Keep It On The Island 2017
A behind the scenes look at some of the personalities, events, accusations & revelations that were Jersey 2017. This review is a memoir from an A Team perspective, so B Squad players are mentioned only fleetingly. The balance is restored in the B Team blog however, when the reverse happens.
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 and as such, any resemblance to actual persons living or otherwise, events or locales, is entirely intentional.
Saturday 8th April
Things are looking good. Last Men Liggett, Lawson and Mclean are here early. Clifford has had his follicles styled (his mum’s a hairdresser you know) and Coach Harris is wearing a tie. And it’s got a proper knot in it. The bus is on time and the driver’s happy. The sky is cloudless and ocean blue. What can possibly go wrong?
There are no alarms on the coach and none go off either as Coach Wilson inches nervously through Southampton Airport’s metal locator which fails to detect either his iron lung or aluminium canal. Someone needs to change the batteries. Blacker and Wilkes immediately set off the bleeper due to the presence of the metal handcuff that has linked them together throughout both today’s coach journey and that of the previous eight months.
The Chef (and Romeo) have left much earlier, flown from Birmingham and are already on the island, though none of this is known to the ticket-checker with whom Bruce struck up a conversation last year and who rang in earlier this morning with supposed gastroenteritis. This year’s ticket-checker is far less communicative.
King Pat meets us at ‘Arrivals’, casting an accusatory eye in the direction of Coach Wixey, doubtless reflecting on the reasons behind the current directive that all buses are now banned from entering the FB Fields via the gate on La Grande Route de Salle. He’s clearly happy that ‘Andrew - one of Gloucester’s better drivers’ is in charge of the B Team bus and Basford, a professional van driver in his own right, is behind the wheel of the A Team vehicle. At least ‘Andrew’ is to get through the week ahead relatively unscathed.
Coach Basford has rung the hotel to ascertain the latest time we can have lunch and is told five minutes ago, so we head to KFC instead where £35 feeds an entire team including support staff. Coach Wilson causes a stir behind the counter on requesting silver service, but receives only a rudimentary plastic knife and fork instead. Neither is much use when it comes to cutting or lifting, so he occupies himself by morosely shuffling the bucket’s final piece of hen round his paper plate instead.
Hotel rooms allocated, it’s off to St Ouen Bay, where rocks are dropped in pools, Dennis considers wading to America and Liggett discovers the skeleton of a fish that he tries to scare his team mates with.
The IPL-style auction to determine player ownership in the Eating Leagues is conducted on a table outside St Ouen’s ice cream cafe, Shut-Eye Clifford going for £10 which turns out to be money well spent, while Traditional Blackburn trades in at £9 which turns out to be money well wasted. By me. Neville is elected to the Premiership over Desmond by five votes to four with several abstentions. It turns out to be a mistake, but it’s not the only one. Smithy goes for a quid – someone’s got money to burn.
The Pro displays his obvious prowess in the drivers’ pew by shifting us through St Helier’s twisting streets with a panache that belies a man who employs an operative named Wixey. We stop at a green light and go at a red, stall twice, cut up an older lady attempting to park a Skoda and partake in a whole lot of aimless revving prior to arriving back at The Mayfair. Can’t wait for our next trip.
Dinner sees a valiant effort from everyone as the roast lamb proves a popular choice, though macaroni cheese and Lawson’s Spanish omelette are also consumed with no little relish as everyone is keen to show their owners that their money has been wisely and viably invested.
The post-dinner, pre-Festival managerial check-in sees Orpington confirmed as the oldest, Wokingham the youngest, Thurrock the lightest, St Albans the heaviest and Erdington the tallest. Apart from Ton that is. Hackney and Gloucester are the least mobile by some distance.
There is a whole array of famous lookalikes too; we have Peter Kay, Grant & Philip Mitchell, Uncle Fester & Herman Munster, Ronnie & Reggie Kray, Bruce Forsyth, Tony Christie, Boris Johnson, Charles Manson, Noel Edmonds and Elias of Fulham. And that’s only the supporting cast. It all makes for an interesting and exciting week ahead.
Sunday 9th April
The Pro is up bright and early – well, early anyway, to collect the bus from its hilltop residence, his return greeted by Wilkes and Mclean waving from their hotel window, resplendent in their GPSFA shirts & ties.
Having changed into playing kit and trainers and losing two attitude points each for forgetting the previous evening’s ‘dress’ instructions, it’s the first Jersey breakfast and Blacker doesn’t disappoint, consuming croissants, cereal and cooked, though his C-based diet doesn’t extend to Covering much ground in the ensuing game against Newbury.
Boris gets into the swing with croissant, toast, then beans on toast, Lawson is persuaded to give beans a miss for obvious reasons, while Liggett and Blackburn look good value for the £15 invested in them, or so it seems.
The parish of St Clement in which the games are played is a middle class neighbourhood of some repute, but the local garage still has an apostrophe in MOTs. The FB Fields as expected are in fine condition, though the news of the departure of last season’s groundsman for a week-long stay in Guernsey a year to the day after being befriended by Bruce brings disappointment to the Gloucester chef, who had similar experiences with Pierre, Jacques, Michael, Brian, Graeme, Timothy and Francois during the period 2009-2015.
Game one sees Newbury good value for their 4-2 win on Pitch Two, while over on Pitch Four, a single strike is enough to give Orpington B victory over the Gloucester Yellows in a game watched by an away following that is impressive in both numbers and choice of headwear. Post-match scrutiny of the historic playing records reveals it is now ten Jersey games since the B Squad scored at the festival, the 2-1 win over St Albans B on 13th April 2015 being the last time the team legally put the ball in the net at the correct end. Post-match, coaches Wixey & Harris mull over their attacking options for the morrow; the A Team staff just mull.
With the Fort Regent tunnel temporarily out of use, The Pro is in his element in the back streets of St Helier, switching lanes at the last minute, scaring a pensioner and taking a short cut that isn’t on his way back to the hotel car park where he affects a flat-handed 23-point turn and a final manoeuvre that nearly kills Coach Wilson.
Pain au Chocolat’s fruit machine eyes (two melons, two apples, two cherries) light up on seeing that he can have an orange for lunch time ‘afters’, though his effort with the fish & chip ‘befores’ fully supports his inclusion in the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve League.
Lawson’s macaroni cheese and tomato ketchup resembles the detritus of something serious on the surgery floor of St Helier General, but he manages to finish it nonetheless. Blacker too is remorseless alongside Chamberlain and Liggett, though word is spreading via the eternal grapevine regarding Blackburn and a sausage. No-one quite knows the details yet, but as the old adage says, there’s usually no smoke without fire.
With the tunnel still blocked, The Pro gets us to Plemont via the lanes of the island’s north coast and we descend the 84 steps to the spectacular bay beneath, the golden sand remarkably quiet due in equal measure to the incoming tide and the arrival of Bruce, the combination of which brought about a military-style evacuation effected in world record time.
The rising of the water levels necessitates a swift departure that takes us round the headland to Greve de Lecq, the disappearance of the sun and appearance of the wind making for a chilly hour which goes completely unnoticed by the scantily clad throng.
‘I have every faith that Wixey & Harris,’ says The Chairman on his brand new Twitter account (@theboss), ‘will get it right, but I can’t say the same about the other lot. I’ll give them…,’ at which point his 140 characters mercifully run out.
Roast beef with all the trimmings has sides of cow so large that the TRI calls a beef amnesty, much to the relief of Blacker, whose plate following 25 minutes of cutting and chewing reminds one of the aftermath of a medieval battle without the metal helmets. Shut-Eye wavers on the duck liver pate; Pain au Chocolat just wavers.
All is revealed as the ‘sausage on the floor’ is attributed to Blackburn trying to stave off losing an eating mark, so he’s fined two for (not) consuming it plus another for (a bad) attitude. It is also revealed that Mclean, a man not known for personal sanitisation of any degree, actually ate the thing due to thinking it was his; that it had slid off his plate, onto his lap, down his leg and onto the floor without him noticing anything untoward at all. His efforts in both thought and action gain him no additional eating marks whatsoever.
The first room scores are now in the public domain, abodes 416 & 418 each accumulating zero. The inhabitants of the above are forced into a stint of hard labour, returning their dens to something resembling a habitable environment, while their more orderly neighbours receive a twenty-minute walk with Smithy as a reward for their efforts, during which time they contemplate the materialistic value of success and the mysterious ways in which adults think.
