A very Gosport Borough New Year's Eve

Tonight we're gonna party like it's 2025...

I would like to apologise. When I started this newsletter, I honestly thought we’d get past four editions by the end of 2024. Really, truly, I did, I swear. Unfortunately, life has got in the way recently and for that, I am very sorry.

It’s particularly annoying as over the time it’s been away, this club’s fan culture has blossomed into its best-ever state. I talk about this a lot, but over the past few years, there’s been some away games where it’s just been me and a few other complete maniacs there. Now, thanks to the tireless work of the Supporters’ Club, we have the best travelling support in the league. This will never not be uplifting and everyone responsible deserves endless shots of Tequila Rose.

To round off this excellent year I considered writing something semi-serious, but my brain has unfortunately been rotted away by seven consecutive days on the piss over Christmas. So, instead, please sit back and enjoy some absolutely unhinged creative writing that is likely to repulse, delight and stimulate in unequal measure. This is what Privett Life imagines the Gosport Borough squad might get up to if they all met up for a New Year’s pub crawl down Albert Road…

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Charlie Wassmer:

Arrives several hours before anyone else. By the time the lads rock up, his shimmering blonde hair is barely visible behind a truckload of empty Carling glasses and half-eaten packets of MR.PORKEY Scratchings. It’s like some weird urban art exhibition. “Boysssss, how the fuck are we doing?!” he bellows at a volume simply not acceptable for that stage in the evening. “Yeah, I got the fucking hall pass from the missus, so thought I’d come down early and check out the lay of the land.” Cue manic laughter.

Incredibly, regardless of the amount of Burton-on-Trent brewed lager he quaffs, Charlie remains on this frenzied level all night long. In pub number three, he keeps asking Finn to chuck him the limes the staff have foolishly left out on the bar. He heads each one away for the ferocity of a maniac, shouting ‘CHARLIE’S UP!’ at a volume that is simply not acceptable for that stage in the evening. One disintegrates mid-air and goes into a nice, young woman's eye.

“Sorry about that,” Kitman John explains. “He’s not quite been the same since that own goal against Worthing.” His night ends with a kebab greasy enough to take down a government.

Rory Williams:

The self-appointed ‘leader’ of the pub crawl. He turns up with 16 printed-out maps which he’s spent the last three days crafting in meticulous detail. He keeps telling people which beer to order. There’s a lot of chat about barley malting, which province each beverage originates from and why Madri is actually quite shit, actually. No one is listening, of course.

In pub two he spends 40 minutes explaining the intricacies of house insurance to Harry Lee. The young Brighton loanee is desperately looking for someone to save him, but everyone keeps their eyes glued to the floor. “I’m not talking to him about property surveys again, for fuck’s sake,” Tarbs thinks.

While no one wants to speak to him, he does know the closing times of every pub down Albert Road and the best entry point to get served quickest at each bar, so the lads begrudgingly invite him back next year. Just don’t bring the fucking maps mate, it’s embarrassing and they’re just going to get covered in lime pulp again.

Joe Morrison:

Rocks up late, is accosted by a group of young mums out for a night without the kids and is never seen again. Rumours persist that they asked him if he played for Portsmouth and Joe simply never bothered to correct them.

Danny Hollands:

Is right on time, to the absolute second. Orders a coffee in pub one and a green tea in pub two. Kav tries to give him banter about the latter and he just stares him down. He doesn’t even have to say anything, Harry quickly apologises. In fact, no one can remember him uttering a word all night.

Cameron Murray:

Just an absolute fucking animal. A king-pin pint chopper. Always manages to get served first and always gets his round in. Maintains a splendid buzz all night long. Everyone is loving him. Then, some mush calls him ‘shortarse’ in Popworld, and Cam kills him, unarmed, in three seconds flat. The police aren’t able to press charges. He’s very press resistant, you see. (That was a football joke).

Asher Yearwood:

This isn’t his usual stomping ground, but he still manages to bump into someone he knows in every pub. Documents the entire evening on Instagram stories. Everyone agrees he’s on his phone too much, but he’s the only one who can score a penalty so they’re too afraid to say anything. Pulls in Popworld, of course.

Paul Agbeseyi:

Spends the entire evening arguing with Asher about who the best-looking in the squad is. Keeps insisting everyone gets early-bird entry for Tiger Tiger and is devastated when he learns it closed in 2019.

Jake Cope:

Insists on drinking strawberry daiquiris all evening. Becomes very irate when Henry Spalding spills Dark Fruits on his expensive trainers.

Alfie Stanley:

A measured, considered start to proceedings, but his night soon degenerates—mainly thanks to the corrupting influence of Dan Wooden, who keeps buying him shots of tequila. After 9pm he exclusively introduces himself as the white Pelé and a few hours later he recreates Lomana LuaLua’s backflip celebration down the entire length of Albert Road. He and Kav consider prank calling Danny Cowley, but eventually think better of it.

