Tales from Grandad's Tool Shed
The Magic Flowers – Sunday March 26th 1995 to Monday May 29th 2000
Published by Simon Head on July 21, 2008
Sunday afternoon tea at Grandad’s house in First Avenue had been a regular feature of my life for as long as I could remember. In the deep midwinter, and when coal fires were still allowed, the highlight had always been toasting teacakes over the open fire, and then scoffing them as the melted butter oozed out. During the spring, summer and autumn, unless Kent County Cricket Club had a home fixture in which case he would be there, you would find him in the toolshed, or out doing some gardening.
The memoirs that I’d compiled for him had mainly been gleaned from discussions in that toolshed, for he kept all his Gills scrapbooks and memorabilia there. They were now complete – or perhaps they weren’t. Maybe there really was going to be a third new beginning for the Gills, the second one being when we rose from the ashes after being kicked out of the Football League in 1938.
I was musing about the consortium possibilities as I drove up Chatham Hill. Suddenly I was brought back to reality and had to pull my car hard over as an ambulance stormed past. He’s in a bit of a hurry I thought, and got on with the Sunday afternoon routine. Stopping for petrol at the garage at the bottom of Darland Avenue, slightly off the direct route to Grandad’s house but the bloke in there was a big Gills fan and he always recommended to me which paper had the best Gills report in it for Grandad’s scrapbook. With a Sunday newspaper and a full tank of petrol I then doubled back and turned right into First Avenue. It had been the same routine for years.
But this Sunday afternoon my heart froze. That ambulance which had roared past me looked suspiciously like it was parked very close to Grandad’s house, and as I neared I realised it actually was at his house. I jumped out of my car and ran up to the ambulance just as the paramedics were bringing him out on a stretcher. He looked dreadful, and had an oxygen mask over his face. It was moving, so at least he was still alive. “What’s happened?” I asked to one of the paramedics. “And you are?” “His grandson. I was on my way to visit him as usual on a Sunday. I’m his next of kin.” “Well sir, his housekeeper found him collapsed on the sitting room floor. Looks as though he’s had some kind of a seizure. We’ll know more when we get him to Medway Hospital. Do you want to ride in the ambulance?” Leaving my wife at his house, I went with them to the hospital and sat there for ages as they carried out all sorts of tests.
Eventually I was allowed to see him. He was in a side room with all sorts of tubes going in and out of him, and various machines around him bleeping and flashing. He was conscious. “How are you then Grandad?” I ventured. “Tired SunBoy, very very tired. Don’t think I’ll make the next match.” “Of course you will Grandad. You’ll be there when we reach the Promised Land. Once that consortium is in place we’ll soar to the stars.” “Well SunBoy” he said very slowly “this wasn’t an attempt to donate my life insurance policy to the Save The Gills Fund. But if the worst happens you’ll find an envelope in the photo box, and I want you to promise me that you’ll follow the instructions to the letter.” “Of course I will Grandad” not knowing what I was letting myself in for. “Good” he said and at that point a nurse said that he needed to rest, and so I went away.
And so for the rest of that fearful season of 1994/95 my routine was set. A visit to the Medway Hospital on my way home from work to see how he was, and tell him about how the fight for survival at Priestfield was going. It seemed uncanny, but the state of his health seemed to move in parallel to the health of the Club. Sometimes when things looked good and the Gills might be saved he was, apart from the tubes and machines, almost his old self. Other times when things looked bleak, usually when the Football League put yet another hurdle in front of us, he was very down. Once I asked the ward sister whether someone else was briefing him about what was going on at Priestfield, but she assured me not. Maybe New Brompton/Gillingham had been part of his life for so long that he had developed a sixth sense about them. Who knows.
The much vaunted consortium fell apart within days. Ross Himsworth was exposed in the Sunday Mirror as an idle dreamer who had no money at all, and we never saw him again. The rest of the supposed consortium either didn’t know about it or didn’t want to know. The whole idea was about as useless as a return ticket on the Titanic. As far as the Administrators were concerned, they were now moving towards trying to find a buyer and complete the sale of the Club before the League’s 31st May deadline. Nightly we combed the newspapers and the radio sports programmes for hints and clues, but there was very little information. That suggested there were few, if any, serious buyers in the frame. Very worrying.
