Saints v Skates - Sunday 14th Sept 12pm

[Charlie Wayman]

6 minutes ago, SotonianWill said:

They really are peculiar. No other fanbase has their amount of made up stories. It takes the playground bullsh*tter to a higher level.

 

For such an attention-less, laid-back fanbase such as ours, it’s a shock that down the road we have such an antithesis: the pick me attitude of the average Portsmouth Season Ticket sewage dweller needs to be studied. 

Sorry Will but I haven't a clue what you are rabbiting on about. A peculiar post.

[SotonianWill]

4 minutes ago, Charlie Wayman said:

Sorry Will but I haven't a clue what you are rabbiting on about. A peculiar post.

Pass the phone back

[Football Special]

32 minutes ago, LGTL said:

Just a warning to all that the Portsmyths are starting. Apparently we can’t sell out the game, despite easily selling out last week. The lengths they go to is quite incredible and get more desperate with each derby. Who remembers the socks filled with snooker balls during the Goldsmith walk in 2019? No, me neither. 

They really are a fucking weird bunch. 

Yep they cannot fucking help themselves with some jackanory story telling can they, no doubt they'll then claim it's only a sell out as they've bought loads in the home end (despite the fact they've all been crying about the ticket price and it actually dropped quite low on their loyalty points to get a ticket) 

 

 

[Toadhall Saint]

56 minutes ago, LGTL said:

Just a warning to all that the Portsmyths are starting. Apparently we can’t sell out the game, despite easily selling out last week. The lengths they go to is quite incredible and get more desperate with each derby. Who remembers the socks filled with snooker balls during the Goldsmith walk in 2019? No, me neither. 

They really are a fucking weird bunch. 

Desperate weirdos - should be thankful of day out to civilisation 

[EssEffCee]

1 hour ago, LGTL said:

Just a warning to all that the Portsmyths are starting. Apparently we can’t sell out the game, despite easily selling out last week. The lengths they go to is quite incredible and get more desperate with each derby. Who remembers the socks filled with snooker balls during the Goldsmith walk in 2019? No, me neither. 

They really are a fucking weird bunch. 

Let me guess - we struggled to sell out as every single Saints fan is terrified of them 😂

Proper odd balls the lot of them.

I can't wait to see an interview with a fan next week about how his great grandfather lost his job because of us.

[Pamplemousse]

2 hours ago, LGTL said:

Just a warning to all that the Portsmyths are starting. Apparently we can’t sell out the game, despite easily selling out last week. The lengths they go to is quite incredible and get more desperate with each derby. Who remembers the socks filled with snooker balls during the Goldsmith walk in 2019? No, me neither. 

They really are a fucking weird bunch. 

We had higher attendances as a League 1 team in the same season they were in the Prem.

It's just a major embarrassment for them to even talk about it.

I guarantee you, for every northern away game, we will take more fans than them.

I can't find it but does anyone have that infamous picture of their fans at a Prem game at Wigan where they had barely 100 people? The next season we sold out the away end entirely.

[RedArmy]

 

[Rivers]

This will be a particularly emotional Derby for me.

My Dad is sadly close to losing his extremely long and drawn out battle with cancer.

His initial diagnosis gave him just four months to live, but eleven years, three heart attacks, triple bypass surgery, and one hip replacement later -- he is still here, fighting. Dad is one tough fucker, and simply refused to die, no matter what the doctors told him. Unfortunately however, even he has limits to his apparent immortality, and his time is fast running out. 

As a lifelong loyal Saint, from going with his own dad as a kid, to what he called the "glory days" of carnage with Dougal's infamous crew, to raising his own son on this Southampton obsession, the thought of just one more impending battle with the fishy few was extremely tantalizing, even at his grand old age of eighty.

"Wheel me down there!" He implored. "I can still take some of the fuckers out!" 

He has been desperately trying to hold on, for one last dramatic derby day clash with the dirty cheating skate bastards, but despite his enduring will to fight on, his body has begun to shut down, and he is not going to make it. 

As you would expect from any good father, it was my dear old Dad who instilled my deep-seated seething hatred of p*rtsm*th from an early age, but unfortunately for me, as it happens, not quite early enough. 

I had never really seen my Dad truly angry before. Sure, sometimes things might occasionally mildly piss him off, but he had never once properly lost his temper with me. Even if I'd done something particularly naughty as a child, he would always chastise me with a calm and respectful authority, treating me as an intelligent human being, by gently explaining the error of my ways, and how he expected me to behave differently in future. He was an excellent father.

But this time was different, as my sin was apparently a particularly cardinal one. 

It was a late Saturday afternoon, when I was around eight years old. We had Season tickets at The Dell in the West Stand, right next to the old Away fans cage. But couldn't travel far away due to another of Dad's health issues. Anyway, Dad was outside working on his car, listening to Saints away on his car radio. I was in my room, and also listening to the end of the match on Solent. As was often the way, our matches seemed to always finish just before p*mpey's, and Solent Sport would switch over to the last few minutes of their game when Saints has finished.

Up until this point, having been well raised to support my local team, and with Solent seeming to want both sides to do well, I also naively liked all our local teams to win. I knew Dad had no love for the skates, but to date, had never really got into why. But I was about to find out!

Just as my Dad was (unknown to me) coming into my room to share the joy of a Saints away win with me, p*mpey scored a late winner, and I jumped up and cheered! Needless to say, he went absolutely apoplectic! Ranting and raving for an eternity, just like this little guy! --> 

I had never been so scared! He completely lost his rag.