Monday 10th April
The Day of the Goal. 11.35am – 520 minutes and almost two years after their last entry into the ‘GF’ column, the B Team scores, meaning Luke Taylor will forever be known as History Man. And then Issy caresses one in from the far touchline with ten seconds left on the clock and a goal becomes a win. Coach Harris tweets, ‘After 520 minutes, which is 6 hours and 20 minutes, we’ve finally scored a goal’ (check it out). Coach Harris will now forever be known as Maths Man.
A Team hang on to beat Hackney 2-1 thanks to a Blackburn penalty and a second when Lawson’s corner brings about an OG. Following considerable deliberation and after much pleading from the aforementioned, the Dubious Goals Panel correctly decides not to award the goal to the corner taker, though his reaction is somewhat surprisingly, pragmatism personified. ‘Tout est jouste dans l’amour et la guerre,’ he recites calmly. His team mates smirk shiftily and nod knowingly. ‘What’s pragmatism?’ asks Coach Harris.
Elsewhere, Plymouth blind Jersey with their fluorescent yellow-green kit and grab a 1-1 draw; there are plenty of goals in the Orpington v Potters Bar game, but not all of them count, while The Chef disguises himself as an American baseball coach in his futile attempts to strike up an incognito conversation with anyone within a 50-metre radius.
Post-lunch and with the adrenalin still pumping, everyone’s ready for whatever the afternoon has in store. The Pro does an Italian Job through the back streets of St Helier, dipping left then banking right and ten minutes later we’re back at the hotel. Eventually we rack up at La Corbiere, walking along the causeway to the lighthouse and following my leader (The Pro) back over the rocks to the car park. Blackburn steps on Shut-Eye’s finger which turns red immediately, but the man is resilient to the nth degree, not crying, howling, moaning, screaming or calling insistently for his mum, despite someone suggesting that amputation is imminent.
Les Quennevais Sports Centre is one of our favourite haunts, due in equal part to it always being quiet, the swimming cheap and the upstairs café serving good drinks, well priced. It was previously run by a ‘friend’ of The Chef, but following an elongated conversation on our last visit, he sold up and moved to a commune on Guernsey, leaving behind few signs of his previous existence, together with no forwarding address.
Lawson is dropped off at the first available garage on the way back, but fails the emissions test before returning just in time for the Pork Steak Normandy without the Normandy. Smithy has (temporarily) turned into a lean, mean, eating machine (relative to his previous efforts); Pain au Chocolat is considering doing the same but hasn’t got round to it yet. Neville and Ronseal moan at regular intervals but eat everything. Blackburn and Wilkes moan at regular intervals but leave a vegetable each and are deducted an eating mark apiece.
Corbiere and Quennevais are individually spelt on eleven separate occasions in the diary session and a flip chart and felt tip are added to the list for Jersey 2018. Liggett has lost a sock and Blacker does a Chippendale, undoes his shirt to the waist and poses like the male model he aspires to be. Two games gone and neither ref has asked him where he gets his hair permed, much to the skipper’s obvious disgust.
Arsenal lose 0-3 to Palace on teletext and the odds on Arsene’s successor are publicised. Massimiliano Allegri (Juventus) is 10-1, Diego Simeone (Athletico Madrid) 7-1 and Coach Sanders (St Albans) 5-2. ‘Forget Arsenal,’ says the Chairman in one of his more reassuring phone calls, ‘Wixey & Harris have a job for life, but I’m still unsure about that A Team rabble.’ Thanks a bundle.
Tuesday 11th April
It’s all go as the Mayfair prepares for day three of the festival. The fourth floor is awash with enthusiasm following yesterday’s successes. 416 have forgotten to clean their gnashers and are returned to ‘do the sociable thing.’ The Pro’s clothes, freshly-laundered yesterday afternoon, have shrunk alarmingly and pose a real threat to his mobility in the mini bus driver’s seat.
Liggett has lost a shoe and Wilkes his football socks, which are immediately found not in, but on the bed. Smithy’s lost nothing, but is muttering something about nail varnish, at which point everyone turns the other way and pretends they haven’t heard.
Lifelong learning kicks in as I discover that opening the bathroom door wide and turning on the shower full blast deters anyone from attempting to knock you up, thus giving you approximately twenty minutes of additional power nap time before the bathroom floods.
Blacker is parading a paper sign declaring that Jacob loves E D, much to Neville’s obvious consternation. This leads to declarations of love (not to each other in most cases) and numerous revelations regarding female partners and suchlike. Blacker, it seems, has a buy one, get one free approach, El Capitano admitting to at least three ‘friends’ at this particular time.
A Team comes back from a 1-3 half time deficit to level at 3-3 with Thurrock, only to lose in the last minute. Bs also concede late to draw 2-2 with St Paul’s. Coach Harris has received a complaint letter thanks to a suggestion from Elias of Fulham, some headed paper supplied by King Pat and the typing skills of the accommodating hotel receptionist. We know he believes it, but will later discover he doesn’t. At least things haven’t got messy yet.
The Pro navigates the charabanc through the country lanes that extend, lattice-like, across the island’s green and pleasant lands in flamboyant style, the rural charms of the Jersey countryside pleasing to the eye of even the most unobservant amongst the group. ‘Look over there,’ shouts one, ‘there’s ice in that field.’ ‘That’s not ice,’ retorts another, ’that’s plastic. They’re growing plastic.’ ‘I know,’ explains a third, ‘but that plastic is only for protection. The plastic they’re growing is underneath.’ No names can be attributed to the above conversation, but it is our captain who thinks it’s ice.
The Amaizin Maze has acres of inflatables, slides, water things and multi-coloured life-size spheres you try to knock each other over with in a sandpit. A collection of utter tat that today at least four teams think is absolutely great fun. Erdington Phil takes part in everything liquid and is soaked from head to toe by 5.30pm. The Plymouth Brethren wander round spot checking their troops in white tops and diagonally worn black man bags that do little for either their appearance or their street cred. Newbury lounge in the same café area as ourselves, drinking tea, eating Hula Hoops and (trying to) complete The Times crossword. Four years we’ve been coming now and the maize maze, so beautifully depicted in all its glory on the advertising board outside, has grown at no more than an average of around two inches a year. If Smithy hadn’t had his wooden ruler gun confiscated at the airport, we could have found out exactly how much.
A late afternoon return to Corbiere takes us past a ‘Premier Store’, outside which both ‘tomatoes’ and ‘potatoes’ have their plurals preceded by an inappropriate punctuation mark. Coach Wilson tuts fitfully. Arrival at the World War II bunker on the south-western tip of the island reveals yesterday’s route to the lighthouse is now beneath twenty feet of water and for the next half hour the ageless fascination of children with waves is apparent for all to behold.
Lawson continues to wage biological warfare on his team mates and anyone within a 40-metre radius of the bus, the left wing back and confined spaces proving to be one of those associations that isn’t quite made in heaven.
Neville, Shut-Eye and Lawson, together with Alias Smith & Jones lose eating marks tonight as the duck leg with plum sauce takes its toll. No such problems up the road though as The Chef takes Romeo out for an Indian before returning to The Mayfair for an extra dessert. Apparently, the Chicken Dopiaza, pilau rice and plain naan aren’t enough to appease a grown man’s appetite. Thankfully though The Chef feels sated enough by his earlier indulgence and declines to peruse The Mayfair’s pudding list. It’s only Romeo that partakes.
Attitude marks are down today. The black books have noted a whole profusion of heinous acts including not pushing one’s chair under the table following dinner, thinking of running down the corridor, contemplating pushing the lift button while we’re in it, various levels of uncontrollable flatulence, saying the word ‘like’ at inappropriate points in a sentence and making any sort of accusation against one’s team mates. Even if what they’re saying is true.
Wednesday 12th April
It’s like London buses at the FB Fields – nothing arrives for ages, then loads of them come at once. Having gone two days shy of two years without scoring, the B Team, having broken their duck by netting four goals in the last two days, hit another seven against Jersey B, Easterbrook grabbing a treble.
No such luck on the other pitch as we miss a penalty, miss the follow-up, miss a one-on-one then concede the game’s only goal in injury time to St Albans. Wembley heartbreak. Shut-Eye equals a festival record by being taken off twice in the same game and makes a quick note to mention this, together with the names and addresses of his removers, in his soon to be published autobiography.
