Sweet Caroline
Thursday’s an odd day. At around 18:00 BST, Di’shon Bernard (you can’t beat a name with an apostrophe) scored an own goal as Manchester United lost 2-1 to Astana in the Europa League. The player in question played against us in 2011/12 for Sutton Schools’ U11s. We won 6-0.
At about 21:30 BST, Joe Denly walked out for England cricket in the second test against New Zealand at Hamilton. Denly represented Canterbury Schools’ U11s back in the day, but didn’t play against us or ever threaten to do so.
At around 22:00 BST, I opened the weekly Citizen to check out the history of sport section and discovered a photograph of Croatia Testudine, oddly titled Sebastian Brockbank (‘played well’). The point of all this is that if either of these fine fellows finishes up playing football for Manchester United or cricket for England, there’s a fair chance it’ll be the other one whose name lights up the ‘Coming to Gloucester soon’, GPSFA honours board.
On to Saturday, and there’s a fair covering of frost lining the streets around GL2. The Groundsman’s pretty reliable in this sort of weather as coming to the pavilion first thing means he doesn’t need to switch the heating on at home; he can also grab a coffee for free with The Chef still on the night shift and the till in the back of his van.
‘Satisfactory’ is a relative thing, but in groundsman’s terms, GR’s current medical condition falls somewhere in this unassuming category; there’s the odd problem with his gall bladder, a recurring issue with both his small and large intestine and whatever comes between the two (medium intestine?), eleven ingrowing toenails, the onset of gout and a pretty nasty pain in his gluteus maximus, so all things considered, he’s feeling a lot better than usual.
The Chairman’s Wife has donned the navy blue apron and is assisting The Chef in the Longlevens hot house, meaning she can keep a close eye on the flapjacks but more pertinently, on The Chairman’s efforts to snaffle a few ‘for this afternoon’s family party.’ Let’s hope he doesn’t read this as if he does, there might be a different sort of party where people dance around a P45, waving their arms in the air and barking out ‘Sweet Caroline’ with a gusto that would make Neil Diamond consider immediate retirement.
Mother Butcher has turned up for Game One donning her purple ears, which are a bit like Purple Bricks but without the mortgage implications. Mother Hine is resplendent in GPSFA scarf and almost matching headgear, a fine accoutrement which is often worn by people walking their dog in the Sahara on a Sunday afternoon. Mother Bennett’s also wearing her black & yellow scarf, together with a pair of those very strange gloves that keep your palms warm, but ensure your fingers are riddled with frostbite and threaten to drop off around midday.
Next to her, Father Bennett proudly displays his X-Blades Hartpury bobble, clearly an early Christmas present from his brother-in-law whose inside knowledge meant he was able to buy it in early July before the prices were doubled in mid-October. Father Ansermoz is wearing his impressive Saturday beard and pseudo-commando hat, a combination which makes him look a bit like Colonel Stavrou in the Guns of Navarone, while Mother Beaumont’s and Mother Simpson’s jackboots place them at the top of the cliff on which Stavrou met his untimely end. Thinking about it, it might just have been them that shot him.
The changing room’s not much warmer than the patio outside, where the temperature’s shot up to a balmy Diana Ross and Bevan spends most of his pre-match transformation shivering in the far corner. Hine meanwhile has removed his tie, shirt and jumper, arranged all three beautifully in a creaseless pile in the middle of the floor and proceeds to stand on them to complete his mid-morning makeover. Beaumont as always is the first to get ready, but today he’s even quicker than usual. After thirty seconds of quiet celebration on hearing he’s going to be sub, Testudine pulls on thirteen layers and a pair of sheepskin gloves before nodding quietly to himself that most clouds have a silver lining. Or in this case, a thermal one.
Brockbank and Curtis complete their preparations by slipping surreptitiously into the gents to rearrange their follicles in the powder room’s unforgiving mirror, which is still recovering following the groundsman’s visit a couple of hours earlier.
