Ten years ago today

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1973Blade

1973Blade

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We lost to Huddersfield in the play off final. Perhaps the most difficult of all our play off defeats to take. Maybe it's a good job that we aren't playing them again on Sunday!
 



What a fucking shit day that was. I was duty the night before as Officer of the Day at the training establishment I work at now and was fucking tired, having been in and out of my cabin all fucking evening dealing with various incidents and other peoople's kids being cunts just for the Bank Holiday. I put aside the tiredness and me, Mrs Pommpey and granddaughter trained it up to the smoke and across to Wem-ber-lee.

We happened across that skip fire of a boozer nearby (The Green Man?) where hundreds of Blades fans were making the place look like a scene from Mad Max. I desperately needed a bobbar too and the queue to the crapper was miles long. We decamped and I limped down the road where a social club stood and I asked if I could go in and use their shitter. Initially they refused as it was full of Hudds fans and psychologically the six inch brown mortar being kept inside by my weakening sphincter nosed out a little further. I was touching cloth. They let me in because they could see I was in pain and I dropped a payload which I had to stand on the seat to allow out. Suitably refreshed, and a stone lighter we found a few more user-friendly bars to drink expensive cockney cat piss and made our way up Wembley way.

Let's remember, we had suddenly detumesced after Ched had gone inside and I had the ignominious task of watching Porter score late on in the semis on a telly in a bar in Glasgow with my BAE Systems buddy (we were up there on a research trip regarding Type 45s destroyers) He was an avid, season ticketed Chelsea fan and not shy with sarcasm and criticism but did make a fair point - we looked fucking rubbish and kicked the ball in the air a lot, and laughed at us struggling to beat Stevenage. I couldn't defend it or deny it. We'd also let the Sheffield 6 Express train race past us to the promotion station, and looked very much like a set of cunts having squandered games in hand.

So the PO Final was set for us to 'pull it out of the bag'. The game was a dismal disaster. Blades fans cooking out in the sun and us barely coping out on the pitch with (IIRC) one clear opportunity which fell to Stephen Quinn who seemed to be playing in an advanced role. To me it was pointless even playing extra time. We might as well have just lined Simmo up and had him boot it into orbit, just to put us out of our misery. When we were briefly ahead in the shootout - just like last week - you just fucking KNEW it would go wrong and we'd hit a post. And we did. And as soon as it left Simmos boot I turned round to Mrs P and granddaughter and said 'C'mon. Let's go.' before it travelled the 36 feet to cross Smithies's crossbar on it's way out of the Solar System.

We sat practically in silence all the way back down to the south coast on the train. As if to pump in our towel, the Spinnaker Tower at Gunwharf Quays was bedecked in blue and white lights too.

Fuck football.

pommpey
 
Last edited:
We stayed at the Crowne plaza on Hanger Lane the night before and drank into the early hours with the Look North crew, They were a great set of people but Harry and Christa both sneaked off to bed at midnight.
 
pommpey said:
What a fucking shit day that was. I was duty the night before as Officer of the Day at the training establishment I work at now and was fucking tired, having been in and out of my cabin all fucking evening dealing with various incidents and other peoople's kids being cunts just for the Bank Holiday. I put aside the tiredness and me, Mrs Pommpey and granddaughter trained it up to the smoke and across to Wem-ber-lee.

We happened across that skip fire of a boozer nearby (The Green Man?) where hundreds of Blades fans were making the place look like a scene from Mad Max. I desperately needed a bobbar too and the queue to the crapper was miles long. We decamped and I limped down the road where a social club stood and I asked if I could go in and use their shitter. Initially they refused as it was full of Hudds fans and psychologically the six inch brown mortar being kept inside by my weakening sphincter nosed out a little further. I was touching cloth. They let me in because they could see I was in pain and I dropped a payload which I had to stand on the seat to allow out. Suitably refreshed, and a stone lighter we found a few more user-friendly bars to drink expensive cockney cat piss and made our way up Wembley way.

Let's remember, we had suddenly detumesced after Ched had gone inside and I had the ignominious task of watching Porter score late on in the semis on a telly in a bar in Glasgow with my BAE Systems buddy (we were up there on a research trip regarding Type 45s destroyers) He was an avid, season ticketed Chelsea fan and not shy with sarcasm and criticism but did make a fair point - we looked fucking rubbish and kicked the ball in the air a lot, and laughed at us struggling to beat Stevenage. I couldn't defend it or deny it. We'd also let the Sheffield 6 Express train race past us to the promotion station, and looked very much like a set of cunts having squandered games in hand.

So the PO Final was set for us to 'pull it out of the bag'. The game was a dismal disaster. Blades fans cooking out in the sun and us barely coping out on the pitch with (IIRC) one clear opportunity which fell to Stephen Quinn who seemed to be playing in an advanced role. To me it was pointless even playing extra time. We might as well have just lined Simmo up and had him boot it into orbit, just to put us out of our misery. When we were briefly ahead in the shootout - just like last week - you just fucking KNEW it would go wrong and we'd hit a post. And we did. And as soon as it left Simmos boot I turned round to Mrs P and granddaughter and said 'C'mon. Let's go.' before it travelled the 36 feet to cross Smithies's crossbar on it's way out of the Solar System.