The Chairman is on the blower to The Chef and he’s not happy. ‘Can’t Wixey & Harris run both teams?’ he inquires, his tone becoming ever more exasperated by the second. ‘There are extenuating circumstances,’ explains The Chef. ‘Half the team are in bed ill.’ ‘But that’s the team that’s winning,’ hollers The Chairman, before The Chef calmly lowers the receiver to spare the beleaguered four further hierarchial abuse for the remainder of the day.
It’s sausage & chips or spaghetti bolognese for lunch, but The Pro forgoes both on discovering a little yellow note on the mini bus windscreen. ‘There’s no 50% discount for early payment,’ explains the blue uniform outside. ‘So you’ll have to pay the full £100,’ he adds with a rather gratuitous smile.
The players unite behind their beleaguered coach and indulge in a collective bout of concerned looks and vigorous head shaking.
When Wixey pranged the B Team bus on the La Grande Route de Salle gate pillar two years ago, it took an entire evening to collect just £3.24 for the respray fund, suggesting that one CFP person is far more popular than the other. Nevertheless, The Pro is still scowling as we board the bus for Aquasplash. The ensuing drive to the pool would not have looked out of place in a rerun of Ben Hur as our vehicle circumnavigates a few back streets too many, encounters a few red lights too many and gets stuck in a few traffic jams too many, meaning the extended journey takes twenty five minutes when a slow walk would have got us there in ten.
While the players hurtle down the slides, dodge the waves and navigate the inside to outside channel, Basford spends most of the afternoon trying to borrow money from anyone awake enough to listen. Eventually Lamar of Erdington donates the 20p piece he’s been keeping in the side pocket of his diagonally worn man bag for just such an occasion and the corners of The Pro’s mouth sneak upwards for the first time in four and a half hours.
There’s a problem in the changing room - Liggett can’t find either the pound he’s been loaned for his locker - or his left sock. On being threatened with the prospect of a brief chat with The Chef, he immediately finds both.
Back at the ranch it’s Chicken Tarragon, with the tarragon replaced by ketchup. It’s a mess. Wilkes struggles with both the soup and the chips but quaffs the blood-red chicken; Alias Smith & Jones just struggle. Everyone else gets a culinary thumbs-up for the day.
A quick glance at our dinner table reminds one of a tableau depicting the entire span of Darwin’s Theory of Evolution. Coach Wilson is overseeing Galapagos, but fortunately we’re at the homo sapiens’ end.
Desmond has developed a heat rash, but refrains from telling anyone as they’ll probably want it as well. His roommate is already jealous and starting to itch, even though his skin shows no sign of changing colour.
The Player Virus which is sweeping the hotel announces itself in style as Campbell is sick over my warm up top, Romeo is sick over Coach Harris and much of the bus and Mclean is sick on the stairs. Someone suggests it’s all to do with the effect of greenhouse gases on the atmosphere. Lawson looks the other way and keeps absolutely schtum.
Thursday 13th April
We’ve dreamed up a new ruse and it’s absolutely hilarious. We get in the lift as the players begin their descent of the stairs, but get out on the first floor and walk into reception, leaving the throng trying to work out how we’ve come down the stairs even though we got in the lift. The doors open and we stroll smugly out, waiting for the inevitable reaction. No-one laughs.
B Team minus Irvine & Fieldhouse, who are the latest casualties of the Player Virus, loses 0-1 to both Barking & Dagenham in a game of few thrills. A Team goes three better and loses 0-4 to Wokingham in an encounter full of excitement, thrills and fast-flowing football - if you’re a Wokingham supporter that is.
Ronseal exits the fray at half time with a recurrence of ‘bad belly’, while Liggett takes a break from his pitch side frolics and comes on for a ten-minute rest.
The local radio station’s sports reporter is wandering the fields looking for potential targets to interview. Coach Stalley wins the impromptu ‘Face of Radio’ survey and articulates his take on how to win U11 football matches.
‘One out of five,’ he states in a tone that suggests complete confidence in the diatribe that is to follow, ‘is a pretty good return I reckon.’ In expectation of an array of knowing smiles and numerous nods of unwavering approval from his GPSFA chums, he turns to be confronted by 50 metres of untouched grass with no-one near it. And The Chef hasn’t even arrived yet.
‘I don’t care how many years you’ve done it, how many games you’ve managed, how many cups you’ve won or how many interviews you’ve declined,’ rants Chairman Keith, ‘you’ve got one last chance. With no extensions.’ Things are neither looking nor sounding too promising.
Back at the ranch, the future is seemingly slightly brighter. Mclean eats three quarters of a burger plus salad and puts salt in two people’s drinks when they’re not looking. Things are returning to normal very quickly.
News filters in that The Pro has received a second parking ticket, much to the amusement of all concerned. A ‘Just Giving’ page is immediately set up and the early surge in donations, mostly as a result of the efforts of our resident begging professional (Neville) sees the total reach £1.37 (including 50p from Potters Bar’s Dave) by the time we’re ready to leave for the annual retail attack on St Helier’s pedestrianised high street. The Pro is encouraged by this heart-warming show of public support.
A bearded man dressed in a sleeping bag and sitting in a shop doorway shouts, ‘Big Issue.’ ‘I know it is,’ mutters The Pro, before accepting 50p towards the Ticket Fund from the concerned magazine seller.
On the left side of the street, three coaches buy presents for loved ones at home; on the right side the remaining protagonist scours the shops for duty free. Shares in JD Sports rocket thanks to the purchase of cut-price t-shirts, wide-soled flip flops and black & white carrier bags. Blackburn wears his new hat backwards and is deducted an attitude point. Browsing Mother Clifford intercepts the slow-moving clan on three separate occasions and is ignored by her once angelic offspring on all three. Desmond buys one sister a very nice memento with a colourful picture of the island on the front and the other a 30 pence postcard. ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ he explains. Dennis has £49.50 of his £50 left after buying presents for each of his extended family. If he carries on like this he’ll be peeling oranges in his pockets. Wilkes and Blacker pop into Pandora’s Box as Neville and Liggett come out. That all fits then.
Back at The Mayfair, Desmond, Neville, Pain au Chocolat and Blackburn are attempting to play pool in the Games Room. Coach Stalley, a player of some repute back in the 50s, affords them the benefit of his experience and offers all four a coaching tip. ‘Stick to the football,’ is his considered advice.
Smithy’s the dining star tonight. He orders duo of smoked fish (from one of his three lakes), then realises he doesn’t like fish. Only their fingers. Follow-up is lion (sic) of pork – good job it’s the mane meal. For dessert he suggests he may be the worst tourist ever. ‘Statistics, statistics and damn lies,’ Henry Ford once opined. But only sometimes.
There’s a double chin competition going on and Blacker’s in the lead until Wokingham join in. Mclean claims a ‘bad belly’ after eating a banana. Liggett claims the same ‘cos I looked at it.’ ‘What’s in a vegetable curry?’ queries Desmond. We’re going to the dogs.
The Chef and the boy, now fully recovered, pop up to the ranch so the latter can top up his daily calorie intake, but the boy disappears soon after disposing of two portions of apple crumble, a huge jug of custard and three scoops of chocolate ice cream. ‘Romeo, Romeo, where art though?’ intones his concerned patriarch. ‘Over yur Grandad,’ comes the broad Gloucester reply, as he tucks into a couple of dishes of discarded pasta on the neighbouring table that’s just been vacated by Erdington & Saltley.
Donations for Basford’s ticket fund are coming in from far and wide. Harding has contributed £5.42 of his mum’s money, Liggett’s put in a pound or three and Neville’s offered 17p. Oxfam and the NSPCB have both offered food parcels. There are clothes from the British Heart Foundation. Pain au Chocolat’s pledged £10 of his dad’s hard-earned. The total has now reached £17.84, a stash of canned vegetables and a couple of army shirts. Only £182.16 to go.
Friday 14th April
Everyone’s up bright and early for the last day of matches – well up, anyway. Pain au Chocolat contemplates a brace of boiled eggs for the fourth day running, noting their likeness to Coach Stalley’s polished scalp before removing their contents to maintain his run of losing no eating marks at breakfast. The deductions can wait till later.