The events, or lack of, off the field tended to overshadow what was going on on it. We still had to save ourselves from bottom position. There were nine games left. At Preston, we drew 1-1 with players and travelling supporters going barmy as Joe Dunne scored his first ever goal. Home to Bury midweek we drew 1-1 with striker Steve Brown, whom we swapped with Colchester for Robbie Reinelt, finally getting off the treatment table and opening his account early on. A 2-0 defeat at Carlisle and a midweek 3-1 home defeat by Colchester saw us getting into danger again, but then two home wins pretty well pulled us clear of any danger of finishing bottom. On Easter Saturday we beat Barnet 2-1 at Priestfield, and the following Saturday we beat Doncaster 4-2 with Chris Pike scoring a hat-trick. Would Chris go down in history as the last player ever to score a hat-trick for the Gills?
And now it was Friday April 28th 1995. The eve of what could become one of the blackest weekends in the history of Gillingham Football Club – the last ever home game at Priestfield. The Administrators were clearly working hard on trying to find a buyer. They had sent out over 50 packs of information to potential “white knights” but there was little interest. The honest feeling was that we were going under. I went to the Medway Hospital after work as usual to see Grandad. He’d been quite bright after the Chris Pike inspired win over Doncaster, but had become more gloomy as the week had passed. The ward sister caught me on the way in. “Think I should warn you Danny that your grandfather is very low today. He’s eat his tea OK but he’s very down. Is there something this weekend about the football?” “Well, it could be the last match ever at Priestfield tomorrow” I replied “he’s probably fretting about that. I’ll try to cheer him up as best I can.”
As I went into his room he was laying back on the pillows half asleep, but he made a big effort to brighten up. “Sunboy, what news, have you bought the Club yet?” “Bit beyond my means Grandad, but there is a picture of someone who might in tonight’s paper.” “Show me” he said, and I held up for him the back page of that night’s Kent Evening Post. There was a grainy photograph of this mystery buyer and underneath it said “Paul Scally”. Suddenly, Grandad looked years younger. “That’s him! That’s the bloke who sat next to me at the Exeter game – the last Gills game I saw. He’s got the drive and ambition, he’ll save us!” “Well I’m a little bit wary Grandad. He’s a staunch Millwall fan, and if he tried to combine the clubs like Thompson would have done in 1988 when he tried a Maidstone takeover, it…..”
“Who’s been feeding you that rubbish! That Loud Mouthed Supporters Club Bloke I suppose. That bunch of cronies forget that they were totally behind Thompson at the time. So what if this bloke supports Millwall. There’s bugger all Gillingham fans coming forward with a serious interest. As far as I’m concerned, if there had never been a New Brompton/Gillingham I might have been a Millwall supporter. Play my kind of football. Forget the hooliganism up there. Millwall teams have always played good football with a bit of steel in it. Really hard to beat, especially at home. Players always give 100%, the crowd will accept no less. We’ve had stacks of players from them down the years, and they’ve all done well for us. And if this Scally bloke is the only one who’s prepared to save the Gills, and he can convince the Administrators and Tony Smith to sell to him, then give him a go, I say. And as far as that rabble on the Supporters Committee are concerned, you can tell ‘em from me that if the Devil himself offered to save the Gills, I’d give it very serious consideration.”
That rant had been a monumental effort for him. He sank back exhausted onto his pillow and closed his eyes. And a few moments later, he died.
I felt empty and heartbroken. When anyone has an elderly relative, there is always the thought in the back of your mind that someday something will happen to them. Phone calls late at night or early in the morning always fill you with trepidation. But Grandad had been around in my life for so long that it seemed unthinkable that the time would come that he wouldn’t be there any more, especially where football was concerned. I couldn’t believe that he would not want me to go to the following day’s home game with Hereford, as much as his representative as in my own right. There was a strange atmosphere in the ground that day, and many thought my news was in keeping with the occasion we were about to witness. Our team was:-
Steve Banks; Scott Lindsey; Eliot Martin; Neil Smith; Tony Butler; Andy Arnott; Joe Dunne; Gary Micklewhite; Steve Brown; Adrian Foster; Paul Watson. Substitutes – Chris Pike; Andy Ramage.
