Keep It On The Island
A behind the scenes look at some of the personalities, events, accusations & revelations that were Jersey 2016.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this piece are those of the editor and should not be mistaken for those of GPSFA or any other member of the association. This is (mostly) a work of non-fiction. As such, any resemblance to actual persons living or otherwise, events or locales, is entirely intentional.
Saturday
Faces creased with expectation and excitement, exuberant chatter as to what the next eight days might bring, thoughts and minds spinning wildly in every available direction, imaginations spiralling almost out of control. Yes, it’s Jersey departure time, and as always the players’ parents can hardly contain themselves, heartbeats pumping, pulses racing and blood pressure soaring as they contemplate spending virtually eight wonderful days of boundless freedom without their cherished offspring.
The Marchant’s coach journey is quiet and peaceful until a somewhat unkempt and pigtailed Harris, resplendent in denim jeans and loafers and fresh from a three-day knees-up at Laycock Abbey, boards at Cirencester to take his place in an assemblage that sees those staff with hair sitting on the left and Stalley and Wixey nestled on the right. Coach Basford reveals he’s been practising for tour by getting up when he’s awake (as opposed to when he’s asleep), while Sallis, in an abject attempt at humour, utters a sentence containing so little correct grammar that even Harris looks slightly aghast.
Arrival at Southampton sees Troke remove his 1960s retro suitcase from one hold and places it on a conveyor belt in readiness for another, while the airport scales reveal the offending item weighs in at a 2016 low of just 11kg. With the case itself weighing ten, one can only assume he intends to borrow a toothbrush from his soon-to-be roommate, keep everything crossed that it doesn’t rain all week and wear his current pair of boxers for the entirity of the tour. Balkwill meanwhile, in a vain attempt to traverse the airport incognito, wheels his camouflaged container across the concourse, unknowingly almost causing permanent injury to an older couple who don’t see him coming. Bruce Forsyth Foran begins his week-long quest for conversation and companionship by asking after the lady who checks your ID with whom he had struck up a 30-second chat last Easter, only to find she had taken early retirement 364 days ago.
Collins devours an Asda Pasta moments before Coach Wilson passes through the security gate without setting off the alarm for the first time in living memory, the ailing sensors failing to pick up an entire arsenal of metallic implants and steel-based additional body parts. Coach Basford meanwhile is brushed head to toe by a hirsute security guard of questionable gender, though from the sly grin emitting from the corners of his/her seemingly permanently clenched jaw, s/he seems to be quite enjoying the experience.
The two Js, Jenner and Jaxon haven’t flown before, the sight of the runway mechanic attempting to wind up the propeller with a wrench-like object doing little to calm their already frayed nerve endings. Perspiration apart though, other than one of the coaches being reprimanded for leaving his seat as the battlebus nosedives towards the St Peter’s runway, the flight passes seamlessly and we disembark in relative safety.
The annual eating auction (think IPL) is conducted in St Helier’s Liberation Square, the hierarchical status of each player being determined by past tours’ eating performance data – Gorey, KWR, Coldridge and Troke make up the Premiership, with Pledge (probably finicky), Hylton (probably picky) and Rico (definitely utterly hopeless) being placed in the Pig Farmers’ Division Seven Reserve League. The other three inhabit the middle ground, much to the consternation of Jenner who clearly has ideas way above his station. I buy Coldridge for £9, the deluded Jenner for seven and waste two quid on Rico as I don’t want him to feel left out. I shouldn’t have bothered.
The annual initial catch-up with the other teams’ managers and coaches reveals the Hackney contingent edges out Orpington as being the oldest, the Wokingham group edges out Gloucester as being the youngest, while the St Albans troupe has little competition in weighing in as the heaviest. Newbury, who have attended many times before are under new ownership and now have a manager bearing a striking resemblance to Peter Kay, while one of the new Wokingham coaches has a voice bearing a striking resemblance to Tony Christie – or so he thinks.
The new location for this year – the Mayfair Hotel – is as well prepared for the influx of a couple of hundred young footballers as the Metropole has been for the past eighteen years, and the menu is identical – duck on Tuesday then.
The first dinner of the week sees the roast lamb snaffled by most and eating habits are noted by the players’ owners, in case individual tuition is required. KWR and Gorey are relentless, Coldridge (aka Vasily, the Silent Assassin) noiseless but lethal, while Troke (Mineshaft) suggests he won’t be inundated with dental bills in later life. Jenner picks, stops, moans a bit then continues, Rodders is functional without giving the impression of longevity in the art of food consumption, though Towner’s non-foray into anything resembling a vegetable immediately suggests he may be in the wrong league. In the Pig Farmers group Pledge looks good and isn’t finicky at all, Hylton displays a very original masticatory style – more about that later, while Rico eats everything. We might just have underestimated him.
Sunday
First up is Orpington, a side with a bit of pace through the centre and a physio bearing a remarkable resemblance to Noel Edmunds, fully resplendent in a pair of bright yellow, knee-length shorts that went out of fashion around the same time as Mineshaft’s post- (Falklands) war suitcase. Coach Basford meanwhile sports a pair of glasses so dark he misses most of the action, a fact highlighted midway through the second half when he is spied inadvertently giving the Orpington defence the benefit of his tactical acumen – which is good news for us in more ways than one as we benefit from his instructions at one end of the pitch and benefit from his lack of instruction at the other.
A goalless first half is superseded by the first presentation of the week, the Gloucester defence conspiring to play in Springett who says thank-you very much and puts the Kent team ahead, while KWR’s involuntary assist following Vasily’s right wing cross sets up Jenner for a close range leveller. Mineshaft’s magnificent penalty save with seven minutes remaining gains us a draw and we exit the FB Fields in contented mood.
The Bs meanwhile are putting in a battling display that just fails to secure a point against a Plymouth team that warms up in one kit and plays in another after securing a lucrative sponsorship deal with the Roseville Launderette.
The afternoon is spent on the beach at Greve de Lecq, where Gorey receives the fate that Canute deserved but didn’t get, as a huge wave on the head ensures a sudden retreat to terra firma. Jenner meanwhile, unable to discover a private place in which to change into his swimwear stands on the nearby hill, much to the amusement – or consternation - of everyone within a half mile radius. We pass the time with the Wokingham first-timers outside the beach cafe where we put the (football) world to rights and reminisce about Bruce Foran’s waterside encounter with a couple and a dog on this very beach last Easter. There is lots of Gloucester running in and out of the sea, ice cream eating and a game that involves throwing an object around and tackling anyone that is in – or even out – of possession for no apparent reason. Surprisingly, neither 2015 Jersey Man nor accompanying beast is anywhere to be seen this time around.
Dinner sees a variety of food-initiated adventures, Mineshaft ensuring he retains his early doors hundred per cent record by eventually finishing his duck liver pate and a profusion of bread rolls either side of roast beef with all the trimmings. The New Zealand mountaineer Edmund Hilary once famously quoted, after climbing Mount Everest with his Nepalese sidekick and planting a Union Jack on the roof of the world, ‘I didn’t conquer a mountain, I conquered myself,’ a judgement the mighty Troke is clearly contemplating as he digests the final greasiness of the duck liver offal. Rico, after his promising start leaves half his starter and half his dessert, while Gorey steadfastly refuses to leave the table to visit the toilet to ensure he isn’t subtracted an attitude mark. Townsend’s diary later on lists roast beef, carrots, cabbage and roast potatoes in the ‘dinner’ column; what it doesn’t clarify is that this is what he doesn’t eat. All four last-meal eating points lost. ‘Goodboy’ Roddis further smudges his copybook by attempting to stitch up his mate Rico for his role in a brace of supposedly heinous mini bus crimes and is deducted two attitude points for ‘accusing’.
TRIs’ (The Room Inspectors) report shows excellence in 340, very good in 339 & 344, very favourable in 338 and horrendous in 342, while diary feedback ranges from great effort to minimal. Vasily is in the first category, closely followed by Rodders, Townsend and Gorey, with a quartet of unnamed slackers making up the latter. It’s fair to say Sherlock’s famed powers of deduction wouldn’t be tested too much in identifying them.