The Bs turn in a dogged display before going down 1-3 to Orpington A – Fieldhouse having netted a classic to give them an early lead; the A Team recovers from an interval deficit to edge out Potters Bar B 2-1 thanks to a second half double from Blacker. Goalkeeper Cornwell completes his twelfth game in six days and establishes a Jersey record that can only ever be equalled, but never beaten. Taylor and Cornwell – History Men supreme.
‘I’m as relieved as you are that you’ve won today, but it’s just not been good enough,’ explains The Chairman. ‘The Bs have had almost their entire squad incapacitated in some form or other and they still finish with a better record than you. What have you got to say for yourself? And don’t give me any of that Henry Ford, ‘Damn Lies’ guff….’
The whole group sponsors’ photo and coaches’ match which always follows the conclusion of the real games sees Coach Harris, who is employed in a left-sided role for the ‘Orange PWC T-Shirts’ XI, receive some fearful (yet well deserved) touchline abuse from those members of the B Squad who’ve bothered to stay and watch. It’s not that he makes many mistakes, it’s more the fact he only has two touches (and one mistake) in the entire game.
GPSFA’s fast-fading playing reputation takes no further hits as both Coach Basford (goalkeeper; currently temporarily retired) and Coach Stalley (midfielder; knee ligaments) are unable to take part. It seems Coach Stalley’s injury may require permanent retirement, a circumstance that would see the sport in a far better state nationally than it was two months ago as a result.
The Pro edges the bus into a tiny space in the hotel car park in a concerted effort to avoid a hat-trick of lunch time parking fines, much to the disappointment of everyone else, before driving us to Portelet Bay, a picture-postcard inlet with its own island and low-tide causeway.
Beach football is refereed from the adjacent cliff-side cafe, before two of the coaches decide to take the rear exit from the beach to avoid the 178 steps down which they’d descended 75 minutes earlier. Plan B, as it turns out, involves at least 320 steps, a half-mile walk back to the bus and a realisation that satellite navigation is usually preferable to intuition. At least the players get a good rest before the last man checks in.
Bank Holiday opening hours mean Les Quennevais swimming pool is closed, so it’s a history lesson in Liberation Square, a walk along the harbour front and a short session in the Games Room before the Presentation Dinner. There is little doubt that the residents of the island will be celebrating a second liberation tomorrow evening, when the last of the visiting teams has finally departed its shores for another season.
Blacker and Blackburn have prepared and rehearsed a fine closing speech, but surprisingly it’s not required. Neville and Wilkes struggle with the minute steak, mushrooms and tomatoes, before an amnesty is called and everyone’s allowed to leave either one of them. It makes little difference. Alias Smith and Jones make a decent effort (in relative terms). Blacker does a lot of cutting and chewing and despite losing an attitude mark for extremely slow eating, eventually swallows the final piece. A real trooper.
At the end, Plymouth begin a chain of ritual handshaking with anyone wearing a tie a potential target. Erdington with their man-bags worn diagonally join in. No wonder the Player Virus is spreading.
The TRIs amuse themselves by upsetting both 414’s fixtures & fittings and head tidier Lawson who, for five full minutes, thinks they’ve lost first place in the room rankings and it’s not fair. The Ozone Layer above Jersey has been saying the same thing all week. Juan and Desmond discover a bird in their room but they don’t find it funny either. Time should prove to be a great healer.
Saturday 15th April
Images of soldiers leaving the trenches at the end of the Great War come to mind as the sick and infirm make their way to the waiting transport that’s going to begin their long journey home. Coach Harris joins the sick list meaning that most people who watched yesterday’s game simultaneously jump to the conclusion that the Player Virus has been inaptly named.
The Pro guides the bus to its final resting place in the airport car park and exhales a sigh of relief as he’s about to escape the attention of the States of Jersey for another year at least.
There’s a slight delay at Departures when Coach Stalley is frisked from head to toe as security staff carry out a full body search in an attempt to locate his ‘FA Guide to Match Winning Warm-Up Routines’. He quite enjoys it, but the friskers are disappointed to discover the manual doesn’t exist. Even the Head Coach can keep two routines in his head. There’s a slight delay in take-off too as Coach Harris needs to be re-positioned in order to maintain the equilibrium of the plane for the fifth season running.
As we take to the air, the trolley people attempt to extract any remaining Jersey notes from their owners’ wallets by offering two for the price of one. Two cups of coffee for the price of one bottle of champagne, that is. Last Easter we had an air hostess called Jeremy, but Rachel is far less hirsute and therefore far easier on the eye. Coach Wixey isn’t aware of the improvement as he’s asleep before the second propeller eventually starts turning.
There are quizzical looks as the Bennett’s Coach doesn‘t pull up at Longlevens and concerned glances left, right and underfoot as we navigate a less than salubrious alleyway to arrive at the Great Western on Alfred Street, to be met by an assemblage of parents and the echoing question, ‘How did they know we’re here?’
The A Team ‘Dream’ winners are announced. Desmond, Liggett, Jones and Blackburn scoop the diary awards, while 414 (first), 413 (second) and 418 (third) are the best rooms. Considering the state of it, 416 does well to finish fourth (out of four). As the B Team prizes are announced, Issy reserves his most fervent applause for himself.
Shut-Eye (78 points) wins the Easter egg as Premiership winner in an eating competition where all the best performers are in the league below. Blacker, Liggett & Desmond each have hundred per cent records to take the Championship by storm and thanks to Coach Harris’s impending sickness, are spared the play-off he’s spent an eternity planning. Let’s hope he removes the pilchards and blue cheese from his trouser pockets before hitting the sack tonight. Mclean (74 points) wins the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve group by a country mile, due to emulating Freddie Flintoff on the tele and effectively being in a League of his Own. For the record, Smith ousts Jones in the Wooden Spoon play-off by something like nine points to seven. However did they accumulate that many?
In the Attitude stakes, Shut-Eye and Jones do Longlevens proud; Blacker and Neville less so. Desmond represents the whole of Painswick extremely well. Mclean finishes in lower mid-table, much to everyone’s surprise.
Pain au Chocolat, Mclean and Blacker take the Match prizes. Liggett fails to make the top three as this year there is no award for Walking Football. Lawson, Neville, Wilkes and Boris are ‘Most Improved’ when it comes to personal tidiness. Heaven knows what they looked like before. Blackburn, Blushes and Wilkes are rewarded for the best Jersey hairstyles, though few referees asked Blacker where he gets his flowing locks styled. ‘It’s obviously the French influence,’ opines the skipper in a rare moment of sophisticated reflection. His only moment (ever), as it turns out. Shut-Eye picks up the overall award to give him at least a thousand mini eggs to share with his expectant siblings, whose eyes are as wide as baby sparrows in a nest. Maybe he’ll slip them a worm or two instead.
Liggett hobbles to the door to amass £31.49 in aid of Basford’s financial plight in his rather Urban-looking Smarties collection box. Add in Thursday’s begging bounty and that’s nearly £50 in total. And if the pledge is honoured as all pledges should be, and The Mayor chips in at the Swindon game; if Smithy can put in a percentage of the £49.50 that’s loitering in his pocket and King Pat can weave his magic with the island’s authorities, we may just raise enough to ensure another kit sponsorship deal with CFP next season….
Coach Harris slumps on the bench, his exertions complete. Coach Basford awaits his chauffeur-driven limo, his driving, and more pertinently his parking days, now most definitely behind him. The Chef is long gone, his Friday departure allowing him an extra day to prepare his kitchen for next Saturday’s visit of Newbury & Bath and the employees of the island who have taken a week’s unpaid leave to make an impromptu visit to the Franciscan monastery on the nearby retreat of Sark, plenty of time to return to their day jobs in the more affluent environs of St Helier.
Coach Wixey wonders if anyone’s seen an apostrophe that’s been misused on the final day. ‘None whatsoever,’ confirms Coach Stalley, ‘because I think apostrophes often mean that something’s been left out.’
And in the case of Jersey 2017, I don’t think anything has.
Happy days.
Dramatis Personae and Acknowledgements
All the Gloucester coaches and players for making Jersey 2017 the fun that it was and particularly Andy (The Chef) Foran for (begrudgingly) continuing to be the persona non gratis 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 43 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 of Fulham from a bit closer to home. You probably won’t read this, but thanks anyway.
