Performance poet and devoted and tireless football fan Attila the Stockbroker, who has been Brighton and Hove Albion’s poet in residence since 2000, will perform his poem ‘Goldstone Ghosts’ on the pitch today at 5pm before the club’s last home game of the season against Bristol City. A win for Brighton, already promoted to the Premier League, will seal the Championship title.

Twenty years ago to the day, Brighton were bottom of the Fourth Division and playing their last game at their Goldstone Ground, which had been sold to property developers, leaving them homeless and needing a win to have a chance of staying in the Football League.

Two nights earlier Attila had painted a “RIP Goldstone” banner, which ended up featured in a number of national newspapers, and written ‘Goldstone Ghosts’, about his life as a Brighton fan and the fans’ battle to save their club from extinction. The poem now has pride of place in the supporters’ bar at their new stadium at Falmer.

A draw at Hereford on the last day of the season kept Brighton in the Football League. They spent the next two seasons playing “home” games at Gillingham, a round trip of 140 miles. After forcing Brighton council to bring them home by forming the Seagulls party and threatening to stand in the local elections, they had 12 seasons at Withdean, a run-down athletics track in the Brighton suburbs. During all that time, as well as being poet in residence, Attila was PA announcer and club DJ. “Lots of Clash and no Phil Collins!” he said.

Attila said that the fans saved the club “through constant, determined campaigning”. It took 14 years of demonstrations and petitions, two public inquiries and a Top 20 hit (fronted by Attila) before the club finally moved into their new home in 2011. He added: “Since then they’ve gone from strength to strength – and next season will be in the Premier League. From the gutter to the stars in exactly 20 years!”

 

 

GOLDSTONE GHOSTS

by Attila the Stockbroker

Written on the occasion of the last ever game at the Goldstone Ground, April 26 1997

 

As bulldozers close in upon our old, beloved home

and those who stand to profit rub their hands

so we gather here together in sad, angry disbelief

and for one last time our voices fill the stands.

This is no happy parting, but a battle-scarred farewell

though victory hopes are mingled with the tears

And I, like you, will stand here as the final whistle blows

with memories which echo down the years.....

 

The Chelsea fans threw pennies. Old ones. Sharpened. I was eight.

A target in the South Stand with my dad

And he got rather battered as he held me close and tight

and confirmed my view that Chelsea fans were mad!

And there, on those old wooden seats, I learned to love the game.

The sights and sounds exploded in my head.

My dad was proud to have a son with football in his blood -

but two short years later, he was dead.

 

Eleven. I went on my own. (My friends liked chess and stuff.)

'Now don't go in the North Stand!' said my mum.

But soon I did. Kit Napier's corner curled into the net.

Oh god. The Bournemouth Boot Boys! Better run....

Then Villa in the big crunch game. A thirty thousand crowd.

Bald Lochhead scored, but we still won the day.

Then up, and straight back down again. Brian Powney, brave and squat.

T.Rex, DMs and scarf on wrist, OK?

 

And then the world was wonderful. Punk rock and Peter Ward!

And sidekick 'Spider' Mellor, tall and lean.

The legendary Walsall game. Promotion. Riding high.

Southampton-Spurs: that stitch-up was obscene.

The final glorious victory. Division One at last!

Arsenal, first game, midst fevered expectation.

Those Highbury gods tore us to shreds; we learned the lesson well.

Steve Foster was our soul and inspiration!

 

Man City came, and Gerry Ryan waltzed through them to score

And mighty Man United bit the dust.

Notts Forest, and that Williams screamer nearly broke the net.

The Norwich quarter-final: win or bust!

And after Wembley, Liverpool were toppled one last time.

The final curtain on those happy days.

And then the years of gradual, inexorable decline -

sadly for some, the parting of the ways.

 

But we stayed true, as glory days turned into donkeys' years.

Young, Trusson, Tiltman, Farrington. Ee-aw!

A Wilkins free-kick nearly brought us hope. 'Twas not to be.

The rot was deep and spreading to the core.

We found our voice and Lloyd was gone. Hooray! But worse to come.

Though just how awful we were yet to know.

Dissent turned to rebellion and then to open war

as on the terrace weeds began to grow.

 

The Goldstone sold behind our backs! Enraged, we rose as one

against a stony northern businessman.

We drew a line, and said: ENOUGH! And as the nation watched

the final battle for our club began.

We fought him to a standstill. Fans United. All for one.

A nation's colours joined: a glorious sight.

And, finally, the stubborn, stony Archer moved his ground

and made way for our own collective Knight.

 

The battle's only just begun, but we have won the war.

Our club, though torn asunder, will survive.

And I salute each one of you who stood up and said NO!

And fought to keep the Albion alive.

And one day, when our new home's built,

and we are storming back

A bunch of happy fans without a care

We'll look back on our darkest hour and raise our glasses high

and say with satisfaction: we were there.

 

But first we have to face today. The hardest day of all.

Don't worry if you can't hold back the tears!

We must look to the future, in dignity and peace

as well as mourn our home of ninety years.

For me the Goldstone has an extra special memory

of the football soulmate I so briefly had.

He christened me John Charles and taught me to love the game.

This one's for Bill. A poet. And my dad.

Attila the Stockbroker’s latest collection Undaunted is just out and available here