That was the beginning of my severe education on all the numerous reasons as to why "no son of mine will EVER support that fucking shite down the road!" 

He had many pearls of wisdom to share.

Such as, "god" putting p*rtsm*uth on an island for very good reasons, so as its six fingered sister fucking inbreds were unable to contaminate the rest of the country -- and it being "man's greatest sin"  to have connected it to the mainland.

During our very important educational talk, it was also impressed upon me, that if such a place as Hell existed, and I was ever caught celebrating a p*rtsm*uth goal again, he would do everything in his power to find its location, and "cast me into the Lake of Fire his fucking-self!"

I also learned that he could never really take the bible too seriously, due to the fact that if "God" had really wrote it himself -- there was no way in hell that "Thou Shalt Not Support P*rtsm*uth" would not have made it into the list of Ten Commandments. And the first of them at that! 

Suffice it to say, I learned my lessons very well, and never committed such a heinous sin again.

 

A healthy bit of happy reminiscing, at such a sad time is ultimately good for the soul.

But, let there be no doubt in any Saints player's mind, that this derby really is serious business. 

My Dad is so weak now, that he is no longer even able to speak. And yet, yesterday, when he still just about could, and I asked him if there was anything we could do for him, these were the very last words that he spoke:

"We... have to...

(he paused to gather his last reserves of energy to speak)

 

beat those........ fish fucking cunts!!!"

 

That is how much this game means. Of all the things he could have chosen to use his vitally important last words to say, dear old Dad's dying wish, was that we smash these dirty, cheating, fish-fucking skate bastards, one last time, for him!

It is not "just a football match." It is not about football.

It is not even just a derby or a rivalry. It is about so much more than that.

It is intense, deep-seated inter-city hatred, and full on Tribal Warfare!

And -- in the immortal last words of my dying father...

We simply have to beat these fish-fucking cunts!!!

 

Edited Friday at 22:28 by Rivers
We HAVE to beat those FISH-FUCKING CUNTS!!!

[Andrew Watson]

A beautiful post and boy has your tough,brave father got his priorities right. Wishing your family all the best in such sad circumstances.

[SW11_Saint]

23 minutes ago, Rivers said:

This will be a particularly emotional Derby for me.

My Dad is sadly close to losing his extremely long and drawn out battle with cancer.

His initial diagnosis gave him just four months to live, but eleven years, three heart attacks, triple bypass surgery, and one hip replacement later -- he is still here, fighting. Dad is one tough fucker, and simply refused to die, no matter what the doctors told him. Unfortunately however, even he has limits to his apparent immortality, and his time is fast running out. 

As a lifelong loyal Saint, from going with his own dad as a kid, to what he called the "glory days" of carnage with Dougal's infamous crew, to raising his own son on this Southampton obsession, the thought of just one more impending battle with the fishy few was extremely tantalizing, even at his grand old age of eighty.

"Wheel me down there!" He implored. "I can still take some of the fuckers out!" 

He has been desperately trying to hold on, for one last dramatic derby day clash with the dirty cheating skate bastards, but despite his enduring will to fight on, his body has begun to shut down, and he is not going to make it. 

As you would expect from any good father, it was my dear old Dad who instilled my deep-seated seething hatred of p*rtsm*th from an early age, but unfortunately for me, as it happens, not quite early enough. 

I had never really seen my Dad truly angry before. Sure, sometimes things might occasionally mildly piss him off, but he had never once properly lost his temper with me. Even if I'd done something particularly naughty as a child, he would always chastise me with a calm and respectful authority, treating me as an intelligent human being, by gently explaining the error of my ways, and how he expected me to behave differently in future. He was an excellent father.

But this time was different, as my sin was apparently a particularly cardinal one. 

It was a late Saturday afternoon, when I was around eight years old. We had Season tickets at The Dell in the West Stand, right next to the old Away fans cage. But couldn't travel far away due to another of Dad's health issues. Anyway, Dad was outside working on his car, listening to Saints away on his car radio. I was in my room, and also listening to the end of the match on Solent. As was often the way, our matches seemed to always finish just before p*mpey's, and Solent Sport would switch over to the last few minutes of their game when Saints has finished.

Up until this point, having been well raised to support my local team, and with Solent seeming to want both sides to do well, I also naively liked all our local teams to win. I knew Dad had no love for the skates, but to date, had never really got into why. But I was about to find out!

Just as my Dad was (unknown to me) coming into my room to share the joy of a Saints away win with me, p*mpey scored a late winner, and I jumped up and cheered! Needless to say, he went absolutely apoplectic! Ranting and raving for an eternity, just like this little guy! --> 

I had never been so scared! He completely lost his rag.

That was the beginning of my severe education on all the numerous reasons as to why "no son of mine will EVER support that fucking shite down the road!" 

He had many pearls of wisdom to share.

Such as, "god" putting p*rtsm*uth on an island for very good reasons, so as its six fingered sister fucking inbreds were unable to contaminate the rest of the country -- and it being "man's greatest sin"  to have connected it to the mainland.

During our very important educational talk, it was also impressed upon me, that if such a place as Hell existed, and I was ever caught celebrating a p*rtsm*uth goal again, he would do everything in his power to find its location, and "cast me into the Lake of Fire his fucking-self!"