Monday
Despite informal staff agreements that the players will be woken at 8.20am, the other seven coaches are conspicuous only by their absence. A barely-clothed Butcher, a half-clothed Pinkney and the distinctive mop that is Elliott’s head peer hopefully around corners looking for signs of yellow and black arriving in the foreseeable, but both Wix and ‘I am Zlatan’ are nowhere to be seen.
Gorey and Pledge fail to stir (at all) as their curtains are opened, their lights flashed and ‘Good Morning Vietnam’ amplified across room 340. Jenner is wandering around in a state (of ongoing confusion), unable to find his shorts, while Hylton is unable to produce any form of sustainable explanation as to why his left and right socks occupy different corners of room 342. In the freshly-lit 338, Mineshaft, attempting to pass as an extra from the Lion King in his animalesque onesie, lets out a primordial grunt and turns over. Rodders meanwhile, just grunts. The GPSFA machine is well and truly ready to rumble.
Townsend completely ignores a brace of sausages and falls further down the eating pecking order, while Rodders, bird-like, pecks away at a fried egg. Rico munches his way through egg and beans with some gusto (a relative term comparable to his laid-back approach to life), his early morning diet probably being at least partly responsible for his somewhat flatulent ending to the previous two evenings.
Arrival at pitch two with fifteen minutes to go to kick off brings us into early contact with a Wokingham squad that has been put through its paces for a considerable time longer than ours will be. Three of the Gloucester coaches take more than a passing interest in the conical arrangements about the training area and the intricate patterns the opposition players are weaving, while Coach Stalley frantically checks the FA web site for a warm up routine he can use. Wokingham lead 1-0 at half time, but a rasping drive from Jenner and fine finishes from Gorey and Rodders complete a second half fightback and a 3-1 win. The several pages of Wokingham practice schedules are immediately hand-shredded, Coach Stalley sends the FA a vote of thanks and for twenty three hours at least, all is well with the world.
The B Squad plays some lovely football in the first half without creating much and go down to two opportunist second half strikes from Orpington B. Wixey and I am Zlatan receive votes of confidence from Chairman-elect MacDonald, resulting in the latter immediately organising a kicking contest before declaring Wixey’s tiki-taka approach is a thing of the past and for the good of the team, the supporters and the majority of the city’s population, he will be determining the side’s tactics for the foreseeable.
Meanwhile Bruce Foran, dressed in retro (pre-Victorian) black jacket and navy baseball cap that do little for his appearance but much for his self esteem, manages to strike up three separate, albeit brief conversations with passers-by who fail to recognise him.
Early afternoon spent at Portelet Bay with both the players and Rico’s clothes taking protracted dips in the north Atlantic, in between beach-based ‘Aim the Frisbee at the coaches’ heads’ and ‘Bomb the orange space hopper’. Late afternoon is spent with coffee, hot chocolate and putting the (football) world to rights in a very nice cafe at Les Quennevais Leisure Centre, while ‘The Ten’ indulge in aqua-based pastimes including water polo and lying in the bubbling hot tubs of (thanks to Basford’s financial negotiations, the half price) swimming complex.
The Yellows visit La Corbiere but the tide is in, their hasty retreat giving Bruce little time to renew acquaintances with the amiable ice cream seller he met last Easter - the one who locks his mobile green cornet van at the merest hint of Easter rain, an Atlantic breeze or the giveaway dulcet tones emitting from a GPSFA-registered mini bus.
Townsend’s eating improves as the day progresses, the consumption of Pork Steak Normandy much more impressive than the limited efforts of the morning, though Rodders’ flirtation with the cheddar and Edam board is reminiscent of the Monty Python cheese shop sketch (circa 1972). Unlike Henry Wensleydale in the aforementioned skit, at least Rodders survives. Room inspection reveals four rather palatial habitations and the Hylton/Rico cess pit that scores an all-time low of nil poit.
Tuesday
4.19am. Hylton knocks on Coach Wilson’s door who, on consulting his digital clock display, refuses to acknowledge the Morse Code-like tapping. 4.21am: Hylton (apparently) mistakenly knocks on Coach Sanders’ (St Albans) door and is redirected to the next room by a very sleepy south east accent. 4.23am: Hylton stands outside room 428 and utters three sentences: 1. ‘Rico’s been sick.’ 2. ‘It’s all over the bathroom floor.’ 3. ‘Don’t worry though, we’ll both be okay for tomorrow.’ Priorities, priorities.
Thanks to the very obliging cleaner, the remains of what seems a very expansive ham omelette are removed, and both the bathroom and Rico himself are disinfected. At the FB we fall behind for the third consecutive game to Peter Kay’s Newbury, but equalise through KWR’s first goal of his life the season before scoring five more after the break. I am Zlatan’s first game in sole charge of the Bs results in a 3-0 reversal against St Paul’s.
It’s afternoon, and following a long and comprehensive mini bus tour of the car park perpetrated by a one-handed driver, Coach Basford eventually turns off the ignition, giving us the opportunity to spend the post-mild chicken curry & rice or jacket potato & cheese hours at the incongruously named Amaizin! Adventure Park, a collection of utter tat loved by anyone under the age of twelve. We procure a map of the site which details the numerous (so-say) attractions of the location, turn right immediately after the Amaizin! shop and find the first available picnic table outside the coffee house. The younger members of the group are long gone, so we set the (football) world to rights over an Americano or three, while the tractor ride, water cannon and inflatable slides amuse and entertain to a similar degree.
The Bs drive to Plemont but the tide is in, their hasty retreat giving Bruce little time to renew acquaintances with the owner of the cafe at the top of the steep flight of steps that gives access to the beach. Failing to notice the boarded up windows, heavily barred door and ‘For Sale from April 2015’ sign nailed to the land-facing wall, Bruce decrees to consult the tide timetable at the hotel and return for a chat with ‘my mate Dave’ before we depart on Saturday.
I spend the evening at an extremely nice, child-free restaurant in Gorey (the town, not the player), overlooking the harbour. Mike Spinks (ESFA Chairman), John Larter MBE and King Pat of Jersey are in attendance as we put the (football) world to rights over five courses and red wine (them) and five courses and Kronenbourg 1664 (me). Beats duck leg in plum sauce any day of the week.
Wednesday
Minutes after coming on as a half time substitute against B & D, Hylton scores a brahma - but at the wrong end, and KWR is spotted in the upstairs canteen munching a Pain au Chocolat croissant and sipping a latte around the time of Barking’s second, meaning two close range strikes from Jenner and a fine save from Mineshaft are required to earn us a 2-2 draw. Following the Kicking Coach’s instructions to the letter, the Bs are four down at half time, much to the disgust of the Real Chairman, who is being updated constantly via the combination of Chairman-elect Adrian’s skype-wristwatch and a microphone hidden in Becky Butcher’s retro Cossack headpiece. The reinstatement of Wixey to the hot seat at the interval, if not quite tiki taka, brings about an improvement in performance as the second half ends goalless.
Back at the ranch and Bruce Forsyth Foran stands amidst a packed lunch time gathering, chatting randomly to Graeme and Dave of Barking about the tactical nuances of the morning’s encounter for a good ten minutes, during which time the opposition hierarchy fidgets uncontrollably. Deciding to move on to his memorised list of other potential victims, Bruce turns to find the earlier overflowing restaurant completely empty and on returning his attention to the site of his original prey, discovers only a pair of empty seats where, only seconds earlier, Graeme and Dave had been listening, horrified, at the chef’s unshakeable belief regarding the nutritional benefits of deep fried pork sausage and pre-cooked frozen chips.
The afternoon is spent with Les Quennevais swimming fitting snugly in between Corbiere at low and high tide from where, despite all our efforts to the contrary, Hylton returns safely. KWR, who earlier had been elected as the vice vice vice vice vice vice vice vice vice vice captain of our ten-player squad sits silently on a rock contemplating the meaning of life, the universe and everything as the waves roar in for 59 consecutive seconds. Or is it 5.9?
