I’d been pestering Dad about when we could go to the Albion. I had no idea how dangerous it might have been – there was a lot of hooliganism back then – I just wanted to see my (as yet unseen) heroes play.
So it came to pass, we were on another visit to Hove one Saturday lunchtime in September 1978. I assumed I was merely accompanying Dad on another white spirit-sniffing escapade. We parked up somewhere nearby and, as we were walking along Old Shoreham Road past the North Stand turnstiles, he turned to me and said, “fancy watching the game...?”
HALLELUJAH!
We eventually found a turnstile to Dad’s liking leading to the terrace in the West Stand, north end. I had to go in a separate entrance to him, so Dad gave me my 20p to get in, and in I went. From there, everything was simply magic for me. All the things I’d dreamed going to a football match would be was all perfectly true.
I can vividly remember so many details – the sunny day, the loud noise from the North Stand about Peter Ward being magic, all being sung by skinny blokes in their late teens and early twenties with massively flared jeans and ridiculously androgynous hairdos. Scarves – blue and white, of course – were worn on wrists, and everyone smoked.
And I also learned a fair few words of Anglo-Saxon I only thought the naughty children in the playground said. I had no idea adults swore; I thought they’d grown out of it by then.
We won 1-0 against Oldham Athletic. Wardy claimed the goal, but it went down as an own goal. I couldn’t see the south goal from where I was standing. So it was great when I saw Gary Williams (I recognised him from the Evening Argus) taking a corner. Peter O’Sullivan was flying down the wing. Brian Horton bawled lumps out of everyone, friend and foe...
As much as I’d pestered Dad to go before, this was nothing compared to how much I wanted to go again. He never did take me again though, so as soon as I could, I went on my own.
From the age of 12, I walked from our home near Preston Circus to The Goldstone Ground every home match, and took my place in the North Stand. I met up with a few of my schoolfriends there, and we had a good time. In the 19 years between my first and last game at the Goldstone, I probably went about 300 times.
While we’re at it, let’s call the Goldstone for what it was – a dump. Behind the North Stand, the food kiosk was next to the toilets, and most times you couldn’t tell which was which. As the years passed, the terraces were crumbling, neglected by the arrogant local businessmen who ran the club who seemed to care not one jot for the welfare of the lifeblood of the club – the supporters. But it was our dump, and we were proud of it. It was home.
So when it came to the club announcing that they were selling the ground and moving to Portsmouth, I was intrigued, then concerned, then outraged.
I’d kept my spot in the North Stand for years (aside from the times they closed it to build the new roof – and the time they handed it over to Pompey fans for one match). Now it seemed someone wanted to end all that; not just the Goldstone, the club. Some things are sacred; this must not happen.
The story of how things turned out between 1995 and 1997 is now the stuff of legend, and everyone who played their part knows who they are – as should every single Brighton fan. Me, I did more than some, less than others – but i can confidently raise my glass high and say with satisfaction that I was there.
But, like the Bobby Goldsboro song, I’ll always go back in my mind, to the very first time - and that piece of magic, going to the football with my Dad, will stay with me forever.
RIP Dad. And thank you. UTA.