I also learned that he could never really take the bible too seriously, due to the fact that if "God" had really wrote it himself -- there was no way in hell that "Thou Shalt Not Support P*rtsm*uth" would not have made it into the list of Ten Commandments. And the first of them at that! 

Suffice it to say, I learned my lessons very well, and never committed such a heinous sin again.

 

A healthy bit of happy reminiscing, at such a sad time is ultimately good for the soul.

But, let there be no doubt in any Saints player's mind, that this derby really is serious business. 

My Dad is so weak now, that he is no longer even able to speak. And yet, yesterday, when he still just about could, and I asked him if there was anything we could do for him, these were the very last words that he spoke:

"We... have to...

(he paused to gather his last reserves of energy to speak)

 

beat those........ fish fucking cunts!!!"

 

That is how much this game means. Of all the things he could have chosen to use his vitally important last words to say, dear old Dad's dying wish, was that we smash these dirty, cheating, fish-fucking skate bastards, one last time, for him!

It is not "just a football match." It is not about football.

It is not even just a derby or a rivalry. It is about so much more than that.

It is intense, deep-seated inter-city hatred, and full on Tribal Warfare!

And -- in the immortal last words of my dying father...

We simply have to beat these fish-fucking cunts!!!

 

So sorry to hear this, but thank you for the post. He’s sounds a great Dad and a great Saints fan. Let’s hope we do it for him on Sunday week👊😇

[Patches O Houlihan]

Thank you for such a well written heartfelt post. Difficult to write I’m sure.

But so powerful that I would be surprised if it isn’t read out by Captain Jack to the team on the morning of the game - which would no doubt please your dad immensely. 

[benjii]

What were his final words....?

 

"Fish fucking cunts!"

 

😂

 

Fair play. Let's smash the freaks.

[S-Clarke]

That's an amazing post Rivers, I'm sorry for what you're going through.

Thank you for taking the time and effort to share that, even though it must have been hard. It was so beautifully articulated and should find it's way to club figures.

[sockeye]

Rivers you are a great storyteller. Thanks for posting. Hope the team does us and your late Dad proud.

[64saint]

Great post Rivers, am so sorry for what you and your family are going through.  Maybe your post should be printed out and pinned on the changing room wall to show what this game means to those not quite so familiar with the South coast rivalry.  And yes, I'm also of the age that can remember Dougal's infamous crew.

Edited Saturday at 09:19 by 64saint

[Saint_clark]

Thank you for sharing Rivers. I lost my old man during the COVID pandemic and much like your story he instilled the love of Saints in me. I still feel him close to me every time Saints score and that momentary burst of passion and joy explodes from within. Every time we get a goal that feeling reminds me of standing next to him at the football jumping, cheering and hugging.

I'm sure you'll still feel yours with you in those moments too. 

[sfc4prem]

11 hours ago, Rivers said:

This will be a particularly emotional Derby for me.

My Dad is sadly close to losing his extremely long and drawn out battle with cancer.

His initial diagnosis gave him just four months to live, but eleven years, three heart attacks, triple bypass surgery, and one hip replacement later -- he is still here, fighting. Dad is one tough fucker, and simply refused to die, no matter what the doctors told him. Unfortunately however, even he has limits to his apparent immortality, and his time is fast running out. 

As a lifelong loyal Saint, from going with his own dad as a kid, to what he called the "glory days" of carnage with Dougal's infamous crew, to raising his own son on this Southampton obsession, the thought of just one more impending battle with the fishy few was extremely tantalizing, even at his grand old age of eighty.

"Wheel me down there!" He implored. "I can still take some of the fuckers out!" 

He has been desperately trying to hold on, for one last dramatic derby day clash with the dirty cheating skate bastards, but despite his enduring will to fight on, his body has begun to shut down, and he is not going to make it. 

As you would expect from any good father, it was my dear old Dad who instilled my deep-seated seething hatred of p*rtsm*th from an early age, but unfortunately for me, as it happens, not quite early enough. 

I had never really seen my Dad truly angry before. Sure, sometimes things might occasionally mildly piss him off, but he had never once properly lost his temper with me. Even if I'd done something particularly naughty as a child, he would always chastise me with a calm and respectful authority, treating me as an intelligent human being, by gently explaining the error of my ways, and how he expected me to behave differently in future. He was an excellent father.

But this time was different, as my sin was apparently a particularly cardinal one. 

It was a late Saturday afternoon, when I was around eight years old. We had Season tickets at The Dell in the West Stand, right next to the old Away fans cage. But couldn't travel far away due to another of Dad's health issues. Anyway, Dad was outside working on his car, listening to Saints away on his car radio. I was in my room, and also listening to the end of the match on Solent. As was often the way, our matches seemed to always finish just before p*mpey's, and Solent Sport would switch over to the last few minutes of their game when Saints has finished.

Up until this point, having been well raised to support my local team, and with Solent seeming to want both sides to do well, I also naively liked all our local teams to win. I knew Dad had no love for the skates, but to date, had never really got into why. But I was about to find out!

Just as my Dad was (unknown to me) coming into my room to share the joy of a Saints away win with me, p*mpey scored a late winner, and I jumped up and cheered! Needless to say, he went absolutely apoplectic! Ranting and raving for an eternity, just like this little guy! --> 

I had never been so scared! He completely lost his rag.

That was the beginning of my severe education on all the numerous reasons as to why "no son of mine will EVER support that fucking shite down the road!" 

He had many pearls of wisdom to share.