Rodders uses the word ‘like’ for the 273rd time in the day on the way home and is fined an attitude point. Hylton and KWR are fined more for unspecified and unrepeatable actions. Vasily and Gorey are perfect as usual, though the Sniper’s hair is less than exemplary, the mop having seen neither comb nor brush nor shampoo of any description for five whole days now. A reminder comes through from Rico’s mum to ensure her sweet-smelling offspring has washed his armpits, but despite nodding vigorously at the suggestion, none of the coaches are prepared to risk their life insurance policy by venturng within ten metres of them, so whether he has done so or not remains anyone’s guess.
Having become hugely excited by growing another inch and a half since 8.30am, Mineshaft phones home for the first time this season, much to the shock of everyone at the Mayfair – and everyone at home too. Rico’s parents have now calculated the average time that Sweet-smell rings in each evening and, aided by caller display, turn up the TV as the answerphone kicks in.
Jenner loses a mark on the mushroom stroganoff and departs to bed in severe need of colonic irrigation, thus avoiding the diary session which sees both Hylton and Mineshaft plumbing literary depths, while Gorey continues to graft away in pursuit of the scholarly Sniper. KWR, after suffering vertigo due to high attitude scores over the last three days decides a descent is necessary to avoid random nosebleeds, though Mineshaft, despite finally succumbing to the temptation of family communication scores a Bo Derek for the first (and ultimately) only time. Rodders accuses Townsend of accusing and loses an accusation point himself. Serves him right. Snitch.
Now the wife has gone home, Elias (& Son) arrive at the ranch via St Brelade’s and Fulham FC, on the lookout for any potential stars of the future. Here’s a man with a story to tell, a book to write and nuggets to reveal. From Oxford United to Fulham via Southampton and Liverpool, with a few Bale’s and Walcott’s popping in (and out) along the way. Bruce laps it all up while considering a similar publication himself, though the content, while including a similar amount of travelling, would be more about fried food than football prodigies and a pitchside cafe with fewer stars to its name than the Fulham FC over-70s reserve team.
Thursday
7.40am: Two hundred miles north, there are rumblings in the corridors of power at GPSFA HQ – and they are not positive ones. The Real Chairman meets with the directors and owner and it is unanimously decided that Wix and I am Zlatan need help.
9.13am: Chairman-elect Macdonald has an online interview and after regurgitating all the usual contradictory nonsense – ‘fire in their bellies’, ‘two banks of three’ and a ‘pragmatic approach, blah, blah, blah’, is appointed Director of B Team football and put on a two-day contract.
9.30am: Coaches Wixey and Harris are informed of their change in status but reassured by the new D of BTF that there will be no interference in team affairs, minutes before he announces both the day’s line up and a fresh tactical approach.
10.40am: Half time. Jersey 4 Gloucester B 0. MacDonald is replaced just 87 minutes into his contract and to everyone’s amazement is replaced by Bruce Foran. ‘A last resort,’ tweets The Real Chairman, completely unaware that his foresight is about to (almost) prove a masterstroke. The new D of BTF finishes his half time team instructions with a few chortles and immediately takes up the position of linesman, flag in one hand, notebook in the other and a speech bubble up top. Fearful of their beloved offspring being dragged into even the shortest of conversations with the city rambler, the Jersey parents instruct their sons to refrain from going anywhere near the Gloucester defensive line and the second half is drawn 0-0.
The A Team goes one down for the fifth game running but responds well for the fifth game running, following another warm-up masterclass from Coach Stalley. They like playing in the freezing rain which has a severely detrimental effect on the Hackney backline, Jenner netting twice before the four-minute torrent subsides to set up an eventual 5-1 win. Star of the show though is referee Bullar who keeps going through the Arctic deluge in his short sleeved officials’ outfit. Hopefully he’ll be out of intensive care shortly and recover in time for next season.
Rodders forgets his Speedos and has to sit out Aquasplash under the watchful eye of Coach Stalley, who thinks Rodders is in the pool. The remaining coaches have a laugh in the joke shop while stocking up for tomorrow evening’s stitch up, before briefly visiting Coffee Express, putting the (football) world to rights and indulging in a bout of people watching. Signed postcards are sent to our brilliant sponsors who will most likely receive their souvenir about three days after we get back.
Rico has lapsed back to his true eating form, though using his two-day bout of projectile vomiting as a valid excuse for going on hunger strike is wearing a bit thin. Tonight he consumes two lamb chops and precious little else in scoring a grand total of three eating points for the day. Not much is going right in the room stakes either as the Armageddon Project, aka the Rico-Hylton abode, is penalised for any number of offending items adorning the floor area, including two pairs of pants sporting the least apt of elasticated labels – ‘Topman’.
Butcher visits the St Albans diary session to model how it should be done and receives a blue SA t-shirt complete with his name and number as a keepsake. Foran orders the under-pressure B Team managers to seize the initiative and try to sell Butch while the iron’s hot, but despite a whip round yielding £16.47, St Albans declare they want twice that to take him and the deal falls through.
Great surge from Gorey in the Diary Room tonight to score nine point five, while Jenner emerges from his five-day authorial slumber to net a nine. Pledge maintains his solidity of performance and KWR is up to eight. Will wonders never cease? Three rooms score a perfect ten, while the Jenner/KWR residence loses a point for the TV remote being unparallel to the edge of the surface on which it is positioned. Attitudes are good, though Hylton provides proof of the old adage that the exception proves the rule, whatever that means. Townsend articulates the precise, word-for-word definitions of both modal verbs and fronted adverbials, thus ticking several of the spelling, punctuation & grammar boxes of Cameron’s brave new pedagogical world, before telling everyone that he ‘done it’. I am Zlatan glances over, completely impervious to this latest desecration of the Queen’s English, before resuming some diatribe or other that includes a plethora of double negatives and a tranche of non-agreeing tenses. Peasant.
Friday
D of BTF Foran delays his entrance into the tour’s penultimate breakfast gathering to accost an unsuspecting French tourist to explain the day’s tactics that are about to be unleashed on St Albans. However, as Bruce launches into his opening gambit a second potential victim appears at the foot of the stairs, but by the time Edwin Doig reveals himself with a ‘Why aye man,’ the Frenchman is long gone and thankfully for everyone in the schools’ (and wider) footballing world, the thinking behind the morning’s proposed 7-0-1 formation will remain a closely guarded secret.
Bs go down 1-0 to a late St Albans strike as the Blues, earplugs firmly inserted, risk all in the final few minutes to evade the chat lines and Foran’s brief tenure ends. Wix and I am Zlatan, quite fancying a few seasons of R & R on gardening leave, hand in their letters of resignation to Chairman-Elect MacDonald who immediately Skype’s the Real Chairman. A Team goes down 0-3 to an excellent Erdington team, Hylton adding another classic finish to his ever-growing list of wrong net wonders, but the side as a whole puts in a fine defensive display after the break to conclude a great week’s football. Chairman-Elect MacDonald summons the Chuckle Brothers to his office and hands them a ten year contract following a complete lack of public interest in taking up the reins. In these times of so-say austerity, no-one can afford to do it.
Coaches Basford, Stalley and I am Zlatan conserve their energy during the final-day staff match which ends 3-3. Basford touches the ball three times as does Stalley, though at least the latter nets with a deflected volley to impress the four people who are still watching. I am Zlatan does little to enhance his reputation other than to provide a fine advertisement for Ventolin, having panted his way through both touches, each of which disappears for a throw-in.
Post-fish fingers & chips team meeting in the hotel lounge votes 9-1 in favour of an afternoon return to Aqua Splash, though it becomes unanimous once Rodders is offered some acceptable swimwear. The decision to walk rather than take the bus though does not meet with universal acclaim as the GPS crocodile meanders its way through the back streets of St Helier. The pool’s numerous sun loungers and perfectly located outdoor decking area are preferred to a coaches’ trip ‘up town’, based on the statistical consideration that they are closer, though the welcome / vital forty two winks on the terrace are interrupted by Peter Kay of Newbury, Plymouth and Potters Bar (in size, not chronological order).