Hereford, in lower mid-table, were the better side in the first half, but didn’t seem to want to score. In the second half we had a better contest. Adrian Foster blew three one-on-one chances, and close to the end headed over Neil Smith’s centre. From the last kick of the match Steve Banks made a superb save, and that was about it. Gillingham 0, Hereford United 0.
The crowd had been a disappointing 4,200, way short of the 5,000 break-even figure needed. The average gate throughout the season of 3,200 showed just how little the people of Medway really valued their Football League Club. Only the people inside Priestfield Stadium cared, and there were some emotional scenes as many old friends bid farewell, wondering if they would ever sit or stand together at a football match again. Like many others I went onto the pitch with an envelope to gather up some blades of grass, although my mission was to fulfil one of Grandad’s instructions which he had given me inside the envelope in the photo box. Some blades of grass from in front of the Gordon Road Stand, where he and his wife and Aunt Eleanor had sat in 1908 to watch the only victory over a side from the top flight. Blades of grass from the spots in the Rainham End penalty area where Ken Price had lashed in that second one against Shrewsbury, and where Tony Cascarino had smashed in his third in the play-off match against Sunderland. And of course blades of grass from in front of the Main Stand, where Grandad had sat for 50 years firing off his opinions on the goings on – and not always only just those on the pitch!
In death as in life, Grandad was totally organised, and I followed his written instructions to the letter. He was to be buried in Gillingham Cemetery as close as possible to his aunt and uncle who had brought him up, and the indefatigable Aunt Eleanor, and he was to be dressed in the clothes he had worn the day Gills had saved themselves against Halifax – blazer, black trousers, his beloved New Brompton shirt allegedly worn by Charlie McGibbon when his hat-trick sank Sunderland, and his Fourth Division Championship-celebrating blue and white scarf. The hymns and bible readings were all nominated, and he had even written his own eulogy, which I was to read out. It ran for about ten minutes, and included all the major events of his life – personal, family and football that I now knew so well. All I had to do was to arrange the date and time. It was to be on Friday May 5th, and the time couldn’t be anything other than three o’clock.
I was surprised at how many people came along. The little chapel was full and we had people standing around the door. Many told me afterwards that they found it uplifting, and if the Gills were to die, then this little service for The Oldest Gillingham Supporter In The World was a fitting epitaph. When we came to the second and final hymn they didn’t really need Grandad’s encouragement to “give it some wellie” :-
Bring me my bow of burning gold,
Bring me my arrows of desire,
Bring me my spear, O clouds, unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have Gills’ Jerusalem
On Priestfield’s green and pleasant land!
Then it was out into the late afternoon sunshine to carry him up to his final resting place, always the toughest part of a funeral. In TV soap operas the graveside is always the scene of arguments, rows, high emotions, and unwanted appearances by bete-noire characters. The vicar began the familiar words “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in the sure and certain hope of the resurr…..Stop! You’re burying him the wrong way round!”
“Special instructions from the deceased, Sir,” chirped one of the grave-diggers, and they carried on lowering. The vicar started getting a bit shirty. “I’m sorry Danny” he said to me “your grandfather can’t be allowed to set those instructions. Everyone must be buried facing east, towards Jerusalem and the rising sun of our saviour.” “Well Reverend, let me put it this way. My grandfather was a regular church-goer and knew his bible as you know, but he had a certain disrespect for everyone. He’d fought in the Great War you see, and he always said that the only way the awful horrors there could have been allowed to continue was because God must have been on holiday between 1914 and 1918. And it says in the bible, I think in the Book of Revelation, that on the Day of Judgement the dead shall rise up, and they shall see the Holy City, the New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven, prepared as a bride, beautifully dressed for her husband. Well, my grandfather’s Jerusalem lies that way, to the west, at Priestfield, and on the awesome Day of Judgement he’s expecting to see the golden greats all playing in the same team – Johnny Simpson in goal, Charlie McGibbon and Sim Raleigh up front, Jock Robertson at right back captaining them and Freddie Cox managing them, and he wouldn’t want to miss a second of that. Never turned his back on the Gills in life, and he’ll never turn his back on them in death.”