Such as, "god" putting p*rtsm*uth on an island for very good reasons, so as its six fingered sister fucking inbreds were unable to contaminate the rest of the country -- and it being "man's greatest sin"  to have connected it to the mainland.

During our very important educational talk, it was also impressed upon me, that if such a place as Hell existed, and I was ever caught celebrating a p*rtsm*uth goal again, he would do everything in his power to find its location, and "cast me into the Lake of Fire his fucking-self!"

I also learned that he could never really take the bible too seriously, due to the fact that if "God" had really wrote it himself -- there was no way in hell that "Thou Shalt Not Support P*rtsm*uth" would not have made it into the list of Ten Commandments. And the first of them at that! 

Suffice it to say, I learned my lessons very well, and never committed such a heinous sin again.

 

A healthy bit of happy reminiscing, at such a sad time is ultimately good for the soul.

But, let there be no doubt in any Saints player's mind, that this derby really is serious business. 

My Dad is so weak now, that he is no longer even able to speak. And yet, yesterday, when he still just about could, and I asked him if there was anything we could do for him, these were the very last words that he spoke:

"We... have to...

(he paused to gather his last reserves of energy to speak)

 

beat those........ fish fucking cunts!!!"

 

That is how much this game means. Of all the things he could have chosen to use his vitally important last words to say, dear old Dad's dying wish, was that we smash these dirty, cheating, fish-fucking skate bastards, one last time, for him!

It is not "just a football match." It is not about football.

It is not even just a derby or a rivalry. It is about so much more than that.

It is intense, deep-seated inter-city hatred, and full on Tribal Warfare!

And -- in the immortal last words of my dying father...

We simply have to beat these fish-fucking cunts!!!

 

I lost my Dad suddenly and unexpectedly back in June. He got me hooked on Saints, too.

Keep on continuing his legacy by being yourself.

Thoughts are with you, mate.

[BARCELONASAINT]

Rivers, you summed up everything i have shared with my son and you made me reminisce about the games i went to with my own father. I don't mind admitting i had tears in my eyes reading your post. I hope for your dad and every Saints fan we smash that lot down the road! 

[Football Special]

12 hours ago, Rivers said:

This will be a particularly emotional Derby for me.

My Dad is sadly close to losing his extremely long and drawn out battle with cancer.

His initial diagnosis gave him just four months to live, but eleven years, three heart attacks, triple bypass surgery, and one hip replacement later -- he is still here, fighting. Dad is one tough fucker, and simply refused to die, no matter what the doctors told him. Unfortunately however, even he has limits to his apparent immortality, and his time is fast running out. 

As a lifelong loyal Saint, from going with his own dad as a kid, to what he called the "glory days" of carnage with Dougal's infamous crew, to raising his own son on this Southampton obsession, the thought of just one more impending battle with the fishy few was extremely tantalizing, even at his grand old age of eighty.

"Wheel me down there!" He implored. "I can still take some of the fuckers out!" 

He has been desperately trying to hold on, for one last dramatic derby day clash with the dirty cheating skate bastards, but despite his enduring will to fight on, his body has begun to shut down, and he is not going to make it. 

As you would expect from any good father, it was my dear old Dad who instilled my deep-seated seething hatred of p*rtsm*th from an early age, but unfortunately for me, as it happens, not quite early enough. 

I had never really seen my Dad truly angry before. Sure, sometimes things might occasionally mildly piss him off, but he had never once properly lost his temper with me. Even if I'd done something particularly naughty as a child, he would always chastise me with a calm and respectful authority, treating me as an intelligent human being, by gently explaining the error of my ways, and how he expected me to behave differently in future. He was an excellent father.

But this time was different, as my sin was apparently a particularly cardinal one. 

It was a late Saturday afternoon, when I was around eight years old. We had Season tickets at The Dell in the West Stand, right next to the old Away fans cage. But couldn't travel far away due to another of Dad's health issues. Anyway, Dad was outside working on his car, listening to Saints away on his car radio. I was in my room, and also listening to the end of the match on Solent. As was often the way, our matches seemed to always finish just before p*mpey's, and Solent Sport would switch over to the last few minutes of their game when Saints has finished.

Up until this point, having been well raised to support my local team, and with Solent seeming to want both sides to do well, I also naively liked all our local teams to win. I knew Dad had no love for the skates, but to date, had never really got into why. But I was about to find out!

Just as my Dad was (unknown to me) coming into my room to share the joy of a Saints away win with me, p*mpey scored a late winner, and I jumped up and cheered! Needless to say, he went absolutely apoplectic! Ranting and raving for an eternity, just like this little guy! --> 

I had never been so scared! He completely lost his rag.

That was the beginning of my severe education on all the numerous reasons as to why "no son of mine will EVER support that fucking shite down the road!" 

He had many pearls of wisdom to share.

Such as, "god" putting p*rtsm*uth on an island for very good reasons, so as its six fingered sister fucking inbreds were unable to contaminate the rest of the country -- and it being "man's greatest sin"  to have connected it to the mainland.

During our very important educational talk, it was also impressed upon me, that if such a place as Hell existed, and I was ever caught celebrating a p*rtsm*uth goal again, he would do everything in his power to find its location, and "cast me into the Lake of Fire his fucking-self!"

I also learned that he could never really take the bible too seriously, due to the fact that if "God" had really wrote it himself -- there was no way in hell that "Thou Shalt Not Support P*rtsm*uth" would not have made it into the list of Ten Commandments. And the first of them at that! 