Newbury had eased to a convincing win in the reverse fixture just thirty five days previously, but, determined to erase that memory as swiftly as possible, the hosts make a blistering start. With just three minutes gone, Bennett plays in Triple A-plus-two who, for the second week running, finishes with such calm that it makes one wonder whether meditation sessions should be made compulsory for all squad members in the hours leading up to kick-off.
Not so calm though is Father Hine who, three minutes after the opening goal, sees Young Will receive a neat pass from Triple A-plus-two and rifle a left-foot drive into the top corner to double the advantage and elicit a bout of ‘Sweet Caroline’ minus the words on the far touchline.
Bevan thumps in the third after Bennett’s effort is blocked and there still aren’t ten minutes on the clock, though Coach Wilson’s brief foray into happiness is tempered when Newbury respond almost immediately. Thankfully, no-one’s party to his satanic thoughts as Beaumont’s warming up by the corner flag and Croose has decided to stay on Sissons Road and spend the day lying on the fluffy red rug in front of a Guy-Fawkian fire.
There are chances at both ends before the hosts make it four just before the break; good work from Milton and Bevan sees the ball worked to Bennett, whose all-seeing eye picks out Hine and its 4-1 at the very happy interval. Brockbank, who’s temporarily retired from the fray rejoices in true captain’s fashion, our erstwhile skipper demonstrating that leadership is as much about what happens off the pitch as it does when you’re wandering around on it.
Beaumont and Curtis who are operating either side of Simmo during the second half provide a disciplined and resolute back line in front of Big Ben, whose time-keeping skills are not quite as advanced as his handling, which is very good throughout. Whenever he takes a goal kick and sends the ball towards a green jersey, he raises his right hand and opens his palm, suggesting its five minutes since he last did this, but everyone knows this isn’t quite true.
Our goalkeeper does have a third use for his right palm however; with three minutes remaining he is seen slapping the ground in frustration, though no-one’s quite sure whether this is due to Newbury scoring a late second, or the fact that he wasn’t given a GPSFA hat in training last night - as instead of braving the elements at OSP, he was lying forlornly at home while ‘Doing a Croose’.
The goal is only a consolation for Newbury however as five minutes earlier, Ali’s determination and Bennett’s vision had given William the opportunity to conquer at the far post and complete his treble, meaning another Neil Diamond rendition broke out just in front of the main stand – and this time it contained all five verses.
There’s back slapping and footwear removal in the inner sanctum afterwards. Milton is so pleased with himself for wearing a pair of not-far-off black boots that he actually turns his kit the right way out for a change and only Bevan has his returned due to a minor problem with the cuffs. The un-fragrant-like aroma of the knotted socks tells us our number six is responsible for this abomination too, and it’s only the whiff from within that gives away the fact that it’s Simmo’s boots that are lurking down by the litter bin, the defender’s very clever idea of rubbing mud all over the hideous pink coating to disguise their natural vue désagréable, being thwarted only by something that you can sense but cannot see.
The Lens is in a good mood, having ignored the Newbury parents and concentrated on the players instead, eventually selling thirty quid’s worth of team photos in a perfectly executed ‘Two for the Price of Three’ scam. Success is printed all over his pound-sign eyes as he suggests a ‘You can drive’ visit to Evesham in the afternoon and his day gets even better when Andy Birchley beats him to the burger queue at ten to three and supplies the three of us with our post-meridian injection of health food.
Over at Gala Wilton, Father Hine struts his stuff as Hardwicke win 3-0 in front of 41 hardy souls to move into ninth place in the County League and there’s a celebratory feel about Silver Birch Villas this evening. As the legendary rugby union commentator, Bill Mclaren might well have suggested, ‘They’ll be singing in the (Quedgeley) valleys tonight.’ Neil Diamond, one assumes, would be distinctly unimpressed.
