The Seagulls have landed
-
Rugby Gooner
- Posts: 3421
- Joined: Sun Jan 16, 2011 8:25 pm
- Location: Rugby
The Seagulls have landed
I just saw the new Brighton and Hove Albion stadium on SSN.It looks impressive,and I think that the fans deserve it after all those years at The Withdean.I went to a few games at The Goldstone,and The Withdean when I lived there,and quite a few "Seagulls" follow Arsenal as well.I wish them well in their new home,(except for the inevitable Fat Boy Slim opening gig!!!),and I will make the effort to see a game or two there.They should also name one of the ends "The Perry Digweed Stand",legend!!!
-
olgitgooner
- Posts: 7431
- Joined: Fri Nov 16, 2007 12:39 am
- Location: Brexitland
It's a smashing stadium. With potential to expand if they need to.
There is no debt on the stadium. The owner paid the whole lot. (No possibility of a conspiracy theory there.
)
Season tickets all sold out quickly.
It's been a long wait for the new stadium. The club was sold down the river by the then owners over ten years ago. The *word censored*. The Goldstone ground became a retail park.
The Seagulls are flying high. I'm chuffed for them. They are my second club.
There is no debt on the stadium. The owner paid the whole lot. (No possibility of a conspiracy theory there.
)Season tickets all sold out quickly.
It's been a long wait for the new stadium. The club was sold down the river by the then owners over ten years ago. The *word censored*. The Goldstone ground became a retail park.
The Seagulls are flying high. I'm chuffed for them. They are my second club.
-
Rugby Gooner
- Posts: 3421
- Joined: Sun Jan 16, 2011 8:25 pm
- Location: Rugby
Agreed Olgitgooner!I remember the sell out.They even had a Lib Dem M.P.,(from Lewes I think), doing their PR for them.I made a point of having a piss up the wall of the B+Q that replaced The Goldstone Ground!!!olgitgooner wrote:It's a smashing stadium. With potential to expand if they need to.
There is no debt on the stadium. The owner paid the whole lot. (No possibility of a conspiracy theory there.
Season tickets all sold out quickly.
It's been a long wait for the new stadium. The club was sold down the river by the then owners over ten years ago. The c**ts. The Goldstone ground became a retail park.
The Seagulls are flying high. I'm chuffed for them. They are my second club.
I too always look on BHA with affection,and have some good memories,along with a few programmes.
-
Rosie_titters
- Posts: 5491
- Joined: Tue Nov 18, 2008 3:06 pm
- Location: Aberystwyth
-
Rugby Gooner
- Posts: 3421
- Joined: Sun Jan 16, 2011 8:25 pm
- Location: Rugby
-
Rosie_titters
- Posts: 5491
- Joined: Tue Nov 18, 2008 3:06 pm
- Location: Aberystwyth
-
Rugby Gooner
- Posts: 3421
- Joined: Sun Jan 16, 2011 8:25 pm
- Location: Rugby
correct mate.Rosie_titters wrote:yeah blew it in the final, but United fucked them up big style in the reply 4-0 i thinkRugby Gooner wrote:They very nearly did Man Utd in the F.A. Cup Final,(1983 I think).Rosie_titters wrote:trophy cabinet will be fucking bare, apart from Steve Foster white head band
"And Smith must score!!!"
-
Henry Norris 1913
- Posts: 8374
- Joined: Thu Jun 04, 2009 5:25 pm
-
Rugby Gooner
- Posts: 3421
- Joined: Sun Jan 16, 2011 8:25 pm
- Location: Rugby
Where's your evidence for that remark?Henry Norris 1913 wrote:thats what they want you to think. Only a fool or a c**t pussy would trust those pricksolgitgooner wrote:It's a smashing stadium. With potential to expand if they need to.
There is no debt on the stadium. The owner paid the whole lot. (No possibility of a conspiracy theory there.
A friend of mine is the match DJ at Brighton (Attila the Stockbroker - he plays old punk and ska)' He's also a poet - here is one of his poems.