And so the body of Charles Pilcher Westwick, dressed in his beloved colours of black, white and blue, was buried facing Priestfield. Defiant to the last – the only person in Gillingham Cemetery facing the setting sun, rather than the rising one.
It seemed only a matter of weeks before the body of Gillingham Football Club would be joining him. Gills lost the last game of the season 3-1 at Torquay. Our goal, the last of the game, was an own goal by a Torquay defender. How symbolic was that. The Administrators were fighting hard to keep the whole show on the road. There had only been two serious offers for the Club, and when one fell by the wayside only the offer by Paul Scally, the man Grandad had chatted to at his last ever game, was left on the table. The Football League were giving the Administrators grief, as were one particular shareholder and one particular creditor. After pleadings to the League, they extended the deadline of 31st May to 30th June, but only if a £200,000 bond was lodged to guarantee completing the 1995/96 fixtures. Once again the Smiths coughed up – Val Smith this time – and the negotiations on all fronts battled on through June.
A Voluntary Arrangement was put to the creditors and shareholders at a meeting on 14th June. The shakedown was that some £750,000 was owed to the Co-operative Bank, £870,000 was owed to Tony Smith, £50,000 for tax and VAT, and £270,000 for unsecured creditors. The voluntary arrangement was that the unsecured creditors would be given a dividend of 26.1 pence in the £ in settlement of their debts. The secured creditor of £50,000 had to be paid in full, and Mr Smith would write off his loan. If the creditors would not agree to this arrangement, then the Club would go into liquidation. The bank and Mr Smith had a charge over the freehold of Priestfield, so they would recover all or most of their money, and the creditors would receive nothing. The shareholders had to agree to these arrangements too.
Bit of a gun to the head really. Do you write off nearly 75% of debts owed to you, or 100% of debts owed to you? Fortunately 99.5% of the Club’s creditors and 99.6% of the Club’s shareholders were in favour. They could now move on to the sale of the club to Mr Paul Scally. As always, the Football League were completely unhelpful and insisted that Gillingham were fully out of Administration by 30th June, or they would kick us out. This sort of cavalier attitude towards a football club that was fighting for its life was deplorable – but that’s the Football League for you. Masses of paperwork were rushed through, and the final signatures were put in place a few minutes before close of business on Thursday June 29th 1995. Gillingham Football Club was saved, and under new ownership. Tony Smith still had an interest in things in that he had provided an interest free loan of £700,000, repayable in June 2000, to clear the bank’s overdraft, but other than that, and taking into account that he was settling the Administrators fees, he and his wife must have lost close to a million pounds.
I’ve often wondered what Grandad would have made of Paul Scally. Certainly Scally’s Millwall connections didn’t bother him, and if he upset the sort of people Grandad wanted to see upset, and delivered the sort of football Grandad liked to watch, and topped it off with a place in the Promised Land, I don’t think anyone would have heard Grandad complaining.
On Thursday June 29th 1995 New Gillingham was born with Paul Scally’s watch words “Never Look Back” but in truth the echoes from our history were uncanny. Tony Pulis, who had briefly played for us under Damien Richardson and had been a wash-out, was appointed manager. Grandad would have dubbed it the return of Freddie Cox. Both had come from Bournemouth after a period of exile from the game, both inherited a clapped-out demoralised team, both built a solid defensive formation which stormed to promotion on a wave of muscular football which Gills fans lapped up and everyone else despised. “Big smashing lads” Pulis called his team – Jim Stannard, Mark Harris, Dominic Naylor and the talismanic Leo Fortune-West, who was brought for £5,000 from the Save The Gills Fighting Fund, which now wasn’t needed. But there was some skill too, and where Cox had had Alec Farrell, Ron Newman and John Meredith, Pulis had Simon Ratcliffe, the returning Mark O’Connor, and Dennis Bailey. And as captain Pulis had Dave Martin, the hardest bloke I’d ever seen pull on a Gillingham shirt.