Gloucester A: Big Ben; Pink Alert; Captain Brockbank, JC; Milton, Bevan, Bennett, William the Conqueror; Triple A; Croatia Testudine.
At about 21:30 BST, Joe Denly walked out for England cricket in the second test against New Zealand at Hamilton. Denly represented Canterbury Schools’ U11s back in the day, but didn’t play against us or ever threaten to do so.
At around 22:00 BST, I opened the weekly Citizen to check out the history of sport section and discovered a photograph of Croatia Testudine, oddly titled Sebastian Brockbank (‘played well’). The point of all this is that if either of these fine fellows finishes up playing football for Manchester United or cricket for England, there’s a fair chance it’ll be the other one whose name lights up the ‘Coming to Gloucester soon’, GPSFA honours board.
On to Saturday, and there’s a fair covering of frost lining the streets around GL2. The Groundsman’s pretty reliable in this sort of weather as coming to the pavilion first thing means he doesn’t need to switch the heating on at home; he can also grab a coffee for free with The Chef still on the night shift and the till in the back of his van.
‘Satisfactory’ is a relative thing, but in groundsman’s terms, GR’s current medical condition falls somewhere in this unassuming category; there’s the odd problem with his gall bladder, a recurring issue with both his small and large intestine and whatever comes between the two (medium intestine?), eleven ingrowing toenails, the onset of gout and a pretty nasty pain in his gluteus maximus, so all things considered, he’s feeling a lot better than usual.
The Chairman’s Wife has donned the navy blue apron and is assisting The Chef in the Longlevens hot house, meaning she can keep a close eye on the flapjacks but more pertinently, on The Chairman’s efforts to snaffle a few ‘for this afternoon’s family party.’ Let’s hope he doesn’t read this as if he does, there might be a different sort of party where people dance around a P45, waving their arms in the air and barking out ‘Sweet Caroline’ with a gusto that would make Neil Diamond consider immediate retirement.
Mother Butcher has turned up for Game One donning her purple ears, which are a bit like Purple Bricks but without the mortgage implications. Mother Hine is resplendent in GPSFA scarf and almost matching headgear, a fine accoutrement which is often worn by people walking their dog in the Sahara on a Sunday afternoon. Mother Bennett’s also wearing her black & yellow scarf, together with a pair of those very strange gloves that keep your palms warm, but ensure your fingers are riddled with frostbite and threaten to drop off around midday.
Next to her, Father Bennett proudly displays his X-Blades Hartpury bobble, clearly an early Christmas present from his brother-in-law whose inside knowledge meant he was able to buy it in early July before the prices were doubled in mid-October. Father Ansermoz is wearing his impressive Saturday beard and pseudo-commando hat, a combination which makes him look a bit like Colonel Stavrou in the Guns of Navarone, while Mother Beaumont’s and Mother Simpson’s jackboots place them at the top of the cliff on which Stavrou met his untimely end. Thinking about it, it might just have been them that shot him.
The changing room’s not much warmer than the patio outside, where the temperature’s shot up to a balmy Diana Ross and Bevan spends most of his pre-match transformation shivering in the far corner. Hine meanwhile has removed his tie, shirt and jumper, arranged all three beautifully in a creaseless pile in the middle of the floor and proceeds to stand on them to complete his mid-morning makeover. Beaumont as always is the first to get ready, but today he’s even quicker than usual. After thirty seconds of quiet celebration on hearing he’s going to be sub, Testudine pulls on thirteen layers and a pair of sheepskin gloves before nodding quietly to himself that most clouds have a silver lining. Or in this case, a thermal one.
Brockbank and Curtis complete their preparations by slipping surreptitiously into the gents to rearrange their follicles in the powder room’s unforgiving mirror, which is still recovering following the groundsman’s visit a couple of hours earlier.
