Oh what a night!

Even Saints fans who “weren’t there” must be familiar with how the 1976 final played out on the pitch, and if not, there is plenty of available footage of the match and the subsequent presentation of the famous trophy to Peter Rodrigues. But what happened then? What was the journey home like and what was it like to be in Southampton that evening?

A few friends and I had gone to Wembley on “Steve Jewett’s coach” which departed from the Newlands Pub in Swaythling. Saints fans of a certain generation will remember Steve with affection. He was a well-known Saints fan and face around the town who sadly died a few years ago. His funeral was the best attended I have ever witnessed.

I have little memory of the journey home down the M3 – I think I was still in a daze scarcely believing we had actually won, but once back in Southampton, like nearly everyone else, myself and a friend made our way downtown where the only word to describe the scene that greeted us was pandemonium.

The streets were already gridlocked with stationary cars with passengers hanging out the windows and horns constantly tooting. Back then there was a beautiful large rose garden in front of the Civic Centre with a fountain in the middle, but the roses were now being trampled by the thousands of delirious fans who were hugging and kissing and chanting and even crying. It was a scene to behold and one that was, according to those who had witnessed both occasions, akin to VE Day back in 1945 (see cutting below).

Malc Lovejoy was another well-known Saints fan back in the 70s (he still hardly misses a match home or away) and had been working in South Africa, but made a special journey home for the big day. He went to Wembley by rail and can clearly recall arriving back at Soton Central and hailing a cab. Asking to be taken to the Spa Tavern the cabbie said: “that might take a while.” “Why,” asked Malc, “it’s only a mile away?” The taxi driver replied: “you haven’t seen the state of town – nothing is moving.” He wasn’t wrong, recalled Malc.

Also, on that cup final “special” train that rattled back into Southampton Central around 7:30 was Chris Newman who recalled “the streets outside the station were complete bedlam which I’ve not seen anything like before or since. Car horns blared in a constant, rhythmic cacophony and people danced in the middle of the road. Some of the stationary vehicles ended up with Saints fans, bedecked in club colours clambering up on to their roofs”.

Chris Read, then a mechanic at Wadhams, remembers dressing up for the big event totally daubed head to foot in blue and yellow cloth while wearing a top hat so preposterously big that he had to remove it before clambering into the Wembley-bound minibus, just outside his local, The Fitzhugh in Milton Rd. His abiding post-match memory came as he and his mates were climbing back into their transport in the Wembley car park. Who should walk past but ex-Arsenal goalkeeper Bob Wilson who was now a tv pundit. He had predicted a huge victory for United and Chris still shudders at the amount of verbal abuse he and his fellow travellers gave the unfortunate Wilson.

Back in Southampton, despite the drizzle, the party and celebrations raged into the small hours, but at some stage I decided it was time to walk to my home in Archers Rd. After all, we would have to do it all over again the following day. Accompanying me was my friend who lived in Carlton Place, opposite St Anne’s. At the time he was double dating two girls and had bumped into girl number two in town and the pair were arm in arm as we walked through Bedford Place. I must have been a few yards in front because, as we neared his house, I could see girl number one sitting on his garden wall looking mighty peeved. “Oh Dear,” I thought, “this is going to be interesting”. Alas I had no popcorn because, as it was, the next five minutes were nearly as exciting for me as watching Bobbly Stokes’ goal bounce past Stepney.

Reluctantly dragging myself away from the romantic mini drama behind me (he married girl #2 for those interested), I turned left into Archers Rd and, as I passed Banister School, I searched my pocket for my front door key. It was nowhere to be seen. I had fallen over in the Rose Gardens, and it must have taken leave of my pocket. I had to wake my poor mother to let me in and, never a football fan, she was far from amused.

The following Saturday myself and the same friend (he was still in one piece) made our way to St Mary’s where Zac the tattooist resided. We parted with £1 each and Zac duly inked a pin man onto both our legs. For the last half century, it’s been a constant reminder of a day and night I will never forget, and a front door key forever buried in the Rose Gardens.

Duncan Holley