Grandad would have loved watching that lot all right, and following a team around the country that strode onto away grounds and put themselves about, rather than meekly rolling over. At Cambridge for instance, when Gills, reduced to nine men, battled a 0-0 draw by putting everyone behind the ball for the last twenty-five minutes and daring Cambridge to score. They couldn’t. And the return of Fortress Priestfield. One defeat all season and only six goals conceded – a club record. The infamous Battle of Priestfield, when a crude Fulham side thought they could win by roughing us up, and the disgusting scenes as some thug in a Fulham shirt clapped himself after being sent off for breaking Mark O’Connor’s leg. Not for the first time was Priestfield close to a riot, and Grandad would have been merciless on one particular person whom he despised – the pious pontificating Gillingham-hating Jimmy Hill sitting in the Fulham directors box. Wouldn’t he have got some pungent Westwick verbal!
Not only were club records broken in 1995/96, League records were as well. Gills’ 20 goals conceded in 46 games broke the all-time record of 21 goals conceded by Port Vale in 1953/54. But two records were held onto by our 1963/64 side. Remaining unbeaten at home throughout the season, and getting promoted as Champions. The 1995/96 side went up as runners up to Preston.
Off the field the Scally revolution was just as whirlwind. The Chairman immediately set about ripping out the deadwood. Cabinets, desks and tables were all chucked out in a massive spring clean, and modern things like computers introduced to replace carbon paper and ten-column ledgers. Anyone who didn’t like what was happening soon left. Several office staff got alternative employment, the programme editor went off to edit somewhere else, and the groundsman found new pastures. The most spectacular casualties were the tea-ladies. When the Scally revolution featuring electric tills, stock control ledgers and milk sachets reached them they weren’t having it, and told him so. So he sacked the lot of them. Blimey! I could hear Grandad roaring with laughter at that one, especially when they came out with all the tear-jerking stuff about how long they’d worked at the Club, inherited the job from their great aunts and so on. But then it emerged that as well as the perks of the job which Grandad had consistently criticised, they were receiving a substantial hourly rate as well making the job one of the best paid part-time ones in the towns. Grandad would have enjoyed stirring that at the Supporters Club AGM!
But most importantly, success on the field generates money, which was reinvested in the squad. The £102,500 record fee which Keith Peacock had paid eight years before for the disappointing Mark Cooper, reference to which mocked us every time we opened an away game programme, was replaced by Steve Butler, then Andy Hessenthaler at £235,000, then Ade Akinbiyi at £250,000, then Robert Taylor at £500,000 and Carl Asaba at £600,000. There were plenty of other signings, and some for six-figure sums too – Guy Butters, Barry Ashby and Paul Smith – as Gills consolidated in the third tier and pushed on.
In 1996/97 we finished 11th, but without doubt the highlight of that season was equalling the record of the 1963/64 side and getting to the Fourth Round of the League Cup. How Grandad would have enjoyed the double whammy over Premiership club Coventry. One of his hate figures, Ron Atkinson, was under pressure in their management hot seat, and a defeat against Gills would have seen the end of him. At half time a 2-0 lead at Priestfield looked good enough for Mr Bojangles to save his job, but in a storming second half Iffy Onuora headed in Dennis Bailey’s cross and Simon Ratcliffe hit a screamer from thirty yards which nearly took the net out. Fat Ron was done for. The fluke goal he scored against us 33 years previously had finally been avenged. Gordon “The Mumble” Strachan took his first game in charge for our replay at Highfield Road, and something incredible happened. For the first time in 88 years, Gills turned over a side from the top flight. We won 1-0 and to the golden roll of honour which until now read “January 1908. Sunderland. Charlie McGibbon (3)” could be added “November 1996. Coventry. Neil Smith”
“Take that Fat Ron!”