Newbury had eased to a convincing win in the reverse fixture just thirty five days previously, but, determined to erase that memory as swiftly as possible, the hosts make a blistering start. With just three minutes gone, Bennett plays in Triple A-plus-two who, for the second week running, finishes with such calm that it makes one wonder whether meditation sessions should be made compulsory for all squad members in the hours leading up to kick-off.
Not so calm though is Father Hine who, three minutes after the opening goal, sees Young Will receive a neat pass from Triple A-plus-two and rifle a left-foot drive into the top corner to double the advantage and elicit a bout of ‘Sweet Caroline’ minus the words on the far touchline.
Bevan thumps in the third after Bennett’s effort is blocked and there still aren’t ten minutes on the clock, though Coach Wilson’s brief foray into happiness is tempered when Newbury respond almost immediately. Thankfully, no-one’s party to his satanic thoughts as Beaumont’s warming up by the corner flag and Croose has decided to stay on Sissons Road and spend the day lying on the fluffy red rug in front of a Guy-Fawkian fire.
There are chances at both ends before the hosts make it four just before the break; good work from Milton and Bevan sees the ball worked to Bennett, whose all-seeing eye picks out Hine and its 4-1 at the very happy interval. Brockbank, who’s temporarily retired from the fray rejoices in true captain’s fashion, our erstwhile skipper demonstrating that leadership is as much about what happens off the pitch as it does when you’re wandering around on it.
Beaumont and Curtis who are operating either side of Simmo during the second half provide a disciplined and resolute back line in front of Big Ben, whose time-keeping skills are not quite as advanced as his handling, which is very good throughout. Whenever he takes a goal kick and sends the ball towards a green jersey, he raises his right hand and opens his palm, suggesting its five minutes since he last did this, but everyone knows this isn’t quite true.
Our goalkeeper does have a third use for his right palm however; with three minutes remaining he is seen slapping the ground in frustration, though no-one’s quite sure whether this is due to Newbury scoring a late second, or the fact that he wasn’t given a GPSFA hat in training last night - as instead of braving the elements at OSP, he was lying forlornly at home while ‘Doing a Croose’.
The goal is only a consolation for Newbury however as five minutes earlier, Ali’s determination and Bennett’s vision had given William the opportunity to conquer at the far post and complete his treble, meaning another Neil Diamond rendition broke out just in front of the main stand – and this time it contained all five verses.
There’s back slapping and footwear removal in the inner sanctum afterwards. Milton is so pleased with himself for wearing a pair of not-far-off black boots that he actually turns his kit the right way out for a change and only Bevan has his returned due to a minor problem with the cuffs. The un-fragrant-like aroma of the knotted socks tells us our number six is responsible for this abomination too, and it’s only the whiff from within that gives away the fact that it’s Simmo’s boots that are lurking down by the litter bin, the defender’s very clever idea of rubbing mud all over the hideous pink coating to disguise their natural vue désagréable, being thwarted only by something that you can sense but cannot see.
The Lens is in a good mood, having ignored the Newbury parents and concentrated on the players instead, eventually selling thirty quid’s worth of team photos in a perfectly executed ‘Two for the Price of Three’ scam. Success is printed all over his pound-sign eyes as he suggests a ‘You can drive’ visit to Evesham in the afternoon and his day gets even better when Andy Birchley beats him to the burger queue at ten to three and supplies the three of us with our post-meridian injection of health food.
Over at Gala Wilton, Father Hine struts his stuff as Hardwicke win 3-0 in front of 41 hardy souls to move into ninth place in the County League and there’s a celebratory feel about Silver Birch Villas this evening. As the legendary rugby union commentator, Bill Mclaren might well have suggested, ‘They’ll be singing in the (Quedgeley) valleys tonight.’ Neil Diamond, one assumes, would be distinctly unimpressed.
Gloucester A: Big Ben; Pink Alert; Captain Brockbank, JC; Milton, Bevan, Bennett, William the Conqueror; Triple A; Croatia Testudine.