We sat practically in silence all the way back down to the south coast on the train. As if to pump in our towel, the Spinnaker Tower at Gunwharf Quays was bedecked in blue and white lights too.

Fuck football.

pommpey
Click to expand...
Sat in a coffee shop in Colombo - pissing myself reading this with my blades pink away shirt on .

Staff abs wide looking at me gone out

I now need a shit
 
I couldn’t go. It coincided with a memorial event for my best mate, who’d died in 2011. It had been arranged for months. I certainly wasn’t missing it for another playoff farce.

So, while a different kind of entirely predictable death played out at Wembley, I was sat with friends, next to an empty seat with my dead mate’s photo taped to it, watching West Indies flounder against England at Trent Bridge.

It was the first time since forever that he hadn’t been there with us, at an English summer Test. We drank beer, and felt sad.

Throughout the 120 mins, plus pens, I followed the playoff on the radio, sharing a set of earbuds—one for him, one for me—with one of our group.

Who was a Huddersfield fan.

Proper fun afternoon, that was.
 
We got stuck about 200 yards behind the crash that shut M1 and only arrived 40 minutes into first half so missed nowt. After first few penalties we were doing running chest bumps thinking we were up. Worst drive home ever!
 
Blade56 said:
We got stuck about 200 yards behind the crash that shut M1 and only arrived 40 minutes into first half so missed nowt. After first few penalties we were doing running chest bumps thinking we were up. Worst drive home ever!
Click to expand...

That trudge out of the stadium was matched only by the trudge out of the Millennium Stadium nine years earlier where as we crossed the River Taff, inside the arena, the fucking cuntbagging fireworks went off as Wolves lifted the teapot above their heads, after beating a Blades team who was still on the coach. Then, that trip at slow speed through the tunnel on the way eastwards with all the brummies tooting their horns. It's moments like that which make you hate being a Unitedite, but then again, there's the Cherry Street car park in May 2019 ...

But the train journey back into London with all the happy Hudders and even the one from Waterloo to Pompey Harbour which had a gleeful family of Hudds fans on it chatting loudly and discussing the game (even my granddughter (aged ten) rolled her eyes and I think shaped a 'fuck off' silently with her lips) summed up the grief.

pommpey
 
Whiston Blade said:
When Huddersfield missed their first two (three?) penalties, silly me thought we were actually going to do it.. My dad knew better, the walk back to the coach was awful and the journey home even worse.
Click to expand...

I was stupid enough to turn to my mate and say “We’ve done it - we’ve finally won in the play offs”.
 



sitwell said:
We stayed at the Crowne plaza on Hanger Lane the night before and drank into the early hours with the Look North crew, They were a great set of people but Harry and Christa both sneaked off to bed at midnight.
Click to expand...
Together?
 
Blade56 said:
We got stuck about 200 yards behind the crash that shut M1 and only arrived 40 minutes into first half so missed nowt. After first few penalties we were doing running chest bumps thinking we were up. Worst drive home ever!
Click to expand...

I remember that, we fortunately diverted off the M1 and went through rural Northamptonshire getting back on the M1 near Hemel Hempstead. I remember we parked up at a Shell garage on the A414 and played a bit of football, a few of the lads thought it would be funny to kick the ball out into the four lanes of traffic..

To cut a long story short, as we approached the end of the M1/North Circular we pulled up along side the United coach, blacked out windows, Blades badge of the side, our coach went crazy. It's a shame our enthusiasm didn't translate to the lads on the pitch.
 
my worst play off final defeat was Palace ‘97 at the old Wembley, could only get tickets via a Palace supporting mate in their end. As soon as the toothless ginger twohat scored it was goodbye. As we left we were clearly identified as Blades and for 5mins getting out of the stands was a bit hairy.

25 years ago yesterday this was 😩
 
Whiston Blade said:
When Huddersfield missed their first two (three?) penalties, silly me thought we were actually going to do it.. My dad knew better, the walk back to the coach was awful and the journey home even worse.
Click to expand...
I've erased the whole thing from my mind, but I also vaguely recall a point in the shoot out where winning was practically guarenteed, does anyone actually know the sequence of penalties?
 
It was horrendous. I simply could not believe it possible to lose the penalty shoot out from the position we were in. The journey back and the following days were a nightmare.
 
Bell4 said:
Sat in a coffee shop in Colombo - pissing myself reading this with my blades pink away shirt on .

Staff abs wide looking at me gone out

I now need a shit
Click to expand...

The pink away shirt can have that effect on latino types.
 
You have to feel for Simmo a bit. If the rest of the team had done their job he would have been the hero. Instead......
 



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