The presentation meal sees a grumpy Captain Pledger’s immaculately prepared ‘thank-you’ speech go unused, despite him taking a good thirty minutes practising his diction and adjusting his immaculate parting in the full-length bedroom mirror beforehand. Tonight’s wonderfully swept back follicled sculpture makes him look more like Jedward than Harry Williams. Rodders meanwhile, in attempting to dissect a grilled tomato, accidentally tips the entire contents of his steak-infested plate into his lap, but maintains his composure in exemplary fashion while returning every last button mushroom to its rightful table-top position.
Hylton maintains his unique eating style, chewing each mouthful assiduously inside the hollow of his left cheek, completely oblivious to the fact that using your incisors means you finish a little bit quicker. Jenner lubricates his steak with a litre of tomato ketchup and his throat with twice the amount of water, but surrenders both a morsel and a mark. Townsend maintains his week of ‘not quite’ in leaving three chips, two mushrooms, half a tomato and a centimetre of cow, while Rico is well into his third day of hunger strike. Unfortunately he’s survived. Bruce wanders from table to table seeking intense debate or meaningless chit-chat, but finds neither before begrudgingly returning to his original position, much to the consternation of those already seated there.
TRIs place fake rats in several rooms, a snake in Mineshaft’s loo roll and a profusion of furniture on the floor of room 340, the score for which plummets from a perfect ten to minus four, much to the horror of its occupants. Townsend appears in the corridor displaying only a pair of orange boxers, grey ankle socks and handheld imitation rodents, enquiringly eyeing Coach Stalley while saying very little. One attitude mark deducted for being out of his room. St Helier pest control is summoned, though it’s not the fake rats they’re looking for. It’s the living ones.
Saturday
‘Bright eyes’ sang Simon & Garfunkel, but there are precious few of these on the morning after the day before. Mineshaft turns up at breakfast with his sweatshirt on back-to-front and Townsend orders two sausages to move around his plate while contemplating what else to do in a restaurant. If this was a chess match he’d be a Grand Master. Rodders deposits milk in his lap barely twelve hours after his successful Bovine experiment, though this time there’s no napkin in place.
Gorey’s case explodes halfway down the stairs while Mineshaft’s retro appendage is admired by everyone in the hotel foyer over the age of sixty five. On leaving the building, Mineshaft, enjoying an interesting start to his final day, gets locked in the bus for no other reason than he doesn’t get off fast enough, but a malfunction in the remote gives him the opportunity to escape, Houdini-like, via the driver’s door.
The last day shopping in St Helier’s pedestrianised central walkthrough sees JD Sports a popular destination, Holland & Barrett (health foods & herbal remedies) less so. Townsend buys a sports bag but immediately returns it and Rico purchases a pair of Jack Wills flip flops which are far too trendy for him. Vasily, following an attempt at money laundering, loses his first attitude point of the week when his unkempt thatch is thirty seconds late arriving at the assembly point beneath the golden clock. Half the group briefly frequent a jeweller’s shop admiring the four-figure gold watches, but fortunately the owner has had the foresight to double lock all the display cases seconds before they enter. Three coaches buy presents to take home, the other will visit the duty free at the airport instead.
Lunch sees a presentation to and photos with Miguel, our ever popular and highly efficient waiter, and an unbelievably erudite and detailed explanation of the life and times of Charles Darwin by Mineshaft, with a little assistance from Townsend, after the naturalist’s picture is discovered on the back of a ten pound note. As it happens, it doesn’t take long to appreciate that the entire sequence in the evolution of species is visible for all to see on our dining table, with homo sapiens appearing at our end of course.
Elias & Son board the plane and settle down next to Coach Basford, though there is little respite for Bruce & Coach Wixey, who are forced to move to the front of the plane to counterbalance the effect of I am Zlatan sitting at the back. We indulge in a Kenco served by an air hostess called Julian and put the (football) world to rights. Coming in to land at Southampton there is a worrying tilt to starboard as I am Zlatan leans over to retrieve a sachet of sugar that has fallen to the floor. Concerned at the sudden increase in gradient, Jenner leaves his wallet on the plane but Chairman-elect MacDonald and the helpful airport staff come to the rescue. On landing, Bruce indulges Son of Elias in meaningless conversation after realising a lonely man standing next to a stationary carousel cannot go anywhere until his luggage appears.
Rico indulges in a bout of further projectile vomiting on the coach, but Basford, like all good scouts, is well prepared and presents him with a Tesco carrier bag moments before the onslaught. Dib, dib. Amazing what thinking about food instead of eating any can do to you. Pledge manicures his hair ready for his impending return to the city, Vasily doesn’t bother. Wixey writes the B Team blog on his lap top while threatening one of the A Team coaches that all will be revealed in his soon-to-be printed memoirs. Gorey adds a red Jersey festival t-shirt and rain jacket to the three layers he is already wearing and goes to sleep on a Matt Busby commemorative pillow. At least he’ll stay dry if the roof leaks.
Presentations at the Great Western see Vasily win lots and Rico win little. The Gorey/Pledger room, despite last night’s fright is the best by a bit, Hylton’s & Rico’s isn’t. In fact, it’s the worst ever. The Premiership eaters prove themselves to be just that, Jenner & Rodders lead the Championship and Pledger & Hylton complete hundred per cent records in the Pig Farmers. Rico & Towner are abysmal. Vasily, Gorey & Pledge have the best attitude and Vasily, Gorey & Rodders the best diaries. The indefatigable Rodders, the prolific Jenner & the indomitable Mineshaft take the match prizes, despite Hylton leading at the halfway point following an excellent first three games. Thanks, as always, to Lyn for providing both the venue and buffet.
And so it ends. Jersey 2016 will be remembered by many different people for many different reasons. Pledger & Vasily - a week of contrasting hair styles; Pledger/Gorey & Hylton/Rico – a week of contrasting hygiene; Jenner & Hylton – a week laden with goals, but with very contrasting outcomes. When Jenner scored, we invariably didn’t lose; when Hylton scored, we invariably didn’t win.
There were rocks and water, sea and pools, fun and laughter. There are no gadgets on beaches and no gizmos in sand. In this day and age when electronic rules the day and people seem lost for the period of time it takes to recharge their android, the waves never change. They will continue to roll in and roll out, and all the technological advances in the years and centuries to come will never alter the metronomic violence perpetrated by the ocean’s whitecaps. The important things are the simple things. In a society dictated by materialism, it is very easy to lose sight of this. But one man hasn’t. Andrew Bruce Foran will continue to search high and low, far and wide for someone to indulge in conversation. There will be peaks to scale and troughs to negotiate, but he will plough on regardless. For somewhere, over the rainbow and far beyond man’s perception of the horizon, he will discover his nirvana, his idyllic location, his utopia – a place where people just want to sit and talk to him. And for all our sakes, please let it be Jersey 2017.
Dramatis Personae and Acknowledgements
All the Gloucester coaches and players for making Jersey 2016 the fun that it was and particularly Andy (Bruce) Foran for (begrudgingly) continuing to be the persona non grata of the annual Jersey resume. Of all the great signings....
All the Gloucester parents, grandparents, friends & families, for allowing it all to happen and each of our fabulous sponsors and supporters for ensuring that it did.
(King) Pat Cullinane of Jersey for his 42 years of amazing organisation of this event. A man of high principle and unbridled enthusiasm, rarely seen and seldom heard, but always there. In the (almost) immortal words of Sir Christopher Wren, ‘If you want a memorial to me, look around the FB Fields.’
The managers, coaches and helpers of all the teams involved - the foot soldiers who make it all happen. Lookalikes or not, we love the company, the banter and the proverbial craic. Oh, and Phil & John from the frozen north and Elias & Son from a bit closer to home. You probably won’t read this, but thanks anyway.
And finally, to Mrs (Stewart) Ratcliffe. Your husband told me you liked last year’s memoirs so much that, like Victor Kyam, you’d like to buy the company (just like Andy Foran, I guess). I hope it was worth the wait.
