Pilgrimage to Fratton Park, Portsmouth 8th/9th March 2025
PORTSMOUTH FC v LEEDS Utd
The tug of war between romance and the rational was at play.
First, Paul J, a Leeds United supporter, dreaming of a return to the top-flight and I, a partisan Pompey supporter nervously hoping that the recent return to form will relegate relegation fears this season to the bin.
It was a Sunday fixture, in the sun, at that old stadium that is Fratton Park, now surrounded by a soulless shopping precinct and rows of Victorian terraces that have withstood promotions and demotions, WWII bombs, solvency and insolvency, Harry Redknapp, high hopes and descents into despair.
Such was the romance that caught hold of two balding and greying fellas, one from Whitstable the other from Bristol, to make their journeys to Portsmouth, the day before the match.
Rationality was called for: a car journey for me via Chievely Service station in my faithful 2009 Astra, and trains, first to Victoria then a second down to the South Coast, for Paul.
Plans are one thing.
My story: Friday afternoon and the car won’t start. Jump leads cure the problem, but this is the third time in two weeks I have had to resort to jump leads. A photo sent to Paul from Halfords carpark, jump leads from a new battery to the dud-battery told its own story.
Saturday: Travelling and…
All well. Saturday morning rolled around. Just enough time to do a Severn Beach Parkrun in glorious sunshine before returning home, shower, last minute packing and off, various podcasts and music booming from the speakers, and, sunglasses on, travelling East along the M4.
Paul: A text from Paul informed me that he had successfully boarded the train from Whitstable and then another from Victoria. I can’t remember which part of the journey brought Paul together with four loud ladies, party animals, great friends, dressed similarly, discussion at top volume, and, amongst other topics, their dilation statistics in glorious detail whilst giving birth. Paul kept his head buried in his book.
Me: SatNav took me to a draughty road in between a bunch of modern high-rise buildings, but no sign of the Ibis hotel destination. Pulling over on a double-yellow, I resort to Google and hit directions and follow the voice to Reception…but it turns out to be the sister hotel. Ten minutes later I pull into the correct carpark and impersonate Paul J at reception, get the keys.
Paul: Texts John to say he’s arrived at Portsmouth and Southsea station, can see a Barclay’s Bank but that Google map blue dots seem to be a moving target and, if he’s not lost, he’s ‘temporarily disoriented’. I think I mentioned Winston Churchill to be helpful. Not entirely disconnected with reality as Ibis sits very close to Churchill Way. It seems to help, and Paul arrives less than ten minutes later.
The room: Ah! The on-line booking gave the option for twin beds. That instruction seemed to have been ignored and a well-made up double sat there looking at us. I’ve only shared a bed with one man (!) and he was a prisoner on the run (a story for another time). Hastily, we made our way to reception where polite complaints were made and some haggling over the price for a second room ensued…with success.
Saturday Evening: The weather could not have been better; full sun and still. It wasn’t long before we were sat behind two plates of food and drink at a dockside pub after which we were inexorably drawn to the Spinnaker tower, impressive a rather beautiful addition to the Portsmouth skyline. Conversation varied from Trump to theology, Fratton Park to family life, and navigation by the sun and old buildings to neuropsychology.
Sunday: The day of the Match
A full English and coffee, of course. And discussion about how the past and the present are related in our outlook on life. The most important aspect of this rather in-depth discussion over bacon and eggs was how we arrived at our commitments to Portsmouth FC for me, and Leeds Utd for Paul. Anyone wishing to carry out a full psychological profile should be warned: the minds of football supporters are not complex.
And off to the stadium via a coffee in a shopping precinct with the most depressing muzac I’ve heard since working at Herne Bay Tesco’s in 1975. It was a joy to leave and make our way to the ground. Early attempts to match the ticketed North Stand and Block K with the stadium signs (I do hate the non-word ‘signage’) at Fratton Park proved to be impossible, and we resorted to a human for directions.
Two seats in the corner wedge between the Away End with very vocal Leeds Untd supporters and some unsavoury Portsmouth ‘fans’ whose only enjoyment during the two hours of the match, was to yell insults at the Leeds Utd fans, practice crude hand gestures and the like. Why is probably not even worth asking. Each to their own…but it was as entertaining as unpleasant. Hardly cricket ‘ol bean! Or rugger, what?
Meanwhile, without dragging out a match report, the spectacle was impressive. Leeds, looking assured on the ball as the stylish leaders of the Championship that they are, were pitched against an aggressive Pompey team living off scraps and winning second balls. 0-0 at half time.
Portsmouth, after the resumption, piled pressure down the left wing ‘til worn defences yielded and the Leeds net bulged with the only goal of the match.
Thirty nervous minutes later, after terrible Leeds attacks, corners and free kicks that hit the bar, eluded the posts, but not the goalkeeper, and victory was ‘ours’, by which, I don’t mean Paul’s, but Pompey and her crazy fans.
Happy and heavy hearts poured out of the stadium for the journey home.