Ayo Faniyan:

Claims on the group chat that he can’t make it. Then, much to his horror, he bumps into the whole squad in pub number three. Charlie keeps getting him in a ‘playful’ headlock, as Ayo desperately tries to sneak away to the actually good New Year’s house party he’s been invited to. Pretends not to hear Rory’s six offers to DJ at the event.

Brad Tarbuck:

A seasoned sessioner around these parts, he spends the entire evening drinking Malibu and Coke and solving problems. There’s an issue with Harry Lee’s ID outside Drift, but Tarbs knows the bouncer. Wassmer is threatened with being placed on Portsmouth Pub Watch for smoking inside Lord John Russell’s, but Tarbs knows the owner. He even rings ahead at the Akash and gets them to leave some samosas outside the front door just when the vibe was dipping. Ends the night looking around Afters and muttering: “I really must get away from these idiots,” just as the DJ plays Sweet Caroline for the third time and Kav wrestles him into an ill-deserved mosh pit.

Harry Kavanagh:

Hangs on Tarbs’ every word. He laughs extra loud at his jokes, orders the exact same drink as him at all times and keeps asking him what it was like to play at Step 1. Also keeps asking landlords if they’ve thought of turning their pubs into multi-occupancy student houses and sneaks off to drink Huel between each pint.

The defining moment of his New Year’s Eve comes in the One Eyed Dog. A student approaches him asking if he’s the Harry Kavanagh. He’s ready to go into humble appreciation mode, before the little shit blerts out: “I just wanted to say, I think you’re fucking shite.” Kav is floored. The student walks back to a table, and receives a crisp £20 note from Mark Molesley, who laughs evilly before departing into the night to look up Step 4 analyst jobs on Indeed.

Harry Medway:

Turns up against the advice of his physio and drinks at a steady rate of one Guinness per half hour. Pays £10 for two balloons in the Astoria smoking area and keeps requesting the DJ plays fred again. Medway is the last one standing at 6am in Afters.

Harvey Rew:

Stalks the squad from pub to pub, gazing longfully through the window whenever they make a stop off without ever going in. He checks his phone. Missed call from Michael Birmingham. The tears start flowing and he heads to the night ferry.

Finn Walsh-Smith & Zak Sharp:

Both opt to forgo a trip over the water and venture into Emma’s, where they both have a Nando’s style black card. They try to chat with Rewy but he’s inconsolable. Zak gets pissed and keeps telling people he taught Finn everything he knows.

Dan Wooden:

Turns up to the first pub limping and insisting he’s only staying for one. Ends up in the karaoke bar down Albert Road 12 drinks deep and shouting: “What sort of fucking place is this if you’ve not even got Live Forever?” They do have it, of course, he’s just too wankered to work the machine.

Rafa Ramos:

Gatecrashes proceedings at the Ship Anson, screams: “HAS ANYONE SEEN LUKE CAIRNEY?!” over the crackling karaoke PA and then darts off again into the Portsmouth night.

The Goalkeeper’s Union:

All the goalkeepers we’ve used this season are packed into one of those massive booths at the Wetherspoons down Palmerston Road. Max Evans was supposed to join, but he was removed from the group chat at the last minute. James Bracking orders some small plates, but the mood is a little sombre. James keeps texting the outfielders to ask where they are, but no one is replying. Matt keeps saying he’s going to become a proper journalist. “I really think I had Pat and Joe in the corner after that Winchester game.” James orders three more small plates as Ryan Gosney announces he’s off to Totton’s New Year’s Eve party.

Iain McInnes:

Two bottles of red wine accompany some expertly cooked turbot—after which he tries calling Alex Lafleur again. Still no answer. “For fuck sake, looks like Rory for the rest of the season then.”

Craig Stainton:

A night in to get ahead on next season’s paperwork. In the corner of his living room is a dart board with an image of Callum Ward’s agent pinned up. It’s taken so much arrows-based punishment, you can barely see his face anymore.

Pat Suraci & Joe Lea:

Obviously, these boring bastards have not attended. Instead, they’re in Joe’s garage, just like every evening. Their only company is a blood-stained camping table, which is completely covered in muscle tissue and USBs containing footage of Frome Town defending set pieces. Pat ambles bleary eyed over to a fuse box and pulls the handle. 8,000 volts race through some flesh harvested from their latest murder victim. It twitches ever so slightly. It’s alive. “FINALLY,” Pat shrieks. “Ring Fitch and tell him he’s back on the bench. Dan Wooden’s new hamstring is ready!” To celebrate, they both practice that dead-behind-the-eyes look in the mirror for their New Year’s Day post-match interview.

I make no apologies for typos, it’s been a very long year. In the words of the legendary Ryan Woodford: SEE YOU AT THE NEXT GAME X