Suffice it to say, I learned my lessons very well, and never committed such a heinous sin again.

 

A healthy bit of happy reminiscing, at such a sad time is ultimately good for the soul.

But, let there be no doubt in any Saints player's mind, that this derby really is serious business. 

My Dad is so weak now, that he is no longer even able to speak. And yet, yesterday, when he still just about could, and I asked him if there was anything we could do for him, these were the very last words that he spoke:

"We... have to...

(he paused to gather his last reserves of energy to speak)

 

beat those........ fish fucking cunts!!!"

 

That is how much this game means. Of all the things he could have chosen to use his vitally important last words to say, dear old Dad's dying wish, was that we smash these dirty, cheating, fish-fucking skate bastards, one last time, for him!

It is not "just a football match." It is not about football.

It is not even just a derby or a rivalry. It is about so much more than that.

It is intense, deep-seated inter-city hatred, and full on Tribal Warfare!

And -- in the immortal last words of my dying father...

We simply have to beat these fish-fucking cunts!!!

 

Think Will Still needs you in that dressing room pre match to say a few words,  all the best to you and your old man 

[Football Special]

3 hours ago, benjii said:

What were his final words....?

 

"Fish fucking cunts!"

 

😂

 

Fair play. Let's smash the freaks.

Reminds me of this Birmingham lad who passed away recently, his final wish was for his pals to sing shit on the villa at his funeral, cannot beat English football culture 

 

[CeeBee]

16 hours ago, Rivers said:

This will be a particularly emotional Derby for me.

My Dad is sadly close to losing his extremely long and drawn out battle with cancer.

His initial diagnosis gave him just four months to live, but eleven years, three heart attacks, triple bypass surgery, and one hip replacement later -- he is still here, fighting. Dad is one tough fucker, and simply refused to die, no matter what the doctors told him. Unfortunately however, even he has limits to his apparent immortality, and his time is fast running out. 

As a lifelong loyal Saint, from going with his own dad as a kid, to what he called the "glory days" of carnage with Dougal's infamous crew, to raising his own son on this Southampton obsession, the thought of just one more impending battle with the fishy few was extremely tantalizing, even at his grand old age of eighty.

"Wheel me down there!" He implored. "I can still take some of the fuckers out!" 

He has been desperately trying to hold on, for one last dramatic derby day clash with the dirty cheating skate bastards, but despite his enduring will to fight on, his body has begun to shut down, and he is not going to make it. 

As you would expect from any good father, it was my dear old Dad who instilled my deep-seated seething hatred of p*rtsm*th from an early age, but unfortunately for me, as it happens, not quite early enough. 

I had never really seen my Dad truly angry before. Sure, sometimes things might occasionally mildly piss him off, but he had never once properly lost his temper with me. Even if I'd done something particularly naughty as a child, he would always chastise me with a calm and respectful authority, treating me as an intelligent human being, by gently explaining the error of my ways, and how he expected me to behave differently in future. He was an excellent father.

But this time was different, as my sin was apparently a particularly cardinal one. 

It was a late Saturday afternoon, when I was around eight years old. We had Season tickets at The Dell in the West Stand, right next to the old Away fans cage. But couldn't travel far away due to another of Dad's health issues. Anyway, Dad was outside working on his car, listening to Saints away on his car radio. I was in my room, and also listening to the end of the match on Solent. As was often the way, our matches seemed to always finish just before p*mpey's, and Solent Sport would switch over to the last few minutes of their game when Saints has finished.

Up until this point, having been well raised to support my local team, and with Solent seeming to want both sides to do well, I also naively liked all our local teams to win. I knew Dad had no love for the skates, but to date, had never really got into why. But I was about to find out!

Just as my Dad was (unknown to me) coming into my room to share the joy of a Saints away win with me, p*mpey scored a late winner, and I jumped up and cheered! Needless to say, he went absolutely apoplectic! Ranting and raving for an eternity, just like this little guy! --> 

I had never been so scared! He completely lost his rag.

That was the beginning of my severe education on all the numerous reasons as to why "no son of mine will EVER support that fucking shite down the road!" 

He had many pearls of wisdom to share.

Such as, "god" putting p*rtsm*uth on an island for very good reasons, so as its six fingered sister fucking inbreds were unable to contaminate the rest of the country -- and it being "man's greatest sin"  to have connected it to the mainland.

During our very important educational talk, it was also impressed upon me, that if such a place as Hell existed, and I was ever caught celebrating a p*rtsm*uth goal again, he would do everything in his power to find its location, and "cast me into the Lake of Fire his fucking-self!"

I also learned that he could never really take the bible too seriously, due to the fact that if "God" had really wrote it himself -- there was no way in hell that "Thou Shalt Not Support P*rtsm*uth" would not have made it into the list of Ten Commandments. And the first of them at that! 

Suffice it to say, I learned my lessons very well, and never committed such a heinous sin again.

 

A healthy bit of happy reminiscing, at such a sad time is ultimately good for the soul.

But, let there be no doubt in any Saints player's mind, that this derby really is serious business. 

My Dad is so weak now, that he is no longer even able to speak. And yet, yesterday, when he still just about could, and I asked him if there was anything we could do for him, these were the very last words that he spoke:

"We... have to...

(he paused to gather his last reserves of energy to speak)

 

beat those........ fish fucking cunts!!!"

