Becoming involved within the inner circles of football, bless it, has given me some moments of pure genius with the rich, powerful and famous. As well as others not so rich but nonetheless not lacking in notoriety.
I sometimes have had to pinch myself looking back at little incidents I’ve found myself embroiled in over the years which had they involved normal run of the mill people just wouldn’t have contained any comedy content.
I suppose one of the more notable tales, with apologies to those I have previously regaled it to, was my phoning Harry Redknapp for a Chinese takeaway.
At the time Harry was new to Pompey having just come in as Director of Football, and I’d only recently installed his mobile number in my phone. Sitting in the Old House at Home in Havant at 10.00pm on the dot I phoned what I thought was the Havant Chinese Centre.
I should explain that for almost 40 years since I was at school the Havant Chinese Centre was owned and generally run by a Chinese guy called Pete, admittedly not the most exotic oriental name you will come across, who in that time had hardly ever missed a day that I can remember.
I first came upon him in 1974 when my youth leader Andy Sangster used to send me down after school for his curry in return for letting me play free games on the pinball machine till the youth club officially opened at 7.00.
Pete was an ever present whether you entered through the door or phoned up to make an order in advance.
So when on this occasion I got this gruff cockney voice answer I was a wee bit perplexed to not hear the familiar tones of Pete but nevertheless preceded with my order of Chicken Curry, Egg Fried Rice and Chips.
The response of ‘who the f-----g hell is that ‘ alerted me to the fact that I probably had the wrong number.
Confirmed when I looked down at my phone in horror which revealed that I’d phoned Harry, the immediate contact above Havant Chinese. I quickly disconnected comforted by the fact that Harry was probably unfamiliar with things like call-back and I wonder if he ever mentioned it to anyone but certainly didn’t to me.
Years later there was another phone incident with Harry who by now had gone on to manage Tottenham Hotspur. I had left him a message regarding saying a few words for Linvoy Primus’s testimonial game to be put in the programme.
One thing about Harry was that he would always return a call and true to form whilst I was in another pub, the Curlew, he did having just got off a plane from Spurs pre-season tour.
During the conversation he said what I understood to be “Has Linvoy still got a job”?
So I replied “Yes Harry he is now the club ambassador”.
“What does that entail” came the slightly bemused reply.
“He promotes the club, appears at functions, hands out awards and gives motivational speeches” said I.
There was a silence at the other end whilst Harry digested this before a realization dawned and he exclaimed: “No John I said dog not job, has Linvoy still got a dog”.
Given his brief pause it was easy to imagine Harry’s mind ticking over for a matter of seconds thinking: “Bloody hell Linvoy has a dog which hands out awards and gives motivational speeches, I wonder if he’ll sell it”.
I also had my fair bit of fun with Milan Mandaric too. Very early on in his ownership we had a supporters’meeting that dragged on to a really late hour.
At the end his offer to drive me home was gratefully accepted but when we approached Wetherspoons in Havant I said: “It’s just over there Milan.”
For the benefit of anyone not acquainted with the building it is the former benefits office and is a really long room which is always well populated the whole length down.
Milan looking through one of the many windows studied it for a few seconds before proclaiming with completely straight face: “Johnny you have a big home there and an equally big family”.
On another occasion I was sitting in my office and my attention had been caught on the television I had in the corner by an episode of Little House on the Prairie.
It was a particularly poignant moment where little Laura Ingalls had fallen off her horse and was hovering between life and death.
The fact I’d actually seen it before and knew full well Laura recovered didn’t make the moment any less dramatic.
At that moment Milan came in with some letters from supporters that he wanted some advice on but I was engrossed.
He took a look at the screen with a pained expression on his face before disappearing back upstairs saying he would be back.
To this day I never found out whether the pained expression was down to him finding me watching television, engrossed in Little House or because he himself was concerned for Laura’s welfare.
All I can say is when I went up to check on him 5 minutes later his door was closed with instructions not to be disturbed.
I often suspect to this day he had closed the door and switched on Little House to discover little Laura Ingall’s fate.
Then there was the first time I met the infamous Daniel Azougy when working late we left the office at the same time.
At this juncture I had no idea of his background or anything else other than he seemed an important cog in the wheel.
As we parted ways, the lights all having been switched off, I handed him what I thought to be my business card which he put in his pocket.
On getting back to Fratton Station I discovered that I had in fact handed him my return train ticket to Havant.
Given he was another that never brought it up I can only conclude he had either never looked at it, or otherwise taken advantage of a free train trip to Havant.
And how can I forget the arrival of one Suleiman al Fahim to Fratton Park.
Certainly not me as I was waiting in Havant Health Centre for a blood pressure check when PR manager Gary Double phoned me asking me to get supporter groups down to Fratton Park in the next two hours to meet a mega rich Arab on the verge of buying the club.
The combined thought of having to get groups together in a matter of two hours and a billionaire Arab buying Pompey had my head in a spin.
I was actually on the phone as I walked into the consulting room and on checking my blood pressure a look of concern came over the Doctor who said: “Blimey it’s going through the roof.”
I immediately had to explain why it didn’t surprise me at which time he forgot all about my state of health and spent the next fifteen minutes grilling me on what this now meant to the club.
My state of health was not improved when with the fans somehow gathered and put in a sweltering hot room for a mid-day meeting they preceded to wait and glance at their watches periodically as afternoon came and almost went.
At around 4.30 a man in jeans with holes in them came through the main door at the front of the building where I was now waiting, and as he tried to pass me I explained to him that he couldn’t go any further because a supporters meeting was in progress.
Seconds later Peter Storrie in hot pursuit came through the door and announced that this was indeed Mr Fahim.
With no apology for being over four hours late it’s fair to say that the meeting was as uninspiring as I’d ever heard for one which I’d nearly killed myself to put on.
It didn’t really surprise me having been privy to this meeting that things became as farcical as they did as they gradually unfurled.
But you know when I look back on it all football has given me some unique experiences that very few occupations could come close to matching. And for that I remain eternally grateful.