And finally, to Mrs (Stewart) Ratcliffe. I hope you enjoyed this memoir as much as you enjoyed last year’s tale. I know we did.
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 and as such, any resemblance to actual persons living or otherwise, events or locales, is entirely intentional.
Saturday 8th April
Things are looking good. Last Men Liggett, Lawson and Mclean are here early. Clifford has had his follicles styled (his mum’s a hairdresser you know) and Coach Harris is wearing a tie. And it’s got a proper knot in it. The bus is on time and the driver’s happy. The sky is cloudless and ocean blue. What can possibly go wrong?
There are no alarms on the coach and none go off either as Coach Wilson inches nervously through Southampton Airport’s metal locator which fails to detect either his iron lung or aluminium canal. Someone needs to change the batteries. Blacker and Wilkes immediately set off the bleeper due to the presence of the metal handcuff that has linked them together throughout both today’s coach journey and that of the previous eight months.
The Chef (and Romeo) have left much earlier, flown from Birmingham and are already on the island, though none of this is known to the ticket-checker with whom Bruce struck up a conversation last year and who rang in earlier this morning with supposed gastroenteritis. This year’s ticket-checker is far less communicative.
King Pat meets us at ‘Arrivals’, casting an accusatory eye in the direction of Coach Wixey, doubtless reflecting on the reasons behind the current directive that all buses are now banned from entering the FB Fields via the gate on La Grande Route de Salle. He’s clearly happy that ‘Andrew - one of Gloucester’s better drivers’ is in charge of the B Team bus and Basford, a professional van driver in his own right, is behind the wheel of the A Team vehicle. At least ‘Andrew’ is to get through the week ahead relatively unscathed.
Coach Basford has rung the hotel to ascertain the latest time we can have lunch and is told five minutes ago, so we head to KFC instead where £35 feeds an entire team including support staff. Coach Wilson causes a stir behind the counter on requesting silver service, but receives only a rudimentary plastic knife and fork instead. Neither is much use when it comes to cutting or lifting, so he occupies himself by morosely shuffling the bucket’s final piece of hen round his paper plate instead.
Hotel rooms allocated, it’s off to St Ouen Bay, where rocks are dropped in pools, Dennis considers wading to America and Liggett discovers the skeleton of a fish that he tries to scare his team mates with.
The IPL-style auction to determine player ownership in the Eating Leagues is conducted on a table outside St Ouen’s ice cream cafe, Shut-Eye Clifford going for £10 which turns out to be money well spent, while Traditional Blackburn trades in at £9 which turns out to be money well wasted. By me. Neville is elected to the Premiership over Desmond by five votes to four with several abstentions. It turns out to be a mistake, but it’s not the only one. Smithy goes for a quid – someone’s got money to burn.
The Pro displays his obvious prowess in the drivers’ pew by shifting us through St Helier’s twisting streets with a panache that belies a man who employs an operative named Wixey. We stop at a green light and go at a red, stall twice, cut up an older lady attempting to park a Skoda and partake in a whole lot of aimless revving prior to arriving back at The Mayfair. Can’t wait for our next trip.
Dinner sees a valiant effort from everyone as the roast lamb proves a popular choice, though macaroni cheese and Lawson’s Spanish omelette are also consumed with no little relish as everyone is keen to show their owners that their money has been wisely and viably invested.
The post-dinner, pre-Festival managerial check-in sees Orpington confirmed as the oldest, Wokingham the youngest, Thurrock the lightest, St Albans the heaviest and Erdington the tallest. Apart from Ton that is. Hackney and Gloucester are the least mobile by some distance.
There is a whole array of famous lookalikes too; we have Peter Kay, Grant & Philip Mitchell, Uncle Fester & Herman Munster, Ronnie & Reggie Kray, Bruce Forsyth, Tony Christie, Boris Johnson, Charles Manson, Noel Edmonds and Elias of Fulham. And that’s only the supporting cast. It all makes for an interesting and exciting week ahead.
Sunday 9th April
The Pro is up bright and early – well, early anyway, to collect the bus from its hilltop residence, his return greeted by Wilkes and Mclean waving from their hotel window, resplendent in their GPSFA shirts & ties.
Having changed into playing kit and trainers and losing two attitude points each for forgetting the previous evening’s ‘dress’ instructions, it’s the first Jersey breakfast and Blacker doesn’t disappoint, consuming croissants, cereal and cooked, though his C-based diet doesn’t extend to Covering much ground in the ensuing game against Newbury.
Boris gets into the swing with croissant, toast, then beans on toast, Lawson is persuaded to give beans a miss for obvious reasons, while Liggett and Blackburn look good value for the £15 invested in them, or so it seems.
The parish of St Clement in which the games are played is a middle class neighbourhood of some repute, but the local garage still has an apostrophe in MOTs. The FB Fields as expected are in fine condition, though the news of the departure of last season’s groundsman for a week-long stay in Guernsey a year to the day after being befriended by Bruce brings disappointment to the Gloucester chef, who had similar experiences with Pierre, Jacques, Michael, Brian, Graeme, Timothy and Francois during the period 2009-2015.
Game one sees Newbury good value for their 4-2 win on Pitch Two, while over on Pitch Four, a single strike is enough to give Orpington B victory over the Gloucester Yellows in a game watched by an away following that is impressive in both numbers and choice of headwear. Post-match scrutiny of the historic playing records reveals it is now ten Jersey games since the B Squad scored at the festival, the 2-1 win over St Albans B on 13th April 2015 being the last time the team legally put the ball in the net at the correct end. Post-match, coaches Wixey & Harris mull over their attacking options for the morrow; the A Team staff just mull.
With the Fort Regent tunnel temporarily out of use, The Pro is in his element in the back streets of St Helier, switching lanes at the last minute, scaring a pensioner and taking a short cut that isn’t on his way back to the hotel car park where he affects a flat-handed 23-point turn and a final manoeuvre that nearly kills Coach Wilson.
Pain au Chocolat’s fruit machine eyes (two melons, two apples, two cherries) light up on seeing that he can have an orange for lunch time ‘afters’, though his effort with the fish & chip ‘befores’ fully supports his inclusion in the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve League.
Lawson’s macaroni cheese and tomato ketchup resembles the detritus of something serious on the surgery floor of St Helier General, but he manages to finish it nonetheless. Blacker too is remorseless alongside Chamberlain and Liggett, though word is spreading via the eternal grapevine regarding Blackburn and a sausage. No-one quite knows the details yet, but as the old adage says, there’s usually no smoke without fire.
With the tunnel still blocked, The Pro gets us to Plemont via the lanes of the island’s north coast and we descend the 84 steps to the spectacular bay beneath, the golden sand remarkably quiet due in equal measure to the incoming tide and the arrival of Bruce, the combination of which brought about a military-style evacuation effected in world record time.
The rising of the water levels necessitates a swift departure that takes us round the headland to Greve de Lecq, the disappearance of the sun and appearance of the wind making for a chilly hour which goes completely unnoticed by the scantily clad throng.
‘I have every faith that Wixey & Harris,’ says The Chairman on his brand new Twitter account (@theboss), ‘will get it right, but I can’t say the same about the other lot. I’ll give them…,’ at which point his 140 characters mercifully run out.
Roast beef with all the trimmings has sides of cow so large that the TRI calls a beef amnesty, much to the relief of Blacker, whose plate following 25 minutes of cutting and chewing reminds one of the aftermath of a medieval battle without the metal helmets. Shut-Eye wavers on the duck liver pate; Pain au Chocolat just wavers.
All is revealed as the ‘sausage on the floor’ is attributed to Blackburn trying to stave off losing an eating mark, so he’s fined two for (not) consuming it plus another for (a bad) attitude. It is also revealed that Mclean, a man not known for personal sanitisation of any degree, actually ate the thing due to thinking it was his; that it had slid off his plate, onto his lap, down his leg and onto the floor without him noticing anything untoward at all. His efforts in both thought and action gain him no additional eating marks whatsoever.
The first room scores are now in the public domain, abodes 416 & 418 each accumulating zero. The inhabitants of the above are forced into a stint of hard labour, returning their dens to something resembling a habitable environment, while their more orderly neighbours receive a twenty-minute walk with Smithy as a reward for their efforts, during which time they contemplate the materialistic value of success and the mysterious ways in which adults think.