 

That is how much this game means. Of all the things he could have chosen to use his vitally important last words to say, dear old Dad's dying wish, was that we smash these dirty, cheating, fish-fucking skate bastards, one last time, for him!

It is not "just a football match." It is not about football.

It is not even just a derby or a rivalry. It is about so much more than that.

It is intense, deep-seated inter-city hatred, and full on Tribal Warfare!

And -- in the immortal last words of my dying father...

We simply have to beat these fish-fucking cunts!!!

 

Great post Rivers. Sorry to hear about your Dad. 

[Football Special]

On 05/09/2025 at 17:01, LGTL said:

Just a warning to all that the Portsmyths are starting. Apparently we can’t sell out the game, despite easily selling out last week. The lengths they go to is quite incredible and get more desperate with each derby. Who remembers the socks filled with snooker balls during the Goldsmith walk in 2019? No, me neither. 

They really are a fucking weird bunch. 

It would be nice when the teams walk out and the Northam End unveils the tifo banner if it just says "WE STOLE YOUR FOOD" 

 

[Badger]

9 minutes ago, Football Special said:

It would be nice when the teams walk out and the Northam End unveils the tifo banner if it just says "WE STOLE YOUR FOOD" 

 

Is ‘Jack’ posting that short for Jackanory ?

What a load of bollocks. Wasn’t there also a Ports’myth’ about someone trying to divert a river - at Hamble - to deprive them of a watercourse at some stage in history as well ?

 

[Saint Fan CaM]

@Rivers - thanks for sharing your story…tough time. I lost my Dad just over a year and a half ago - still miss talking about Saints with him. He used to keep clippings of Saints stories from the Echo for me - never had the heart to tell him I’d already read it all on-line. Yeah, you’ll never stop missing your Dad - make the most of the time you have left.

[Wade Garrett]

On 05/09/2025 at 23:21, Rivers said:

This will be a particularly emotional Derby for me.

My Dad is sadly close to losing his extremely long and drawn out battle with cancer.

His initial diagnosis gave him just four months to live, but eleven years, three heart attacks, triple bypass surgery, and one hip replacement later -- he is still here, fighting. Dad is one tough fucker, and simply refused to die, no matter what the doctors told him. Unfortunately however, even he has limits to his apparent immortality, and his time is fast running out. 

As a lifelong loyal Saint, from going with his own dad as a kid, to what he called the "glory days" of carnage with Dougal's infamous crew, to raising his own son on this Southampton obsession, the thought of just one more impending battle with the fishy few was extremely tantalizing, even at his grand old age of eighty.

"Wheel me down there!" He implored. "I can still take some of the fuckers out!" 

He has been desperately trying to hold on, for one last dramatic derby day clash with the dirty cheating skate bastards, but despite his enduring will to fight on, his body has begun to shut down, and he is not going to make it. 

As you would expect from any good father, it was my dear old Dad who instilled my deep-seated seething hatred of p*rtsm*th from an early age, but unfortunately for me, as it happens, not quite early enough. 

I had never really seen my Dad truly angry before. Sure, sometimes things might occasionally mildly piss him off, but he had never once properly lost his temper with me. Even if I'd done something particularly naughty as a child, he would always chastise me with a calm and respectful authority, treating me as an intelligent human being, by gently explaining the error of my ways, and how he expected me to behave differently in future. He was an excellent father.

But this time was different, as my sin was apparently a particularly cardinal one. 

It was a late Saturday afternoon, when I was around eight years old. We had Season tickets at The Dell in the West Stand, right next to the old Away fans cage. But couldn't travel far away due to another of Dad's health issues. Anyway, Dad was outside working on his car, listening to Saints away on his car radio. I was in my room, and also listening to the end of the match on Solent. As was often the way, our matches seemed to always finish just before p*mpey's, and Solent Sport would switch over to the last few minutes of their game when Saints has finished.

Up until this point, having been well raised to support my local team, and with Solent seeming to want both sides to do well, I also naively liked all our local teams to win. I knew Dad had no love for the skates, but to date, had never really got into why. But I was about to find out!

Just as my Dad was (unknown to me) coming into my room to share the joy of a Saints away win with me, p*mpey scored a late winner, and I jumped up and cheered! Needless to say, he went absolutely apoplectic! Ranting and raving for an eternity, just like this little guy! --> 

I had never been so scared! He completely lost his rag.

That was the beginning of my severe education on all the numerous reasons as to why "no son of mine will EVER support that fucking shite down the road!" 

He had many pearls of wisdom to share.

Such as, "god" putting p*rtsm*uth on an island for very good reasons, so as its six fingered sister fucking inbreds were unable to contaminate the rest of the country -- and it being "man's greatest sin"  to have connected it to the mainland.

During our very important educational talk, it was also impressed upon me, that if such a place as Hell existed, and I was ever caught celebrating a p*rtsm*uth goal again, he would do everything in his power to find its location, and "cast me into the Lake of Fire his fucking-self!"

I also learned that he could never really take the bible too seriously, due to the fact that if "God" had really wrote it himself -- there was no way in hell that "Thou Shalt Not Support P*rtsm*uth" would not have made it into the list of Ten Commandments. And the first of them at that! 

Suffice it to say, I learned my lessons very well, and never committed such a heinous sin again.

 

A healthy bit of happy reminiscing, at such a sad time is ultimately good for the soul.

But, let there be no doubt in any Saints player's mind, that this derby really is serious business. 