“You too Mister Mumble”
We pushed on in 1997/98 and finished 8th. But for a blip in November/December, we would have made the play-offs comfortably. As it was, we nearly did. I nearly broke my foot at Plymouth when we all cascaded down the terraces as Paul Smith’s grass-cutter shot crept in to give us a last minute 1-0 win and lift us into sixth position with a game to go. We needed to win our last match, home to Wigan, to clinch a play-off place, but although Nicky Southall’s lobbed-shot hit the inside of the post in the last minute with the keeper beaten, it bounced down and away. We drew 0-0. We were one of four sides who finished on 70 points. Bristol Rovers and Fulham made the play-offs, Wrexham and ourselves didn’t.
In 1998/99 we really looked the bizz. The crumbling dump that Priestfield had become by 1995 was being rebuilt, and after promises stretching back at least 40 years we finally had an all-seater Gordon Road Stand stretching the whole length of the pitch. And we had a team to match our surroundings, led by the marauding partnership of Carl Asaba and Robert Taylor. Asaba, signed from Reading, was an instant hit, scoring a dazzling goal at Colchester early on in the season when he juggled the ball from foot to foot, swivelled and drove it across the keeper and into the corner in a 1-1 draw. A goal that Charlie Livesey would have been proud of. Then, against Luton at a swamped Priestfield, he scored the only goal of the game when he did the Terry Cochrane act by lobbing the ball forty yards from near the touchline with the keeper stranded in no-man’s land. I’ve got a photograph on my desk of my daughter giving Carl a kiss when she was a mascot in the 3-0 win against Wycombe as a surprise 12th birthday present. She’d achieved what even Grandad had never done and led ‘em out.
Bob Taylor took time to get going. After a long dispute with his previous club Brentford he was clearly not match fit, but when he scored the winner as Gills, down to fifteen fit players, beat the Keegan/al Fayed money bags Fulham 1-0 at Priestfield he became a cult hero. With the referee looking at his watch and Fulham clearly hanging on for a point John Hodge wriggled free on the right. He got his cross in, and Bob Taylor soared like a salmon at the near post and bullet-headed it into the net. It brought the house down and the legend of SuperBob was born. An incredible 5-0 win at Burnley when Bob Taylor scored the lot ensured virtual immortality amongst Gills fans.
For once, it looked like Gills unerring ability to blow it had been conquered when we comfortably made the play-offs by finishing 4th, and then battled past Preston to set up the most amazing match in our history. Gillingham vs Manchester City, at Wembley. What on earth would Grandad have made of that? It was a sort of re-run of 1908, when New Brompton had played City after downing Sunderland, and the great Charlie McGibbon had been on target again. This time we had Carl and SuperBob and some of the most mind-boggling scenes you could imagine. Ticket touts fighting for tickets – for a Gillingham match? A banner with “Gillingham” on it slung between the world famous twin towers. An enormous crowd of 76,935 – more than would watch England play Scotland there a few months later, and easily more that we were getting for a whole season before the Scally Revolution.
I was convinced we would beat City 1-0 and when Carl Asaba took Paul Smith’s pass in his stride with eight minutes to go and smashed it past Weaver I thought we had. It was the greatest moment I’ve ever had watching football, and I reckoned it would have been Grandad’s too. When SuperBob smashed our second under Weaver with three minutes left my dream had gone a bit haywire, but what the hell. 2-0 up, three minutes to go. Hello Promised Land. When City pulled one back we all thought it was a consolation. But this is Gillingham we’re talking about, and after all his triumphs Tony Pulis made a fatal mistake. He took off Carl Asaba and brought on defender Darren Carr. City had to go for it, and referee Halsey’s five added minutes gave them time. They pulled it back to 2-2 with the last kick of the match. We survived the extra time but crumbled in the penalty shoot-out, losing it 3-1.
Gills folklore blames Halsey, but my theory was that if Pulis had not made that substitution, City wouldn’t have dared commit so many men forward. Our goal hungry pair, who had both already tasted blood, would have conjured a third on the counter, and we’d have been home and dry 3-1. I wonder whether Grandad would have agreed with me.