Monday 10th April
The Day of the Goal. 11.35am – 520 minutes and almost two years after their last entry into the ‘GF’ column, the B Team scores, meaning Luke Taylor will forever be known as History Man. And then Issy caresses one in from the far touchline with ten seconds left on the clock and a goal becomes a win. Coach Harris tweets, ‘After 520 minutes, which is 6 hours and 20 minutes, we’ve finally scored a goal’ (check it out). Coach Harris will now forever be known as Maths Man.
A Team hang on to beat Hackney 2-1 thanks to a Blackburn penalty and a second when Lawson’s corner brings about an OG. Following considerable deliberation and after much pleading from the aforementioned, the Dubious Goals Panel correctly decides not to award the goal to the corner taker, though his reaction is somewhat surprisingly, pragmatism personified. ‘Tout est jouste dans l’amour et la guerre,’ he recites calmly. His team mates smirk shiftily and nod knowingly. ‘What’s pragmatism?’ asks Coach Harris.
Elsewhere, Plymouth blind Jersey with their fluorescent yellow-green kit and grab a 1-1 draw; there are plenty of goals in the Orpington v Potters Bar game, but not all of them count, while The Chef disguises himself as an American baseball coach in his futile attempts to strike up an incognito conversation with anyone within a 50-metre radius.
Post-lunch and with the adrenalin still pumping, everyone’s ready for whatever the afternoon has in store. The Pro does an Italian Job through the back streets of St Helier, dipping left then banking right and ten minutes later we’re back at the hotel. Eventually we rack up at La Corbiere, walking along the causeway to the lighthouse and following my leader (The Pro) back over the rocks to the car park. Blackburn steps on Shut-Eye’s finger which turns red immediately, but the man is resilient to the nth degree, not crying, howling, moaning, screaming or calling insistently for his mum, despite someone suggesting that amputation is imminent.
Les Quennevais Sports Centre is one of our favourite haunts, due in equal part to it always being quiet, the swimming cheap and the upstairs café serving good drinks, well priced. It was previously run by a ‘friend’ of The Chef, but following an elongated conversation on our last visit, he sold up and moved to a commune on Guernsey, leaving behind few signs of his previous existence, together with no forwarding address.
Lawson is dropped off at the first available garage on the way back, but fails the emissions test before returning just in time for the Pork Steak Normandy without the Normandy. Smithy has (temporarily) turned into a lean, mean, eating machine (relative to his previous efforts); Pain au Chocolat is considering doing the same but hasn’t got round to it yet. Neville and Ronseal moan at regular intervals but eat everything. Blackburn and Wilkes moan at regular intervals but leave a vegetable each and are deducted an eating mark apiece.
Corbiere and Quennevais are individually spelt on eleven separate occasions in the diary session and a flip chart and felt tip are added to the list for Jersey 2018. Liggett has lost a sock and Blacker does a Chippendale, undoes his shirt to the waist and poses like the male model he aspires to be. Two games gone and neither ref has asked him where he gets his hair permed, much to the skipper’s obvious disgust.
Arsenal lose 0-3 to Palace on teletext and the odds on Arsene’s successor are publicised. Massimiliano Allegri (Juventus) is 10-1, Diego Simeone (Athletico Madrid) 7-1 and Coach Sanders (St Albans) 5-2. ‘Forget Arsenal,’ says the Chairman in one of his more reassuring phone calls, ‘Wixey & Harris have a job for life, but I’m still unsure about that A Team rabble.’ Thanks a bundle.
Tuesday 11th April
It’s all go as the Mayfair prepares for day three of the festival. The fourth floor is awash with enthusiasm following yesterday’s successes. 416 have forgotten to clean their gnashers and are returned to ‘do the sociable thing.’ The Pro’s clothes, freshly-laundered yesterday afternoon, have shrunk alarmingly and pose a real threat to his mobility in the mini bus driver’s seat.
Liggett has lost a shoe and Wilkes his football socks, which are immediately found not in, but on the bed. Smithy’s lost nothing, but is muttering something about nail varnish, at which point everyone turns the other way and pretends they haven’t heard.
Lifelong learning kicks in as I discover that opening the bathroom door wide and turning on the shower full blast deters anyone from attempting to knock you up, thus giving you approximately twenty minutes of additional power nap time before the bathroom floods.
Blacker is parading a paper sign declaring that Jacob loves E D, much to Neville’s obvious consternation. This leads to declarations of love (not to each other in most cases) and numerous revelations regarding female partners and suchlike. Blacker, it seems, has a buy one, get one free approach, El Capitano admitting to at least three ‘friends’ at this particular time.
A Team comes back from a 1-3 half time deficit to level at 3-3 with Thurrock, only to lose in the last minute. Bs also concede late to draw 2-2 with St Paul’s. Coach Harris has received a complaint letter thanks to a suggestion from Elias of Fulham, some headed paper supplied by King Pat and the typing skills of the accommodating hotel receptionist. We know he believes it, but will later discover he doesn’t. At least things haven’t got messy yet.
The Pro navigates the charabanc through the country lanes that extend, lattice-like, across the island’s green and pleasant lands in flamboyant style, the rural charms of the Jersey countryside pleasing to the eye of even the most unobservant amongst the group. ‘Look over there,’ shouts one, ‘there’s ice in that field.’ ‘That’s not ice,’ retorts another, ’that’s plastic. They’re growing plastic.’ ‘I know,’ explains a third, ‘but that plastic is only for protection. The plastic they’re growing is underneath.’ No names can be attributed to the above conversation, but it is our captain who thinks it’s ice.
The Amaizin Maze has acres of inflatables, slides, water things and multi-coloured life-size spheres you try to knock each other over with in a sandpit. A collection of utter tat that today at least four teams think is absolutely great fun. Erdington Phil takes part in everything liquid and is soaked from head to toe by 5.30pm. The Plymouth Brethren wander round spot checking their troops in white tops and diagonally worn black man bags that do little for either their appearance or their street cred. Newbury lounge in the same café area as ourselves, drinking tea, eating Hula Hoops and (trying to) complete The Times crossword. Four years we’ve been coming now and the maize maze, so beautifully depicted in all its glory on the advertising board outside, has grown at no more than an average of around two inches a year. If Smithy hadn’t had his wooden ruler gun confiscated at the airport, we could have found out exactly how much.
A late afternoon return to Corbiere takes us past a ‘Premier Store’, outside which both ‘tomatoes’ and ‘potatoes’ have their plurals preceded by an inappropriate punctuation mark. Coach Wilson tuts fitfully. Arrival at the World War II bunker on the south-western tip of the island reveals yesterday’s route to the lighthouse is now beneath twenty feet of water and for the next half hour the ageless fascination of children with waves is apparent for all to behold.
Lawson continues to wage biological warfare on his team mates and anyone within a 40-metre radius of the bus, the left wing back and confined spaces proving to be one of those associations that isn’t quite made in heaven.
Neville, Shut-Eye and Lawson, together with Alias Smith & Jones lose eating marks tonight as the duck leg with plum sauce takes its toll. No such problems up the road though as The Chef takes Romeo out for an Indian before returning to The Mayfair for an extra dessert. Apparently, the Chicken Dopiaza, pilau rice and plain naan aren’t enough to appease a grown man’s appetite. Thankfully though The Chef feels sated enough by his earlier indulgence and declines to peruse The Mayfair’s pudding list. It’s only Romeo that partakes.
Attitude marks are down today. The black books have noted a whole profusion of heinous acts including not pushing one’s chair under the table following dinner, thinking of running down the corridor, contemplating pushing the lift button while we’re in it, various levels of uncontrollable flatulence, saying the word ‘like’ at inappropriate points in a sentence and making any sort of accusation against one’s team mates. Even if what they’re saying is true.
Wednesday 12th April
It’s like London buses at the FB Fields – nothing arrives for ages, then loads of them come at once. Having gone two days shy of two years without scoring, the B Team, having broken their duck by netting four goals in the last two days, hit another seven against Jersey B, Easterbrook grabbing a treble.
No such luck on the other pitch as we miss a penalty, miss the follow-up, miss a one-on-one then concede the game’s only goal in injury time to St Albans. Wembley heartbreak. Shut-Eye equals a festival record by being taken off twice in the same game and makes a quick note to mention this, together with the names and addresses of his removers, in his soon to be published autobiography.