Happy days.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this piece are those of the editor and should not be mistaken for those of GPSFA or any other member of the association. This is (mostly) a work of non-fiction. As such, any resemblance to actual persons living or otherwise, events or locales, is entirely intentional.
Saturday
Faces creased with expectation and excitement, exuberant chatter as to what the next eight days might bring, thoughts and minds spinning wildly in every available direction, imaginations spiralling almost out of control. Yes, it’s Jersey departure time, and as always the players’ parents can hardly contain themselves, heartbeats pumping, pulses racing and blood pressure soaring as they contemplate spending virtually eight wonderful days of boundless freedom without their cherished offspring.
The Marchant’s coach journey is quiet and peaceful until a somewhat unkempt and pigtailed Harris, resplendent in denim jeans and loafers and fresh from a three-day knees-up at Laycock Abbey, boards at Cirencester to take his place in an assemblage that sees those staff with hair sitting on the left and Stalley and Wixey nestled on the right. Coach Basford reveals he’s been practising for tour by getting up when he’s awake (as opposed to when he’s asleep), while Sallis, in an abject attempt at humour, utters a sentence containing so little correct grammar that even Harris looks slightly aghast.
Arrival at Southampton sees Troke remove his 1960s retro suitcase from one hold and places it on a conveyor belt in readiness for another, while the airport scales reveal the offending item weighs in at a 2016 low of just 11kg. With the case itself weighing ten, one can only assume he intends to borrow a toothbrush from his soon-to-be roommate, keep everything crossed that it doesn’t rain all week and wear his current pair of boxers for the entirity of the tour. Balkwill meanwhile, in a vain attempt to traverse the airport incognito, wheels his camouflaged container across the concourse, unknowingly almost causing permanent injury to an older couple who don’t see him coming. Bruce Forsyth Foran begins his week-long quest for conversation and companionship by asking after the lady who checks your ID with whom he had struck up a 30-second chat last Easter, only to find she had taken early retirement 364 days ago.
Collins devours an Asda Pasta moments before Coach Wilson passes through the security gate without setting off the alarm for the first time in living memory, the ailing sensors failing to pick up an entire arsenal of metallic implants and steel-based additional body parts. Coach Basford meanwhile is brushed head to toe by a hirsute security guard of questionable gender, though from the sly grin emitting from the corners of his/her seemingly permanently clenched jaw, s/he seems to be quite enjoying the experience.
The two Js, Jenner and Jaxon haven’t flown before, the sight of the runway mechanic attempting to wind up the propeller with a wrench-like object doing little to calm their already frayed nerve endings. Perspiration apart though, other than one of the coaches being reprimanded for leaving his seat as the battlebus nosedives towards the St Peter’s runway, the flight passes seamlessly and we disembark in relative safety.
The annual eating auction (think IPL) is conducted in St Helier’s Liberation Square, the hierarchical status of each player being determined by past tours’ eating performance data – Gorey, KWR, Coldridge and Troke make up the Premiership, with Pledge (probably finicky), Hylton (probably picky) and Rico (definitely utterly hopeless) being placed in the Pig Farmers’ Division Seven Reserve League. The other three inhabit the middle ground, much to the consternation of Jenner who clearly has ideas way above his station. I buy Coldridge for £9, the deluded Jenner for seven and waste two quid on Rico as I don’t want him to feel left out. I shouldn’t have bothered.
The annual initial catch-up with the other teams’ managers and coaches reveals the Hackney contingent edges out Orpington as being the oldest, the Wokingham group edges out Gloucester as being the youngest, while the St Albans troupe has little competition in weighing in as the heaviest. Newbury, who have attended many times before are under new ownership and now have a manager bearing a striking resemblance to Peter Kay, while one of the new Wokingham coaches has a voice bearing a striking resemblance to Tony Christie – or so he thinks.
The new location for this year – the Mayfair Hotel – is as well prepared for the influx of a couple of hundred young footballers as the Metropole has been for the past eighteen years, and the menu is identical – duck on Tuesday then.
The first dinner of the week sees the roast lamb snaffled by most and eating habits are noted by the players’ owners, in case individual tuition is required. KWR and Gorey are relentless, Coldridge (aka Vasily, the Silent Assassin) noiseless but lethal, while Troke (Mineshaft) suggests he won’t be inundated with dental bills in later life. Jenner picks, stops, moans a bit then continues, Rodders is functional without giving the impression of longevity in the art of food consumption, though Towner’s non-foray into anything resembling a vegetable immediately suggests he may be in the wrong league. In the Pig Farmers group Pledge looks good and isn’t finicky at all, Hylton displays a very original masticatory style – more about that later, while Rico eats everything. We might just have underestimated him.
Sunday
First up is Orpington, a side with a bit of pace through the centre and a physio bearing a remarkable resemblance to Noel Edmunds, fully resplendent in a pair of bright yellow, knee-length shorts that went out of fashion around the same time as Mineshaft’s post- (Falklands) war suitcase. Coach Basford meanwhile sports a pair of glasses so dark he misses most of the action, a fact highlighted midway through the second half when he is spied inadvertently giving the Orpington defence the benefit of his tactical acumen – which is good news for us in more ways than one as we benefit from his instructions at one end of the pitch and benefit from his lack of instruction at the other.
A goalless first half is superseded by the first presentation of the week, the Gloucester defence conspiring to play in Springett who says thank-you very much and puts the Kent team ahead, while KWR’s involuntary assist following Vasily’s right wing cross sets up Jenner for a close range leveller. Mineshaft’s magnificent penalty save with seven minutes remaining gains us a draw and we exit the FB Fields in contented mood.
The Bs meanwhile are putting in a battling display that just fails to secure a point against a Plymouth team that warms up in one kit and plays in another after securing a lucrative sponsorship deal with the Roseville Launderette.
The afternoon is spent on the beach at Greve de Lecq, where Gorey receives the fate that Canute deserved but didn’t get, as a huge wave on the head ensures a sudden retreat to terra firma. Jenner meanwhile, unable to discover a private place in which to change into his swimwear stands on the nearby hill, much to the amusement – or consternation - of everyone within a half mile radius. We pass the time with the Wokingham first-timers outside the beach cafe where we put the (football) world to rights and reminisce about Bruce Foran’s waterside encounter with a couple and a dog on this very beach last Easter. There is lots of Gloucester running in and out of the sea, ice cream eating and a game that involves throwing an object around and tackling anyone that is in – or even out – of possession for no apparent reason. Surprisingly, neither 2015 Jersey Man nor accompanying beast is anywhere to be seen this time around.
Dinner sees a variety of food-initiated adventures, Mineshaft ensuring he retains his early doors hundred per cent record by eventually finishing his duck liver pate and a profusion of bread rolls either side of roast beef with all the trimmings. The New Zealand mountaineer Edmund Hilary once famously quoted, after climbing Mount Everest with his Nepalese sidekick and planting a Union Jack on the roof of the world, ‘I didn’t conquer a mountain, I conquered myself,’ a judgement the mighty Troke is clearly contemplating as he digests the final greasiness of the duck liver offal. Rico, after his promising start leaves half his starter and half his dessert, while Gorey steadfastly refuses to leave the table to visit the toilet to ensure he isn’t subtracted an attitude mark. Townsend’s diary later on lists roast beef, carrots, cabbage and roast potatoes in the ‘dinner’ column; what it doesn’t clarify is that this is what he doesn’t eat. All four last-meal eating points lost. ‘Goodboy’ Roddis further smudges his copybook by attempting to stitch up his mate Rico for his role in a brace of supposedly heinous mini bus crimes and is deducted two attitude points for ‘accusing’.
TRIs’ (The Room Inspectors) report shows excellence in 340, very good in 339 & 344, very favourable in 338 and horrendous in 342, while diary feedback ranges from great effort to minimal. Vasily is in the first category, closely followed by Rodders, Townsend and Gorey, with a quartet of unnamed slackers making up the latter. It’s fair to say Sherlock’s famed powers of deduction wouldn’t be tested too much in identifying them.
