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brighton palace feud origins
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Arthur Scrimshaw
New member
This is a question I am often asked, so whilst I am relaxing in the drawing room perusing my scrapbook of Association Football memories, a glass of fine port to hand, a quality cheese board and a pouch filled with high grade shag for my meerschaum, I shall tell it. If paradise was half as nice.
Anyway, I remember the day with the utmost clarity. It was just after the war when myself, Buttered Bread, Young Lad of Pale Ale, the Stanster, Tommy Cook’s the Messiah, the Ephemeral Optician and Doris from Lancing met up one fine Saturday morning outside Higgins’ Beef and Dripping Shop in Artillery Street. We were all in fine fettle as we’d spent the previous evening having our ribs relentlessly tickled by the genius of Reggie Blinkinsop and his Wardrobe of Mirth show at the Hippodrome. Stanster was able to recite the whole ‘Kaiser Wilhelm’s bicycle clips’ sketch without pausing for breath whilst the Ephemeral Optician rubbed his hands with glee (he always kept a pot for such an occasion) when he located the sheet music for Reggie’s song ‘By Jove Mrs Ollerenshaw you’ve squashed my pomegranates’.
Thus with spirits already high we nipped into the Bellman’s End public house near the station for liquid refreshment. In a canny move Buttered Bread produced a pack of cheap Bulgarian cigarettes he had stolen from his father and handed them round. By lighting up in front of the barman we were able to fool him thinking we were old enough to purchase intoxicating alcoholic beverages. Between bouts of lung bursting hacking (enough to frighten some of the regulars into thinking we had tuberculosis) we ordered 6 pints of Brown Ale and a milk stout to lubricate our throats for the forthcoming match. In between Stanster reciting Reggie’s sketches and Young Lad of Pale Ale pointing out the devious unshaven hack in the trilby sitting in the corner as Hartley Naylor, the sports reporter, from the West Sussex Agricultural Gazette our conversation centred round the Albion’s then wunderkid, Norbert ‘Nobby’ Thrubwell, a fine winger whose step over action consistently fooled the defences of Division Three (South).
Heady with alcoholic intoxication and the after effects of a fag that contained 95% nicotine we headed down Conroy Street, passing Lord and Lady Burgess-Hill and their valet Simpkins deferentially carrying his lordship’s rattle, and turned into Fonthill Road. Approaching us from the other direction were 6 or 7 Palace chappies. IN the customary fashioned we doffed our caps and introduced ourselves. Most of them seemed affable normal young men, however, included in their entourage was a surly chap with a large forehead, wearing an unbuttoned shirt sans tie. I could immediately tell that this person was a delinquent with a future of petty thievery ahead of him who had no respect for his place in society. Whilst covertly whispering this fact to Buttered Bread he caught my eye and demanded, in a way that suggested some inbreeding of relations had occurred one or two generations ago, that I repeat to him what I had told Buttered Bread. I demurred but he was insistent and growing angrier by the minute. His chums attempted to becalm him but to little avail. Meanwhile, his brow was furrowing, his face reddening and globules of spittle were running down the sides of his mouth. He began to make reference to scented handkerchiefs we inquired about the still limited indoor household lavatorial facilities in Croydon. The abuse then started in earnest. One of them called The Ephemeral Optician a twit he retorted by calling the abuser a nincompoop. I covered Doris’ ears fearful that each others parentage would be severely questioned. Young Lad of Pale Ale and Tommy Cook’s the Messiah removed their jackets, caps and ties and gave them to Doris to hold and began to roll up their sleeves in readiness for the now inevitable fisticuffs. The Palace chaps had also removed said garments and tried to hand them to Doris, but she refused having been upset by the delinquent’s lewd reference concerning her ankles. As none of their entourage wished to look ladylike by holding clothes in their arms they threw them on the floor.
It was at this point that PC Norris Cheesewright wondered into the tunnel pushing his bicycle. Taking stock of the situation immediately, he propped his bike against the wall, strode towards us and demanded we stop. He then proceeded to clip everybody around the ear, noted all of our names and addresses and promised to write individually to each of our fathers. Our good humour immediately evaporated and we dejectedly trooped out of the tunnel knowing that a good rollicking and a slipper (or belt) awaited each of our posteriors. Even a 5-3 victory to the Albion with Nobby scoring a hat trick would not lift our spirits.