“The Great Might-Have-Been”
The other unsolved mystery would have been what would have happened managerially? It was an open secret that Pulis and Scally were daggers drawn, and hadn’t properly spoken to each other for months. Two days after Wembley, and with 35,000 Gills fans still in a state of shock, Paul Scally threw the disciplinary book, plus the appendices, at Tony Pulis and sacked him for gross misconduct. That eventually finished up in the High Court. Pulis went off to manage Bristol City, and we appointed Peter Taylor, who had just been re-organised out of the England Under-21 manager post. The media felt Peter Taylor had been harshly treated, and for once had some sympathy for gallant little Gillingham after the Wembley disappointment, so for the first time ever we became something of a media darling.
And boy, did we revel in it. Beaten play-off finalists usually struggle the following season, and our first few matches of 1999/2000 we were nothing to write home about. But Peter Taylor was recasting the team as a passing unit rather than playing Pulis’ more direct style, and from early October we didn’t look back. An incredible 12 goals in 8 games from SuperBob powered us into third place, and we were there or thereabouts for the rest of the season. We could never hold on to a Robert Taylor in that sort of form, and eventually sold him to Manchester City for £1.5 million.
The FA Cup was shrouded in controversy that season. Holders Manchester United didn’t enter and cleared off to South America to play in a Sepp Blatter Mickey Mouse Tournament to decide the World Club Champions. “The romance of the Cup is dead” blared the media. “Where is the magic?” At Priestfield that’s where, as Gills rewrote the record books. Beating Cheltenham after a replay, Darlington, and Walsall after a replay, Gills suddenly found themselves in the Fourth Round for the first time in fifteen years, and lo and behold we had a Premiership side at Priestfield. Bradford City – and we swept them aside 3-1, to down a top flight side in the FA Cup for the first time in 92 years. And then it was a visit in the Fifth Round from Premiership Sheffield Wednesday.
There was something symbolic about this match. Wednesday it was who had been the last club to play us before we went into Administration, and as then they were stuffed full with International players. But the Gills side they met this time was a different matter entirely, and Priestfield was an entirely different place. New Stands down the Gordon Road side and the Rainham End, and a new stand rising on Redfern Avenue. The capacity crowd created a cauldron for the first ever Fifth Round FA Cup tie to be played here. After a shaky first half when we went 1-0 down, we turned it around in the second half and gave them a right royal shafting with three goals in eleven minutes. You wait 92 years to turn over a top flight team in the FA Cup, and then do it twice in three weeks! In all our long and often bitter history, there had never been a greater day than this.
No-one really expected us to get past Chelsea at Stamford Bridge in the Quarter Finals. We gave a good account of ourselves, lost 5-0 to one of the best teams around, got a standing ovation from 34,000 people and banked £300,000 for gate receipts and TV coverage. But now there was work to do in the chase for promotion. Our club record FA Cup run had left us about four games in hand on everyone else, and we needed to play 18 games in 10 weeks. Once we got back into our stride we slowly overhauled them one by one, until our final home game, a midweek 4-1 win over Cardiff, relegated them and sent us into second place, level on points with Burnley, but with a better goal difference. Win at Wrexham and we were there. Match Burnley’s result at Scunthorpe by any score and we were there.
As in 1964 when Gills travelled to Wales to clinch the Fourth Division Championship, so 36 years later Gills travelled to Wales to clinch a place in the Promised Land. 50 of us then, 5,000 now. I had no doubts that we would do it. I even rashly predicted the score – 4-1 to us after a shaky start. We got the shaky start alright, and some bloke in deep midfield hit the shot of his life to beat Vince Bartram after ten minutes to put them ahead. In the second half we threw everything at them. Burnley were winning at Scunthorpe. We had to match it. Wrexham’s goal, in front of us in the second half, led a charmed life. Their keeper played a blinder, shots were hacked off the line, our players missed chances they would normally put away in their sleep.
But it wasn’t to be. We lost 1-0, Burnley won 2-1 and grabbed automatic promotion alongside champions Preston. We faced the play-offs by finishing third. Normally that would have been a cause for celebration. We had finished in our highest place ever. But everyone was gutted. The players looked like broken dolls, the fans slumped in their seats. We would lose horribly in the play-off semi-final, the team would break up, Peter Taylor would find pastures new, and we would fall back to from whence we came. Wrexham would be the failure that we would take to our graves. This was what 1938 must have felt like.