My Dad is so weak now, that he is no longer even able to speak. And yet, yesterday, when he still just about could, and I asked him if there was anything we could do for him, these were the very last words that he spoke:

"We... have to...

(he paused to gather his last reserves of energy to speak)

 

beat those........ fish fucking cunts!!!"

 

That is how much this game means. Of all the things he could have chosen to use his vitally important last words to say, dear old Dad's dying wish, was that we smash these dirty, cheating, fish-fucking skate bastards, one last time, for him!

It is not "just a football match." It is not about football.

It is not even just a derby or a rivalry. It is about so much more than that.

It is intense, deep-seated inter-city hatred, and full on Tribal Warfare!

And -- in the immortal last words of my dying father...

We simply have to beat these fish-fucking cunts!!!

 

Post of the century.  Best wishes to you and your family.

[AlexLaw76]

On 02/09/2025 at 18:41, Appy said:

Wouldn’t be surprised at all if Jelert replaces Manning for this one, especially with Manning away, Jelert obviously hasn’t been brought in as a back up. 

This is not going to happen is it, not unless Manning is injured

[Appy]

14 minutes ago, AlexLaw76 said:

This is not going to happen is it, not unless Manning is injured

Definitely could do, if they’ve been working on shape on moving into a four when Manning is away, I know he’s scored two free kicks but defensively he’s been suspect. 

[Nordic Saint]

15 hours ago, Football Special said:

It would be nice when the teams walk out and the Northam End unveils the tifo banner if it just says "WE STOLE YOUR FOOD" 

 

We've got a lot more historical facts we could use if we wanted to, like when Parliamentarian Southampton defeated Royalist Portsmouth in the English Civil War. When Portsmouth was attacked from the west, the Pompey Royalists either ran away or surrendered.

The truth is though that these Portsmyths started from the 1970s onwards and most of them, including the dock strike originated even more recently in the 1990s. It was created as a spoof story in a Pompey fanzine, called Frattonize, in which Southampton Corporation Union Men broke a strike by Portsmouth Fish Corporation workers. 

At my first derby game, in 1966, I was with Dougal's mob in the Fratton End and there wasn't a single Pompey fan who'd even thought of shouting Scum or Scummer. The derby wasn't even considered a big game back then so there were swathes of empty terraces at Fratton Park, which meant Saints fans could march around three sides of the ground, unopposed.

Any history they don't like, they've reinvented, like the origin of their nickname, which came from their pink shirt colour, resulting in them being called Pompadour Pinks then just Pompey. They now claim all sorts of heroic legends like brave men from Portsmouth climbing Pompey's Pillar in Egypt, which is total bullsh!t.

A lot of these Portsmyths became established as 'facts' after a pre-match interview Colin Farmery gave to the Guardian before one of our derby games.

Edited 21 hours ago by Nordic Saint

[Nordic Saint]

10 minutes ago, Nordic Saint said:

 

 

Edited 22 hours ago by Nordic Saint
Duplicate post

[Nordic Saint]

45 minutes ago, Nordic Saint said:

 

 

Edited 21 hours ago by Nordic Saint
Duplicate post

[Rivers]

Thank you for all the kind messages.

Sadly, Dad has gone. In the early hours of the morning, with Mum by his side.

I don't want to take up any more of the thread with sadness, but thought you would want to know.

We've known he was going for so long, and the last few weeks have been a rapid decline, but the hardest thing to take, is after cheating death for eleven years, he couldn't hang on, for just one more week.

 

What a way to go that would've been. You can just wait the fuck right there Mr. Reaper, until I've watched us smash these skate bastards one last time, and only then -- will I be ready!

Yet it was not to be.

 

Sorry for the melancholic interlude. Focusing back onto the topic itself, there is something else I have found to be quite special about our Derby with these filthy fish fucking cunts. There is a kind of "possessiveness" about it that has developed over the years. With Bournemouth and Brighton both trying to stoke their own competative rivalries with us in recent times, in particular the Cherries, seeming almost desperate for us to hate them as much as their irrational and highly manufactured 'hatred' for us.

Yet we wanted none of it. Insisting on our hatred only for the fishy few. As much as we cannot stand them, and vice versa, it is almost a grudging acceptance that the existence of the other somehow actually enhances our own footballing existence. As much as a part of me would have loved to see the cheating cunts get the justice they truly deserved for their temporary ill-gotten past successes, and have gone to the wall -- how much richer are our Saints supporting lives, to experience the indescribable passion and fervour that only the sheer intensity of these special derby games bring about?

And the knowledge that (until last week at least) the only times that low-life bottom-feeding scum of a club have been above us in the league system, was due to the sickening trail of "collateral damage" left in their wake, makes victory even sweeter. As they gleefuly burned their way through the the seedy coffers of the loan shark and russian mafia, pissed away the life savings of those poor Lithuanian pensioners, dipped into the Public Purse to the tune of a few hundred million for written off taxes and bad debts like it was their own private equity fund; and of course not to forget the legacy of all those poor maimed African kids from Arcadi Gaydamak's land mines.

They didn't give a fuck where all that filthy lucre came from, just so long as they could splash it around care free on players they could never afford, to get some shiny tat they didn't deserve into the trophy cabinate.

Filthy festering cesspit of a club. Cannot wait to smash the fuck out them next Sunday!

 

Bring it on! 

 

[RedArmy]

Sorry for your loss, Rivers. He sounded like a great man. 
 

