Priestfield Days

An afternoon at Priestfield Stadium was something to enjoy whatever the result, whether I went alone or with Paul Parker. Coming from Twydall we approached the ground from Chicago Avenue, where the floodlights grew bigger and the music got louder with every stride. After passing through the turnstiles at the Rainham End, a surge of anticipation sent us racing up the concrete steps to get a first view of the pitch – always a thrill, even before the teams came out. Then we’d go walkabout, wandering up the narrow alley behind the dilapidated Gordon Road stand to get to the supporters’ club hut at the other end of the ground. It was only a pokey little hut but it housed many treasures. On sale with all the Gillingham paraphernalia were programmes from teams all over the country, including Manchester United. My eyes lit up at this tangible link to my heroes that allowed me to collect programmes, home and away, from that season’s European Cup run.

John Arnott scored two own goals in a match against Orient. Defending the goal at the Priestfield Road end of the ground, the full back had already diverted one past Johnny Simpson when he suffered the ridiculous misfortune of doing it again, scoring an identical own goal that helped Orient to a 3-2 win.

Another game I saw was a 2-0 win against Bury on March 30th. Bobby Collins played for Bury. He was a football legend who’d known greater days with Celtic, Everton and Leeds United. Before my time, certainly, but a legend nonetheless and someone deserving of respect, I realised, from comments made by older fans in my proximity.

I went to Football Combination matches too, enjoying reserve team football at half the price.

Carl Gilbert featured in many of these reserve games. A forward with blond hair, he was as instantly identifiable. I likened him to Helmut Haller the West German star. Gilbert was a goal scoring crowd pleaser who played the game with a smile on his face. Once, when defending a long free kick deep in the opposition half he jumped up and caught the ball to stop it passing over his head. When a second free kick was awarded he jumped up and did it again. ‘Good old Carl’ was the message from the chuckling crowd as the referee gave him a finger wagging and a ticking off.

‘Let’s all watch Spurs on Saturday.’

Being a Spurs fan, Brian Lack was going to the match anyway, but he cajoled half a dozen of us Upbury boys into going along with him.

‘Come on, let’s go in the stand,’ said Brian, once we were in the ground.

So we coughed up the extra and gained admittance to the ancient Gordon Road stand, where we had the privilege of sitting on wooden bench seating for ninety minutes. With Spurs fielding some big names against a Gillingham side with a lot of youth players, the outcome was never in doubt. Spurs won 4-0.

At least Brian went home happy. I went home skint and regretful that I hadn’t reacted quicker to the jingle of loose change slipping from pocket and rolling into the dark chasm beneath us. Beneath that stand, amidst decades of discarded cigarette packets and losing golden goal tickets, a small fortune must have accumulated.