We sullenly looked at each other as we parted. We would be telling each of our pals and word would soon get round.
Anyway, I remember the day with the utmost clarity. It was just after the war when myself, Buttered Bread, Young Lad of Pale Ale, the Stanster, Tommy Cook’s the Messiah, the Ephemeral Optician and Doris from Lancing met up one fine Saturday morning outside Higgins’ Beef and Dripping Shop in Artillery Street. We were all in fine fettle as we’d spent the previous evening having our ribs relentlessly tickled by the genius of Reggie Blinkinsop and his Wardrobe of Mirth show at the Hippodrome. Stanster was able to recite the whole ‘Kaiser Wilhelm’s bicycle clips’ sketch without pausing for breath whilst the Ephemeral Optician rubbed his hands with glee (he always kept a pot for such an occasion) when he located the sheet music for Reggie’s song ‘By Jove Mrs Ollerenshaw you’ve squashed my pomegranates’.
Thus with spirits already high we nipped into the Bellman’s End public house near the station for liquid refreshment. In a canny move Buttered Bread produced a pack of cheap Bulgarian cigarettes he had stolen from his father and handed them round. By lighting up in front of the barman we were able to fool him thinking we were old enough to purchase intoxicating alcoholic beverages. Between bouts of lung bursting hacking (enough to frighten some of the regulars into thinking we had tuberculosis) we ordered 6 pints of Brown Ale and a milk stout to lubricate our throats for the forthcoming match. In between Stanster reciting Reggie’s sketches and Young Lad of Pale Ale pointing out the devious unshaven hack in the trilby sitting in the corner as Hartley Naylor, the sports reporter, from the West Sussex Agricultural Gazette our conversation centred round the Albion’s then wunderkid, Norbert ‘Nobby’ Thrubwell, a fine winger whose step over action consistently fooled the defences of Division Three (South).
Heady with alcoholic intoxication and the after effects of a fag that contained 95% nicotine we headed down Conroy Street, passing Lord and Lady Burgess-Hill and their valet Simpkins deferentially carrying his lordship’s rattle, and turned into Fonthill Road. Approaching us from the other direction were 6 or 7 Palace chappies. IN the customary fashioned we doffed our caps and introduced ourselves. Most of them seemed affable normal young men, however, included in their entourage was a surly chap with a large forehead, wearing an unbuttoned shirt sans tie. I could immediately tell that this person was a delinquent with a future of petty thievery ahead of him who had no respect for his place in society. Whilst covertly whispering this fact to Buttered Bread he caught my eye and demanded, in a way that suggested some inbreeding of relations had occurred one or two generations ago, that I repeat to him what I had told Buttered Bread. I demurred but he was insistent and growing angrier by the minute. His chums attempted to becalm him but to little avail. Meanwhile, his brow was furrowing, his face reddening and globules of spittle were running down the sides of his mouth. He began to make reference to scented handkerchiefs we inquired about the still limited indoor household lavatorial facilities in Croydon. The abuse then started in earnest. One of them called The Ephemeral Optician a twit he retorted by calling the abuser a nincompoop. I covered Doris’ ears fearful that each others parentage would be severely questioned. Young Lad of Pale Ale and Tommy Cook’s the Messiah removed their jackets, caps and ties and gave them to Doris to hold and began to roll up their sleeves in readiness for the now inevitable fisticuffs. The Palace chaps had also removed said garments and tried to hand them to Doris, but she refused having been upset by the delinquent’s lewd reference concerning her ankles. As none of their entourage wished to look ladylike by holding clothes in their arms they threw them on the floor.
It was at this point that PC Norris Cheesewright wondered into the tunnel pushing his bicycle. Taking stock of the situation immediately, he propped his bike against the wall, strode towards us and demanded we stop. He then proceeded to clip everybody around the ear, noted all of our names and addresses and promised to write individually to each of our fathers. Our good humour immediately evaporated and we dejectedly trooped out of the tunnel knowing that a good rollicking and a slipper (or belt) awaited each of our posteriors. Even a 5-3 victory to the Albion with Nobby scoring a hat trick would not lift our spirits.
We sullenly looked at each other as we parted. We would be telling each of our pals and word would soon get round.