At least he’ll have the best seat in the house when we smash those cunts next Sunday.

[Gloucester Saint]

@Rivers so sorry for your loss

Edited 16 hours ago by Gloucester Saint

[Saint_lambden]

2 hours ago, Rivers said:

 

And the knowledge that (until last week at least) the only times that low-life bottom-feeding scum of a club have been above us in the league system, was due to the sickening trail of "collateral damage" left in their wake, makes victory even sweeter. As they gleefuly burned their way through the the seedy coffers of the loan shark and russian mafia, pissed away the life savings of those poor Lithuanian pensioners, dipped into the Public Purse to the tune of a few hundred million for written off taxes and bad debts like it was their own private equity fund; and of course not to forget the legacy of all those poor maimed African kids from Arcadi Gaydamak's land mines.

They didn't give a fuck where all that filthy lucre came from, just so long as they could splash it around care free on players they could never afford, to get some shiny tat they didn't deserve into the trophy cabinate.

 

Don't forget them owing money to charities like St John Ambulance. 

Sorry for your passing. Here's hoping we do it for your dad. 

[LaptopSaint]

20 hours ago, Football Special said:

It would be nice when the teams walk out and the Northam End unveils the tifo banner if it just says "WE STOLE YOUR FOOD" 

 

We stole all your food
We stole all your food

We are Southampton

We stole all your food 

 

Who gives a fuck what the Pompey scum say or think. Let’s get down there nice and early on Sunday, flares-banners-welcoming party for the coach-whatever, bring the hostility and fucking smash them. And let’s do it for everyone, including Rivers’ Dad. 

[Gloucester Saint]

6 minutes ago, Saint_lambden said:

Don't forget them owing money to charities like St John Ambulance. 

Sorry for your passing. Here's hoping we do it for your dad. 

That was vile, bad enough that their gun running owners swizzed local SMEs but to do it to St John’s Ambulance…

Still not forgiven them for interrupting the Bates silence (although stupid of Lowe to have given them the opportunity).

[Harry_SFC]

On 03/09/2025 at 19:33, saintant said:

I'm guessing we'll change to 4231. I think Will Still is going to be quite conservative when it comes to introducing new faces so expect to see something along the lines of;

Baz 

Mads THB Stephens Manning

Downes Charles

Fellows Azaz Fraser

Archer

I'd rather bring in Scienza, Janders and Jelert but the fact that Still has so far persisted with 3 at the back makes me think he is far more conservative than I expected. So my starting team would be;

Baz

Mads THB Stephens Jelert

Janders Charles

Fellows Azaz Scienza

Archer

 

Totally agree with this. I would probably play your first line up on Sunday but the second one looks good on paper for the longer term. 

My main deliberation was Downes or Jander. Mainly because it's very likely Downes gets booked early on and puts himself under unnecessary pressure straight away.

[goodymatt]

@Rivers very sorry for your loss. Sending best wishes to your family at this difficult time.

I wanted to thank you for sharing your story, it was brilliantly worded and you and your dad are a credit to the Saints fan base. Like others, I hope your story is shared with the team before this huge game next Sunday. 

Let’s win this game for your Dad 😇

[saintnick]

@Rivers let’s win it for your dad, keep strong fella, you have every Saint behind you 

[steve green]

On 06/09/2025 at 21:08, Football Special said:

It would be nice when the teams walk out and the Northam End unveils the tifo banner if it just says "WE STOLE YOUR FOOD" 

 

 

Looks like she could do with someone limiting her carb intake.

 

Southampton, cheaper than Manjaro

[benjii]

13 hours ago, Harry_SFC said:

Totally agree with this. I would probably play your first line up on Sunday but the second one looks good on paper for the longer term. 

My main deliberation was Downes or Jander. Mainly because it's very likely Downes gets booked early on and puts himself under unnecessary pressure straight away.

Indeed. I'd go Jander. Downes can come on later.

[Saint_clark]

13 hours ago, Harry_SFC said:

Totally agree with this. I would probably play your first line up on Sunday but the second one looks good on paper for the longer term. 

My main deliberation was Downes or Jander. Mainly because it's very likely Downes gets booked early on and puts himself under unnecessary pressure straight away.

I think having Jander and Scienza as "unknowns" off the bench is a good idea, especially as they'll hopefully be sat there soaking up an intense atmosphere and be really up for making themselves immediate heroes when they come on.

[Pamplemousse]

I would go

McCarthy (we all know it will be Baz)

Mads Stephens THB Manning

Downes Charles

Fellows Azaz Fraser

Archer

Scienza to cause havoc off the bench, although hopefully we'll be 3-0 up by then

[goodymatt]

Derby week is here 😇

[Midfield_General]

23 minutes ago, Pamplemousse said:

I would go

McCarthy (we all know it will be Baz)

Mads Stephens THB Manning

Downes Charles

Fellows Azaz Fraser

Archer

Scienza to cause havoc off the bench, although hopefully we'll be 3-0 up by then

Yep, that will do for me. Jander, Matsuki, Scienza, Robinson, Stewart as options off the bench. 

[trousers]

26 minutes ago, Pamplemousse said:

I would go

McCarthy (we all know it will be Baz)

Mads Stephens THB Manning

Downes Charles

Fellows Azaz Fraser

Archer

Scienza to cause havoc off the bench, although hopefully we'll be 3-0 up by then

Yep, pretty sure that's what Still will start with 👍🏻