The Chairman is on the blower to The Chef and he’s not happy. ‘Can’t Wixey & Harris run both teams?’ he inquires, his tone becoming ever more exasperated by the second. ‘There are extenuating circumstances,’ explains The Chef. ‘Half the team are in bed ill.’ ‘But that’s the team that’s winning,’ hollers The Chairman, before The Chef calmly lowers the receiver to spare the beleaguered four further hierarchial abuse for the remainder of the day.
It’s sausage & chips or spaghetti bolognese for lunch, but The Pro forgoes both on discovering a little yellow note on the mini bus windscreen. ‘There’s no 50% discount for early payment,’ explains the blue uniform outside. ‘So you’ll have to pay the full £100,’ he adds with a rather gratuitous smile.
The players unite behind their beleaguered coach and indulge in a collective bout of concerned looks and vigorous head shaking.
When Wixey pranged the B Team bus on the La Grande Route de Salle gate pillar two years ago, it took an entire evening to collect just £3.24 for the respray fund, suggesting that one CFP person is far more popular than the other. Nevertheless, The Pro is still scowling as we board the bus for Aquasplash. The ensuing drive to the pool would not have looked out of place in a rerun of Ben Hur as our vehicle circumnavigates a few back streets too many, encounters a few red lights too many and gets stuck in a few traffic jams too many, meaning the extended journey takes twenty five minutes when a slow walk would have got us there in ten.
While the players hurtle down the slides, dodge the waves and navigate the inside to outside channel, Basford spends most of the afternoon trying to borrow money from anyone awake enough to listen. Eventually Lamar of Erdington donates the 20p piece he’s been keeping in the side pocket of his diagonally worn man bag for just such an occasion and the corners of The Pro’s mouth sneak upwards for the first time in four and a half hours.
There’s a problem in the changing room - Liggett can’t find either the pound he’s been loaned for his locker - or his left sock. On being threatened with the prospect of a brief chat with The Chef, he immediately finds both.
Back at the ranch it’s Chicken Tarragon, with the tarragon replaced by ketchup. It’s a mess. Wilkes struggles with both the soup and the chips but quaffs the blood-red chicken; Alias Smith & Jones just struggle. Everyone else gets a culinary thumbs-up for the day.
A quick glance at our dinner table reminds one of a tableau depicting the entire span of Darwin’s Theory of Evolution. Coach Wilson is overseeing Galapagos, but fortunately we’re at the homo sapiens’ end.
Desmond has developed a heat rash, but refrains from telling anyone as they’ll probably want it as well. His roommate is already jealous and starting to itch, even though his skin shows no sign of changing colour.
The Player Virus which is sweeping the hotel announces itself in style as Campbell is sick over my warm up top, Romeo is sick over Coach Harris and much of the bus and Mclean is sick on the stairs. Someone suggests it’s all to do with the effect of greenhouse gases on the atmosphere. Lawson looks the other way and keeps absolutely schtum.
Thursday 13th April
We’ve dreamed up a new ruse and it’s absolutely hilarious. We get in the lift as the players begin their descent of the stairs, but get out on the first floor and walk into reception, leaving the throng trying to work out how we’ve come down the stairs even though we got in the lift. The doors open and we stroll smugly out, waiting for the inevitable reaction. No-one laughs.
B Team minus Irvine & Fieldhouse, who are the latest casualties of the Player Virus, loses 0-1 to both Barking & Dagenham in a game of few thrills. A Team goes three better and loses 0-4 to Wokingham in an encounter full of excitement, thrills and fast-flowing football - if you’re a Wokingham supporter that is.
Ronseal exits the fray at half time with a recurrence of ‘bad belly’, while Liggett takes a break from his pitch side frolics and comes on for a ten-minute rest.
The local radio station’s sports reporter is wandering the fields looking for potential targets to interview. Coach Stalley wins the impromptu ‘Face of Radio’ survey and articulates his take on how to win U11 football matches.
‘One out of five,’ he states in a tone that suggests complete confidence in the diatribe that is to follow, ‘is a pretty good return I reckon.’ In expectation of an array of knowing smiles and numerous nods of unwavering approval from his GPSFA chums, he turns to be confronted by 50 metres of untouched grass with no-one near it. And The Chef hasn’t even arrived yet.
‘I don’t care how many years you’ve done it, how many games you’ve managed, how many cups you’ve won or how many interviews you’ve declined,’ rants Chairman Keith, ‘you’ve got one last chance. With no extensions.’ Things are neither looking nor sounding too promising.
Back at the ranch, the future is seemingly slightly brighter. Mclean eats three quarters of a burger plus salad and puts salt in two people’s drinks when they’re not looking. Things are returning to normal very quickly.
News filters in that The Pro has received a second parking ticket, much to the amusement of all concerned. A ‘Just Giving’ page is immediately set up and the early surge in donations, mostly as a result of the efforts of our resident begging professional (Neville) sees the total reach £1.37 (including 50p from Potters Bar’s Dave) by the time we’re ready to leave for the annual retail attack on St Helier’s pedestrianised high street. The Pro is encouraged by this heart-warming show of public support.
A bearded man dressed in a sleeping bag and sitting in a shop doorway shouts, ‘Big Issue.’ ‘I know it is,’ mutters The Pro, before accepting 50p towards the Ticket Fund from the concerned magazine seller.
On the left side of the street, three coaches buy presents for loved ones at home; on the right side the remaining protagonist scours the shops for duty free. Shares in JD Sports rocket thanks to the purchase of cut-price t-shirts, wide-soled flip flops and black & white carrier bags. Blackburn wears his new hat backwards and is deducted an attitude point. Browsing Mother Clifford intercepts the slow-moving clan on three separate occasions and is ignored by her once angelic offspring on all three. Desmond buys one sister a very nice memento with a colourful picture of the island on the front and the other a 30 pence postcard. ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ he explains. Dennis has £49.50 of his £50 left after buying presents for each of his extended family. If he carries on like this he’ll be peeling oranges in his pockets. Wilkes and Blacker pop into Pandora’s Box as Neville and Liggett come out. That all fits then.
Back at The Mayfair, Desmond, Neville, Pain au Chocolat and Blackburn are attempting to play pool in the Games Room. Coach Stalley, a player of some repute back in the 50s, affords them the benefit of his experience and offers all four a coaching tip. ‘Stick to the football,’ is his considered advice.
Smithy’s the dining star tonight. He orders duo of smoked fish (from one of his three lakes), then realises he doesn’t like fish. Only their fingers. Follow-up is lion (sic) of pork – good job it’s the mane meal. For dessert he suggests he may be the worst tourist ever. ‘Statistics, statistics and damn lies,’ Henry Ford once opined. But only sometimes.
There’s a double chin competition going on and Blacker’s in the lead until Wokingham join in. Mclean claims a ‘bad belly’ after eating a banana. Liggett claims the same ‘cos I looked at it.’ ‘What’s in a vegetable curry?’ queries Desmond. We’re going to the dogs.
The Chef and the boy, now fully recovered, pop up to the ranch so the latter can top up his daily calorie intake, but the boy disappears soon after disposing of two portions of apple crumble, a huge jug of custard and three scoops of chocolate ice cream. ‘Romeo, Romeo, where art though?’ intones his concerned patriarch. ‘Over yur Grandad,’ comes the broad Gloucester reply, as he tucks into a couple of dishes of discarded pasta on the neighbouring table that’s just been vacated by Erdington & Saltley.
Donations for Basford’s ticket fund are coming in from far and wide. Harding has contributed £5.42 of his mum’s money, Liggett’s put in a pound or three and Neville’s offered 17p. Oxfam and the NSPCB have both offered food parcels. There are clothes from the British Heart Foundation. Pain au Chocolat’s pledged £10 of his dad’s hard-earned. The total has now reached £17.84, a stash of canned vegetables and a couple of army shirts. Only £182.16 to go.
Friday 14th April
Everyone’s up bright and early for the last day of matches – well up, anyway. Pain au Chocolat contemplates a brace of boiled eggs for the fourth day running, noting their likeness to Coach Stalley’s polished scalp before removing their contents to maintain his run of losing no eating marks at breakfast. The deductions can wait till later.