From somewhere the players found new strengths of energy and belief, and against Stoke reversed a 2-0 deficit after just eight minutes of the First Leg at the Britannia Stadium to a 5-3 aggregate win after extra time at Priestfield. We were back at Wembley again, this time with an army of 45,000 in a 54,000 crowd. If we couldn’t do it now, we never would. We’d nosed ahead at half-time thanks to Iffy Onuora bundling one in, but in an even second half Wigan equalised, and in a tense finish they had a man sent off. Surely at last the Football Gods were swinging the pendulum in our direction. I bet all the old’uns were giving them encouragement – Grandad, Bert, Aunt Eleanor, Slogger, Alf and all the rest who had cheered New Brompton/Gillingham at some time along the way. And then disaster. Wigan got a dodgy penalty midway through the first half of extra time, and we were 2-1 down. Oh no – how could football life be so utterly, utterly cruel. Those Football Gods then screwed out of each and every one of us every last emotion as the minutes ticked down. Ten to go, nine, eight, seven, six – and then they finally nodded our way. A beautiful cross from the left by Junior Lewis, Steve Butler at the near post – GOAL! 2-2. The Gills were back from the grave. Wigan were visibly wilting as wave after wave of Gills attacks swept onto their defensive line, urged on by 45,000 people going barmy.
“Gooden….and it is a good’un…..IT’S THERE!!! Andy Thomson!!!”
And so it came to pass that on the 28th Day of May Anno Domini 2000 the Promised Land was reached.
“Found – The Holy Grail”
Every Gills fan has their memories of that golden day, and what it meant to them. Those like me who had relatives and friends who had cheered and supported along the way but who hadn’t lived to be here at the moment of ultimate triumph felt especially privileged. We were cheering for those who were gone as much as for ourselves. My wife, son and daughter had been with me at Wembley, and the following day, after re-running our video tape over and over again, the enormity of what had been achieved began to sink in.
Spring Bank Holiday Monday (PLDay+1) was a day of celebration. We went to cheer the team home at the traditional boundary to the Borough of Gillingham – outside the Main Gate in Dock Road where almost fifty years ago to the day the Mayor of Gillingham Councillor Penfold had welcomed everyone back from the Café Royal after Gills re-election to the Football League had confirmed. “I judge this to be the greatest day in football that Gillingham has ever known” – true words then, true words now. And then on to the Municipal Buildings to watch the team take their bows, and wave the play-off trophy. A ringing speech from Peter Taylor, the only Gillingham Manager who had delivered the Promised Land and now a hot property. “Forget the rumours ” he said “I’m going nowhere.” Hmmm – we’ll see.
And then, by myself, a visit to Gillingham Cemetery. What would Grandad have said about all this? He’d have kept his sense of perspective. Would Peter Taylor stay? If he didn’t, would the new manager be up to it? We had some decent players, possibly as a group the best we’d ever had, would they blossom in the higher division or would they be found out? Would we be one season wonders, or would we be as we’d always hoped we could be – a decent side at that level, strong at home, and looking up the table rather than down it. Whatever the future held, it would be fun finding out.
My musings had brought me to the cemetery gates. I took the bunch of flowers that I had brought from the boot of the car and wandered up the pathway. Wherever he is now, I thought, I bet Grandad has a huge smile on his face. My thoughts were interrupted by one of the ladies tending a grave nearby. “My goodness Danny, not more flowers. Where are you getting them from? We’ve all been admiring such a wonderful display.” What on earth was she on about? And then I saw it for myself. Grandad’s grave and the grass around was completely covered with a riot of colour from every flower you could think of. As I neared, I realised that they hadn’t been cut and laid there, they were actually growing in the soil itself, as if by magic. And in the centre of a thick cushion of blue, black and white orchids was an envelope, addressed to me, written in a familiar copper-plate hand.
“Well SunBoy, we did it. We really did. They sneered at us and called us ‘The Colonials’ but we showed them all, and in front of the world too. This is not the end of the journey, but a staging post for even greater things to come for the most unique football club in the world. You’ll see.
“PLAY UP BROMPTON!!!”
Simon Head
Tales from Grandad's Tool Shed
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