Monday
Despite informal staff agreements that the players will be woken at 8.20am, the other seven coaches are conspicuous only by their absence. A barely-clothed Butcher, a half-clothed Pinkney and the distinctive mop that is Elliott’s head peer hopefully around corners looking for signs of yellow and black arriving in the foreseeable, but both Wix and ‘I am Zlatan’ are nowhere to be seen.
Gorey and Pledge fail to stir (at all) as their curtains are opened, their lights flashed and ‘Good Morning Vietnam’ amplified across room 340. Jenner is wandering around in a state (of ongoing confusion), unable to find his shorts, while Hylton is unable to produce any form of sustainable explanation as to why his left and right socks occupy different corners of room 342. In the freshly-lit 338, Mineshaft, attempting to pass as an extra from the Lion King in his animalesque onesie, lets out a primordial grunt and turns over. Rodders meanwhile, just grunts. The GPSFA machine is well and truly ready to rumble.
Townsend completely ignores a brace of sausages and falls further down the eating pecking order, while Rodders, bird-like, pecks away at a fried egg. Rico munches his way through egg and beans with some gusto (a relative term comparable to his laid-back approach to life), his early morning diet probably being at least partly responsible for his somewhat flatulent ending to the previous two evenings.
Arrival at pitch two with fifteen minutes to go to kick off brings us into early contact with a Wokingham squad that has been put through its paces for a considerable time longer than ours will be. Three of the Gloucester coaches take more than a passing interest in the conical arrangements about the training area and the intricate patterns the opposition players are weaving, while Coach Stalley frantically checks the FA web site for a warm up routine he can use. Wokingham lead 1-0 at half time, but a rasping drive from Jenner and fine finishes from Gorey and Rodders complete a second half fightback and a 3-1 win. The several pages of Wokingham practice schedules are immediately hand-shredded, Coach Stalley sends the FA a vote of thanks and for twenty three hours at least, all is well with the world.
The B Squad plays some lovely football in the first half without creating much and go down to two opportunist second half strikes from Orpington B. Wixey and I am Zlatan receive votes of confidence from Chairman-elect MacDonald, resulting in the latter immediately organising a kicking contest before declaring Wixey’s tiki-taka approach is a thing of the past and for the good of the team, the supporters and the majority of the city’s population, he will be determining the side’s tactics for the foreseeable.
Meanwhile Bruce Foran, dressed in retro (pre-Victorian) black jacket and navy baseball cap that do little for his appearance but much for his self esteem, manages to strike up three separate, albeit brief conversations with passers-by who fail to recognise him.
Early afternoon spent at Portelet Bay with both the players and Rico’s clothes taking protracted dips in the north Atlantic, in between beach-based ‘Aim the Frisbee at the coaches’ heads’ and ‘Bomb the orange space hopper’. Late afternoon is spent with coffee, hot chocolate and putting the (football) world to rights in a very nice cafe at Les Quennevais Leisure Centre, while ‘The Ten’ indulge in aqua-based pastimes including water polo and lying in the bubbling hot tubs of (thanks to Basford’s financial negotiations, the half price) swimming complex.
The Yellows visit La Corbiere but the tide is in, their hasty retreat giving Bruce little time to renew acquaintances with the amiable ice cream seller he met last Easter - the one who locks his mobile green cornet van at the merest hint of Easter rain, an Atlantic breeze or the giveaway dulcet tones emitting from a GPSFA-registered mini bus.
Townsend’s eating improves as the day progresses, the consumption of Pork Steak Normandy much more impressive than the limited efforts of the morning, though Rodders’ flirtation with the cheddar and Edam board is reminiscent of the Monty Python cheese shop sketch (circa 1972). Unlike Henry Wensleydale in the aforementioned skit, at least Rodders survives. Room inspection reveals four rather palatial habitations and the Hylton/Rico cess pit that scores an all-time low of nil poit.
Tuesday
4.19am. Hylton knocks on Coach Wilson’s door who, on consulting his digital clock display, refuses to acknowledge the Morse Code-like tapping. 4.21am: Hylton (apparently) mistakenly knocks on Coach Sanders’ (St Albans) door and is redirected to the next room by a very sleepy south east accent. 4.23am: Hylton stands outside room 428 and utters three sentences: 1. ‘Rico’s been sick.’ 2. ‘It’s all over the bathroom floor.’ 3. ‘Don’t worry though, we’ll both be okay for tomorrow.’ Priorities, priorities.
Thanks to the very obliging cleaner, the remains of what seems a very expansive ham omelette are removed, and both the bathroom and Rico himself are disinfected. At the FB we fall behind for the third consecutive game to Peter Kay’s Newbury, but equalise through KWR’s first goal of his life the season before scoring five more after the break. I am Zlatan’s first game in sole charge of the Bs results in a 3-0 reversal against St Paul’s.
It’s afternoon, and following a long and comprehensive mini bus tour of the car park perpetrated by a one-handed driver, Coach Basford eventually turns off the ignition, giving us the opportunity to spend the post-mild chicken curry & rice or jacket potato & cheese hours at the incongruously named Amaizin! Adventure Park, a collection of utter tat loved by anyone under the age of twelve. We procure a map of the site which details the numerous (so-say) attractions of the location, turn right immediately after the Amaizin! shop and find the first available picnic table outside the coffee house. The younger members of the group are long gone, so we set the (football) world to rights over an Americano or three, while the tractor ride, water cannon and inflatable slides amuse and entertain to a similar degree.
The Bs drive to Plemont but the tide is in, their hasty retreat giving Bruce little time to renew acquaintances with the owner of the cafe at the top of the steep flight of steps that gives access to the beach. Failing to notice the boarded up windows, heavily barred door and ‘For Sale from April 2015’ sign nailed to the land-facing wall, Bruce decrees to consult the tide timetable at the hotel and return for a chat with ‘my mate Dave’ before we depart on Saturday.
I spend the evening at an extremely nice, child-free restaurant in Gorey (the town, not the player), overlooking the harbour. Mike Spinks (ESFA Chairman), John Larter MBE and King Pat of Jersey are in attendance as we put the (football) world to rights over five courses and red wine (them) and five courses and Kronenbourg 1664 (me). Beats duck leg in plum sauce any day of the week.
Wednesday
Minutes after coming on as a half time substitute against B & D, Hylton scores a brahma - but at the wrong end, and KWR is spotted in the upstairs canteen munching a Pain au Chocolat croissant and sipping a latte around the time of Barking’s second, meaning two close range strikes from Jenner and a fine save from Mineshaft are required to earn us a 2-2 draw. Following the Kicking Coach’s instructions to the letter, the Bs are four down at half time, much to the disgust of the Real Chairman, who is being updated constantly via the combination of Chairman-elect Adrian’s skype-wristwatch and a microphone hidden in Becky Butcher’s retro Cossack headpiece. The reinstatement of Wixey to the hot seat at the interval, if not quite tiki taka, brings about an improvement in performance as the second half ends goalless.
Back at the ranch and Bruce Forsyth Foran stands amidst a packed lunch time gathering, chatting randomly to Graeme and Dave of Barking about the tactical nuances of the morning’s encounter for a good ten minutes, during which time the opposition hierarchy fidgets uncontrollably. Deciding to move on to his memorised list of other potential victims, Bruce turns to find the earlier overflowing restaurant completely empty and on returning his attention to the site of his original prey, discovers only a pair of empty seats where, only seconds earlier, Graeme and Dave had been listening, horrified, at the chef’s unshakeable belief regarding the nutritional benefits of deep fried pork sausage and pre-cooked frozen chips.
The afternoon is spent with Les Quennevais swimming fitting snugly in between Corbiere at low and high tide from where, despite all our efforts to the contrary, Hylton returns safely. KWR, who earlier had been elected as the vice vice vice vice vice vice vice vice vice vice captain of our ten-player squad sits silently on a rock contemplating the meaning of life, the universe and everything as the waves roar in for 59 consecutive seconds. Or is it 5.9?