GOLDSTONE GHOSTS
(Written on the occasion of the last ever match at the Goldstone Ground, Saturday April 26 1997. Our stadium was sold to moneymen by then chairman Bill Archer in one of the most disgraceful carve ups in football history. But as you will read here we fought, we saved our football club (in a brilliant example of community direct action at work!) and now we are on the way back......)
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.
GOLDSTONE GHOSTS
(Written on the occasion of the last ever match at the Goldstone Ground, Saturday April 26 1997. Our stadium was sold to moneymen by then chairman Bill Archer in one of the most disgraceful carve ups in football history. But as you will read here we fought, we saved our football club (in a brilliant example of community direct action at work!) and now we are on the way back......)
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.
A friend of mine is the match DJ at Brighton (Attila the Stockbroker - he plays old punk and ska)' He's also a poet - here is one of his poems.
GOLDSTONE GHOSTS
(Written on the occasion of the last ever match at the Goldstone Ground, Saturday April 26 1997. Our stadium was sold to moneymen by then chairman Bill Archer in one of the most disgraceful carve ups in football history. But as you will read here we fought, we saved our football club (in a brilliant example of community direct action at work!) and now we are on the way back......)
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.
GOLDSTONE GHOSTS
(Written on the occasion of the last ever match at the Goldstone Ground, Saturday April 26 1997. Our stadium was sold to moneymen by then chairman Bill Archer in one of the most disgraceful carve ups in football history. But as you will read here we fought, we saved our football club (in a brilliant example of community direct action at work!) and now we are on the way back......)
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.
-
Rugby Gooner
- Posts: 3421
- Joined: Sun Jan 16, 2011 8:25 pm
- Location: Rugby
He was at the forefront of the fans fight to keep the club going,I remember him well.Ran into him a few times in Brighton,but if memory serves,I think that he lived in Portslade,or Shoreham.Also seen him perform during B.U.F.F.,and The Brighton Festival.Top Bloke.Pistols wrote:A friend of mine is the match DJ at Brighton (Attila the Stockbroker - he plays old punk and ska)' He's also a poet - here is one of his poems.
GOLDSTONE GHOSTS
(Written on the occasion of the last ever match at the Goldstone Ground, Saturday April 26 1997. Our stadium was sold to moneymen by then chairman Bill Archer in one of the most disgraceful carve ups in football history. But as you will read here we fought, we saved our football club (in a brilliant example of community direct action at work!) and now we are on the way back......)
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.
I was at the last game at the Goldstone.I think that it was against Darlington,got the programme somewhere.
-
olgitgooner
- Posts: 7431
- Joined: Fri Nov 16, 2007 12:39 am
- Location: Brexitland
Stadium pictures here......
http://www.seagulls.co.uk/page/StadiumG ... 33,00.html
A bit like the Grove. But smaller. And less red.
http://www.seagulls.co.uk/page/StadiumG ... 33,00.html
A bit like the Grove. But smaller. And less red.
-
brazilianGOONER
- Posts: 9208
- Joined: Tue Jun 30, 2009 11:27 am
- Location: i think we're parked, man
- Contact:
beautiful stadiumolgitgooner wrote:Stadium pictures here......
http://www.seagulls.co.uk/page/StadiumG ... 33,00.html
A bit like the Grove. But smaller. And less red.
-
olgitgooner
- Posts: 7431
- Joined: Fri Nov 16, 2007 12:39 am
- Location: Brexitland
Both correct.Rosie_titters wrote:yeah blew it in the final, but United fucked them up big style in the reply 4-0 i thinkRugby Gooner wrote:They very nearly did Man Utd in the F.A. Cup Final,(1983 I think).Rosie_titters wrote:trophy cabinet will be fucking bare, apart from Steve Foster white head band
"And Smith must score!!!"
I went to the final. How Smith failed to score is beyond me.
Brighton could have been playing in Europe instead of the bastard mancs.