The Bs turn in a dogged display before going down 1-3 to Orpington A – Fieldhouse having netted a classic to give them an early lead; the A Team recovers from an interval deficit to edge out Potters Bar B 2-1 thanks to a second half double from Blacker. Goalkeeper Cornwell completes his twelfth game in six days and establishes a Jersey record that can only ever be equalled, but never beaten. Taylor and Cornwell – History Men supreme.
‘I’m as relieved as you are that you’ve won today, but it’s just not been good enough,’ explains The Chairman. ‘The Bs have had almost their entire squad incapacitated in some form or other and they still finish with a better record than you. What have you got to say for yourself? And don’t give me any of that Henry Ford, ‘Damn Lies’ guff….’
The whole group sponsors’ photo and coaches’ match which always follows the conclusion of the real games sees Coach Harris, who is employed in a left-sided role for the ‘Orange PWC T-Shirts’ XI, receive some fearful (yet well deserved) touchline abuse from those members of the B Squad who’ve bothered to stay and watch. It’s not that he makes many mistakes, it’s more the fact he only has two touches (and one mistake) in the entire game.
GPSFA’s fast-fading playing reputation takes no further hits as both Coach Basford (goalkeeper; currently temporarily retired) and Coach Stalley (midfielder; knee ligaments) are unable to take part. It seems Coach Stalley’s injury may require permanent retirement, a circumstance that would see the sport in a far better state nationally than it was two months ago as a result.
The Pro edges the bus into a tiny space in the hotel car park in a concerted effort to avoid a hat-trick of lunch time parking fines, much to the disappointment of everyone else, before driving us to Portelet Bay, a picture-postcard inlet with its own island and low-tide causeway.
Beach football is refereed from the adjacent cliff-side cafe, before two of the coaches decide to take the rear exit from the beach to avoid the 178 steps down which they’d descended 75 minutes earlier. Plan B, as it turns out, involves at least 320 steps, a half-mile walk back to the bus and a realisation that satellite navigation is usually preferable to intuition. At least the players get a good rest before the last man checks in.
Bank Holiday opening hours mean Les Quennevais swimming pool is closed, so it’s a history lesson in Liberation Square, a walk along the harbour front and a short session in the Games Room before the Presentation Dinner. There is little doubt that the residents of the island will be celebrating a second liberation tomorrow evening, when the last of the visiting teams has finally departed its shores for another season.
Blacker and Blackburn have prepared and rehearsed a fine closing speech, but surprisingly it’s not required. Neville and Wilkes struggle with the minute steak, mushrooms and tomatoes, before an amnesty is called and everyone’s allowed to leave either one of them. It makes little difference. Alias Smith and Jones make a decent effort (in relative terms). Blacker does a lot of cutting and chewing and despite losing an attitude mark for extremely slow eating, eventually swallows the final piece. A real trooper.
At the end, Plymouth begin a chain of ritual handshaking with anyone wearing a tie a potential target. Erdington with their man-bags worn diagonally join in. No wonder the Player Virus is spreading.
The TRIs amuse themselves by upsetting both 414’s fixtures & fittings and head tidier Lawson who, for five full minutes, thinks they’ve lost first place in the room rankings and it’s not fair. The Ozone Layer above Jersey has been saying the same thing all week. Juan and Desmond discover a bird in their room but they don’t find it funny either. Time should prove to be a great healer.
Saturday 15th April
Images of soldiers leaving the trenches at the end of the Great War come to mind as the sick and infirm make their way to the waiting transport that’s going to begin their long journey home. Coach Harris joins the sick list meaning that most people who watched yesterday’s game simultaneously jump to the conclusion that the Player Virus has been inaptly named.
The Pro guides the bus to its final resting place in the airport car park and exhales a sigh of relief as he’s about to escape the attention of the States of Jersey for another year at least.
There’s a slight delay at Departures when Coach Stalley is frisked from head to toe as security staff carry out a full body search in an attempt to locate his ‘FA Guide to Match Winning Warm-Up Routines’. He quite enjoys it, but the friskers are disappointed to discover the manual doesn’t exist. Even the Head Coach can keep two routines in his head. There’s a slight delay in take-off too as Coach Harris needs to be re-positioned in order to maintain the equilibrium of the plane for the fifth season running.
As we take to the air, the trolley people attempt to extract any remaining Jersey notes from their owners’ wallets by offering two for the price of one. Two cups of coffee for the price of one bottle of champagne, that is. Last Easter we had an air hostess called Jeremy, but Rachel is far less hirsute and therefore far easier on the eye. Coach Wixey isn’t aware of the improvement as he’s asleep before the second propeller eventually starts turning.
There are quizzical looks as the Bennett’s Coach doesn‘t pull up at Longlevens and concerned glances left, right and underfoot as we navigate a less than salubrious alleyway to arrive at the Great Western on Alfred Street, to be met by an assemblage of parents and the echoing question, ‘How did they know we’re here?’
The A Team ‘Dream’ winners are announced. Desmond, Liggett, Jones and Blackburn scoop the diary awards, while 414 (first), 413 (second) and 418 (third) are the best rooms. Considering the state of it, 416 does well to finish fourth (out of four). As the B Team prizes are announced, Issy reserves his most fervent applause for himself.
Shut-Eye (78 points) wins the Easter egg as Premiership winner in an eating competition where all the best performers are in the league below. Blacker, Liggett & Desmond each have hundred per cent records to take the Championship by storm and thanks to Coach Harris’s impending sickness, are spared the play-off he’s spent an eternity planning. Let’s hope he removes the pilchards and blue cheese from his trouser pockets before hitting the sack tonight. Mclean (74 points) wins the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve group by a country mile, due to emulating Freddie Flintoff on the tele and effectively being in a League of his Own. For the record, Smith ousts Jones in the Wooden Spoon play-off by something like nine points to seven. However did they accumulate that many?
In the Attitude stakes, Shut-Eye and Jones do Longlevens proud; Blacker and Neville less so. Desmond represents the whole of Painswick extremely well. Mclean finishes in lower mid-table, much to everyone’s surprise.
Pain au Chocolat, Mclean and Blacker take the Match prizes. Liggett fails to make the top three as this year there is no award for Walking Football. Lawson, Neville, Wilkes and Boris are ‘Most Improved’ when it comes to personal tidiness. Heaven knows what they looked like before. Blackburn, Blushes and Wilkes are rewarded for the best Jersey hairstyles, though few referees asked Blacker where he gets his flowing locks styled. ‘It’s obviously the French influence,’ opines the skipper in a rare moment of sophisticated reflection. His only moment (ever), as it turns out. Shut-Eye picks up the overall award to give him at least a thousand mini eggs to share with his expectant siblings, whose eyes are as wide as baby sparrows in a nest. Maybe he’ll slip them a worm or two instead.
Liggett hobbles to the door to amass £31.49 in aid of Basford’s financial plight in his rather Urban-looking Smarties collection box. Add in Thursday’s begging bounty and that’s nearly £50 in total. And if the pledge is honoured as all pledges should be, and The Mayor chips in at the Swindon game; if Smithy can put in a percentage of the £49.50 that’s loitering in his pocket and King Pat can weave his magic with the island’s authorities, we may just raise enough to ensure another kit sponsorship deal with CFP next season….
Coach Harris slumps on the bench, his exertions complete. Coach Basford awaits his chauffeur-driven limo, his driving, and more pertinently his parking days, now most definitely behind him. The Chef is long gone, his Friday departure allowing him an extra day to prepare his kitchen for next Saturday’s visit of Newbury & Bath and the employees of the island who have taken a week’s unpaid leave to make an impromptu visit to the Franciscan monastery on the nearby retreat of Sark, plenty of time to return to their day jobs in the more affluent environs of St Helier.
Coach Wixey wonders if anyone’s seen an apostrophe that’s been misused on the final day. ‘None whatsoever,’ confirms Coach Stalley, ‘because I think apostrophes often mean that something’s been left out.’
And in the case of Jersey 2017, I don’t think anything has.
Happy days.
Dramatis Personae and Acknowledgements
All the Gloucester coaches and players for making Jersey 2017 the fun that it was and particularly Andy (The Chef) Foran for (begrudgingly) continuing to be the persona non gratis 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 43 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 of Fulham from a bit closer to home. You probably won’t read this, but thanks anyway.
And finally, to Mrs (Stewart) Ratcliffe. I hope you enjoyed this memoir as much as you enjoyed last year’s tale. I know we did.