Rodders uses the word ‘like’ for the 273rd time in the day on the way home and is fined an attitude point. Hylton and KWR are fined more for unspecified and unrepeatable actions. Vasily and Gorey are perfect as usual, though the Sniper’s hair is less than exemplary, the mop having seen neither comb nor brush nor shampoo of any description for five whole days now. A reminder comes through from Rico’s mum to ensure her sweet-smelling offspring has washed his armpits, but despite nodding vigorously at the suggestion, none of the coaches are prepared to risk their life insurance policy by venturng within ten metres of them, so whether he has done so or not remains anyone’s guess.
Having become hugely excited by growing another inch and a half since 8.30am, Mineshaft phones home for the first time this season, much to the shock of everyone at the Mayfair – and everyone at home too. Rico’s parents have now calculated the average time that Sweet-smell rings in each evening and, aided by caller display, turn up the TV as the answerphone kicks in.
Jenner loses a mark on the mushroom stroganoff and departs to bed in severe need of colonic irrigation, thus avoiding the diary session which sees both Hylton and Mineshaft plumbing literary depths, while Gorey continues to graft away in pursuit of the scholarly Sniper. KWR, after suffering vertigo due to high attitude scores over the last three days decides a descent is necessary to avoid random nosebleeds, though Mineshaft, despite finally succumbing to the temptation of family communication scores a Bo Derek for the first (and ultimately) only time. Rodders accuses Townsend of accusing and loses an accusation point himself. Serves him right. Snitch.
Now the wife has gone home, Elias (& Son) arrive at the ranch via St Brelade’s and Fulham FC, on the lookout for any potential stars of the future. Here’s a man with a story to tell, a book to write and nuggets to reveal. From Oxford United to Fulham via Southampton and Liverpool, with a few Bale’s and Walcott’s popping in (and out) along the way. Bruce laps it all up while considering a similar publication himself, though the content, while including a similar amount of travelling, would be more about fried food than football prodigies and a pitchside cafe with fewer stars to its name than the Fulham FC over-70s reserve team.
Thursday
7.40am: Two hundred miles north, there are rumblings in the corridors of power at GPSFA HQ – and they are not positive ones. The Real Chairman meets with the directors and owner and it is unanimously decided that Wix and I am Zlatan need help.
9.13am: Chairman-elect Macdonald has an online interview and after regurgitating all the usual contradictory nonsense – ‘fire in their bellies’, ‘two banks of three’ and a ‘pragmatic approach, blah, blah, blah’, is appointed Director of B Team football and put on a two-day contract.
9.30am: Coaches Wixey and Harris are informed of their change in status but reassured by the new D of BTF that there will be no interference in team affairs, minutes before he announces both the day’s line up and a fresh tactical approach.
10.40am: Half time. Jersey 4 Gloucester B 0. MacDonald is replaced just 87 minutes into his contract and to everyone’s amazement is replaced by Bruce Foran. ‘A last resort,’ tweets The Real Chairman, completely unaware that his foresight is about to (almost) prove a masterstroke. The new D of BTF finishes his half time team instructions with a few chortles and immediately takes up the position of linesman, flag in one hand, notebook in the other and a speech bubble up top. Fearful of their beloved offspring being dragged into even the shortest of conversations with the city rambler, the Jersey parents instruct their sons to refrain from going anywhere near the Gloucester defensive line and the second half is drawn 0-0.
The A Team goes one down for the fifth game running but responds well for the fifth game running, following another warm-up masterclass from Coach Stalley. They like playing in the freezing rain which has a severely detrimental effect on the Hackney backline, Jenner netting twice before the four-minute torrent subsides to set up an eventual 5-1 win. Star of the show though is referee Bullar who keeps going through the Arctic deluge in his short sleeved officials’ outfit. Hopefully he’ll be out of intensive care shortly and recover in time for next season.
Rodders forgets his Speedos and has to sit out Aquasplash under the watchful eye of Coach Stalley, who thinks Rodders is in the pool. The remaining coaches have a laugh in the joke shop while stocking up for tomorrow evening’s stitch up, before briefly visiting Coffee Express, putting the (football) world to rights and indulging in a bout of people watching. Signed postcards are sent to our brilliant sponsors who will most likely receive their souvenir about three days after we get back.
Rico has lapsed back to his true eating form, though using his two-day bout of projectile vomiting as a valid excuse for going on hunger strike is wearing a bit thin. Tonight he consumes two lamb chops and precious little else in scoring a grand total of three eating points for the day. Not much is going right in the room stakes either as the Armageddon Project, aka the Rico-Hylton abode, is penalised for any number of offending items adorning the floor area, including two pairs of pants sporting the least apt of elasticated labels – ‘Topman’.
Butcher visits the St Albans diary session to model how it should be done and receives a blue SA t-shirt complete with his name and number as a keepsake. Foran orders the under-pressure B Team managers to seize the initiative and try to sell Butch while the iron’s hot, but despite a whip round yielding £16.47, St Albans declare they want twice that to take him and the deal falls through.
Great surge from Gorey in the Diary Room tonight to score nine point five, while Jenner emerges from his five-day authorial slumber to net a nine. Pledge maintains his solidity of performance and KWR is up to eight. Will wonders never cease? Three rooms score a perfect ten, while the Jenner/KWR residence loses a point for the TV remote being unparallel to the edge of the surface on which it is positioned. Attitudes are good, though Hylton provides proof of the old adage that the exception proves the rule, whatever that means. Townsend articulates the precise, word-for-word definitions of both modal verbs and fronted adverbials, thus ticking several of the spelling, punctuation & grammar boxes of Cameron’s brave new pedagogical world, before telling everyone that he ‘done it’. I am Zlatan glances over, completely impervious to this latest desecration of the Queen’s English, before resuming some diatribe or other that includes a plethora of double negatives and a tranche of non-agreeing tenses. Peasant.
Friday
D of BTF Foran delays his entrance into the tour’s penultimate breakfast gathering to accost an unsuspecting French tourist to explain the day’s tactics that are about to be unleashed on St Albans. However, as Bruce launches into his opening gambit a second potential victim appears at the foot of the stairs, but by the time Edwin Doig reveals himself with a ‘Why aye man,’ the Frenchman is long gone and thankfully for everyone in the schools’ (and wider) footballing world, the thinking behind the morning’s proposed 7-0-1 formation will remain a closely guarded secret.
Bs go down 1-0 to a late St Albans strike as the Blues, earplugs firmly inserted, risk all in the final few minutes to evade the chat lines and Foran’s brief tenure ends. Wix and I am Zlatan, quite fancying a few seasons of R & R on gardening leave, hand in their letters of resignation to Chairman-Elect MacDonald who immediately Skype’s the Real Chairman. A Team goes down 0-3 to an excellent Erdington team, Hylton adding another classic finish to his ever-growing list of wrong net wonders, but the side as a whole puts in a fine defensive display after the break to conclude a great week’s football. Chairman-Elect MacDonald summons the Chuckle Brothers to his office and hands them a ten year contract following a complete lack of public interest in taking up the reins. In these times of so-say austerity, no-one can afford to do it.
Coaches Basford, Stalley and I am Zlatan conserve their energy during the final-day staff match which ends 3-3. Basford touches the ball three times as does Stalley, though at least the latter nets with a deflected volley to impress the four people who are still watching. I am Zlatan does little to enhance his reputation other than to provide a fine advertisement for Ventolin, having panted his way through both touches, each of which disappears for a throw-in.
Post-fish fingers & chips team meeting in the hotel lounge votes 9-1 in favour of an afternoon return to Aqua Splash, though it becomes unanimous once Rodders is offered some acceptable swimwear. The decision to walk rather than take the bus though does not meet with universal acclaim as the GPS crocodile meanders its way through the back streets of St Helier. The pool’s numerous sun loungers and perfectly located outdoor decking area are preferred to a coaches’ trip ‘up town’, based on the statistical consideration that they are closer, though the welcome / vital forty two winks on the terrace are interrupted by Peter Kay of Newbury, Plymouth and Potters Bar (in size, not chronological order).
The presentation meal sees a grumpy Captain Pledger’s immaculately prepared ‘thank-you’ speech go unused, despite him taking a good thirty minutes practising his diction and adjusting his immaculate parting in the full-length bedroom mirror beforehand. Tonight’s wonderfully swept back follicled sculpture makes him look more like Jedward than Harry Williams. Rodders meanwhile, in attempting to dissect a grilled tomato, accidentally tips the entire contents of his steak-infested plate into his lap, but maintains his composure in exemplary fashion while returning every last button mushroom to its rightful table-top position.
Hylton maintains his unique eating style, chewing each mouthful assiduously inside the hollow of his left cheek, completely oblivious to the fact that using your incisors means you finish a little bit quicker. Jenner lubricates his steak with a litre of tomato ketchup and his throat with twice the amount of water, but surrenders both a morsel and a mark. Townsend maintains his week of ‘not quite’ in leaving three chips, two mushrooms, half a tomato and a centimetre of cow, while Rico is well into his third day of hunger strike. Unfortunately he’s survived. Bruce wanders from table to table seeking intense debate or meaningless chit-chat, but finds neither before begrudgingly returning to his original position, much to the consternation of those already seated there.
TRIs place fake rats in several rooms, a snake in Mineshaft’s loo roll and a profusion of furniture on the floor of room 340, the score for which plummets from a perfect ten to minus four, much to the horror of its occupants. Townsend appears in the corridor displaying only a pair of orange boxers, grey ankle socks and handheld imitation rodents, enquiringly eyeing Coach Stalley while saying very little. One attitude mark deducted for being out of his room. St Helier pest control is summoned, though it’s not the fake rats they’re looking for. It’s the living ones.
Saturday
‘Bright eyes’ sang Simon & Garfunkel, but there are precious few of these on the morning after the day before. Mineshaft turns up at breakfast with his sweatshirt on back-to-front and Townsend orders two sausages to move around his plate while contemplating what else to do in a restaurant. If this was a chess match he’d be a Grand Master. Rodders deposits milk in his lap barely twelve hours after his successful Bovine experiment, though this time there’s no napkin in place.
Gorey’s case explodes halfway down the stairs while Mineshaft’s retro appendage is admired by everyone in the hotel foyer over the age of sixty five. On leaving the building, Mineshaft, enjoying an interesting start to his final day, gets locked in the bus for no other reason than he doesn’t get off fast enough, but a malfunction in the remote gives him the opportunity to escape, Houdini-like, via the driver’s door.
The last day shopping in St Helier’s pedestrianised central walkthrough sees JD Sports a popular destination, Holland & Barrett (health foods & herbal remedies) less so. Townsend buys a sports bag but immediately returns it and Rico purchases a pair of Jack Wills flip flops which are far too trendy for him. Vasily, following an attempt at money laundering, loses his first attitude point of the week when his unkempt thatch is thirty seconds late arriving at the assembly point beneath the golden clock. Half the group briefly frequent a jeweller’s shop admiring the four-figure gold watches, but fortunately the owner has had the foresight to double lock all the display cases seconds before they enter. Three coaches buy presents to take home, the other will visit the duty free at the airport instead.
Lunch sees a presentation to and photos with Miguel, our ever popular and highly efficient waiter, and an unbelievably erudite and detailed explanation of the life and times of Charles Darwin by Mineshaft, with a little assistance from Townsend, after the naturalist’s picture is discovered on the back of a ten pound note. As it happens, it doesn’t take long to appreciate that the entire sequence in the evolution of species is visible for all to see on our dining table, with homo sapiens appearing at our end of course.
Elias & Son board the plane and settle down next to Coach Basford, though there is little respite for Bruce & Coach Wixey, who are forced to move to the front of the plane to counterbalance the effect of I am Zlatan sitting at the back. We indulge in a Kenco served by an air hostess called Julian and put the (football) world to rights. Coming in to land at Southampton there is a worrying tilt to starboard as I am Zlatan leans over to retrieve a sachet of sugar that has fallen to the floor. Concerned at the sudden increase in gradient, Jenner leaves his wallet on the plane but Chairman-elect MacDonald and the helpful airport staff come to the rescue. On landing, Bruce indulges Son of Elias in meaningless conversation after realising a lonely man standing next to a stationary carousel cannot go anywhere until his luggage appears.
Rico indulges in a bout of further projectile vomiting on the coach, but Basford, like all good scouts, is well prepared and presents him with a Tesco carrier bag moments before the onslaught. Dib, dib. Amazing what thinking about food instead of eating any can do to you. Pledge manicures his hair ready for his impending return to the city, Vasily doesn’t bother. Wixey writes the B Team blog on his lap top while threatening one of the A Team coaches that all will be revealed in his soon-to-be printed memoirs. Gorey adds a red Jersey festival t-shirt and rain jacket to the three layers he is already wearing and goes to sleep on a Matt Busby commemorative pillow. At least he’ll stay dry if the roof leaks.
Presentations at the Great Western see Vasily win lots and Rico win little. The Gorey/Pledger room, despite last night’s fright is the best by a bit, Hylton’s & Rico’s isn’t. In fact, it’s the worst ever. The Premiership eaters prove themselves to be just that, Jenner & Rodders lead the Championship and Pledger & Hylton complete hundred per cent records in the Pig Farmers. Rico & Towner are abysmal. Vasily, Gorey & Pledge have the best attitude and Vasily, Gorey & Rodders the best diaries. The indefatigable Rodders, the prolific Jenner & the indomitable Mineshaft take the match prizes, despite Hylton leading at the halfway point following an excellent first three games. Thanks, as always, to Lyn for providing both the venue and buffet.
And so it ends. Jersey 2016 will be remembered by many different people for many different reasons. Pledger & Vasily - a week of contrasting hair styles; Pledger/Gorey & Hylton/Rico – a week of contrasting hygiene; Jenner & Hylton – a week laden with goals, but with very contrasting outcomes. When Jenner scored, we invariably didn’t lose; when Hylton scored, we invariably didn’t win.
There were rocks and water, sea and pools, fun and laughter. There are no gadgets on beaches and no gizmos in sand. In this day and age when electronic rules the day and people seem lost for the period of time it takes to recharge their android, the waves never change. They will continue to roll in and roll out, and all the technological advances in the years and centuries to come will never alter the metronomic violence perpetrated by the ocean’s whitecaps. The important things are the simple things. In a society dictated by materialism, it is very easy to lose sight of this. But one man hasn’t. Andrew Bruce Foran will continue to search high and low, far and wide for someone to indulge in conversation. There will be peaks to scale and troughs to negotiate, but he will plough on regardless. For somewhere, over the rainbow and far beyond man’s perception of the horizon, he will discover his nirvana, his idyllic location, his utopia – a place where people just want to sit and talk to him. And for all our sakes, please let it be Jersey 2017.
Dramatis Personae and Acknowledgements
All the Gloucester coaches and players for making Jersey 2016 the fun that it was and particularly Andy (Bruce) Foran for (begrudgingly) continuing to be the persona non grata of the annual Jersey resume. Of all the great signings....
All the Gloucester parents, grandparents, friends & families, for allowing it all to happen and each of our fabulous sponsors and supporters for ensuring that it did.
(King) Pat Cullinane of Jersey for his 42 years of amazing organisation of this event. A man of high principle and unbridled enthusiasm, rarely seen and seldom heard, but always there. In the (almost) immortal words of Sir Christopher Wren, ‘If you want a memorial to me, look around the FB Fields.’
The managers, coaches and helpers of all the teams involved - the foot soldiers who make it all happen. Lookalikes or not, we love the company, the banter and the proverbial craic. Oh, and Phil & John from the frozen north and Elias & Son from a bit closer to home. You probably won’t read this, but thanks anyway.
And finally, to Mrs (Stewart) Ratcliffe. Your husband told me you liked last year’s memoirs so much that, like Victor Kyam, you’d like to buy the company (just like Andy Foran, I guess). I hope it was worth the wait.
Happy days.
