Examples
It’s an extremely sociable twenty past eight meet outside the Home of Football and Mother Fieldhouse has raised the fashion stakes to an unprecedented high. She’s arrived wearing a psychedelically hooped one-piece/two-piece/three-piece (delete as applicable) jogging suit, meaning the other contestants immediately accept they’ve reached the end of today’s very short road to the ultimate prize and it’s now all about second place at best.
Mother Caple is impressively garbed in yellow & black, while Father Vye’s early-April shorts are the best (and only real) offering from the male fraternity. Mother Daniels, on seeing Mother Fieldhouse materialise out of the early-morning ether, immediately removes her almost-new, bright yellow GPSFA winkle-pickers, slips them into a scented hessian bag and puts them on the ‘Jersey pile’ in the back seat of her impressive sports mobile.
Father Myatt is eminently noticeable by his absence; in fact, he hasn’t been seen in public for the past seven days following yet another late-night disappointment at last Saturday’s end-of-the-month Fancy Dress Retro Evening in the Red Lion. Rumour has it that he’s finally accepted there are some things in this life that aren’t meant to be and that elusive lamb shank may well be one of them.
Full English reports in with a groin strain, borne out of Thursday evening’s realisation that he’s the only person in the squad who hasn’t, until now, had one, so is immediately installed as the new team physio. ‘I’m not being treated by him,’ announces Lettuce, the only squad member to have received a plethora of TLC from a proper physiotherapist on that memorable evening when the semi final first leg v Wycombe was won. ‘Semi final?’ queries Lettuce, ‘I can’t remember anything about a semi final. But the treatment from the Real Thing was amazing.’
The sun shines throughout the jaunt down the M5 and up the M4, but the moment we exit onto the A46 and get within sniffing distance of Lansdown, the sky clouds over and a Mordorian gloom descends upon the West Country. The deserted changing room complex at Lansdown South has a Tolkienian feel too, the locked black doors and greying exterior walls desperately requiring some ‘Welcome to Bath’ signage and a gallon or two of Dulux magnolia.
It’s Wasp who finally discovers the only entrance that’s not clamped shut and enthusiastically buzzes around collecting anyone and everyone before leading them into an interior space that’s still got last season’s mud and match trappings strewn across the once-lilac concrete floor. Iron Man has entered into the spirit of things by procuring a key ring fob bearing his (other) non de plume, ‘Ted’ and it’s only to be hoped that his father’s got a similar one too. He may even have a dog collar, but maybe that’s pushing things a bit too far.
Father Fieldhouse is back in town following a three-month sabbatical in Afghan, but after waiting the best part of a hundred days to see his second son play, misses his goal which comes following a ‘May the Force be with you’ right-wing cross. Han Solo himself would have been impressed with the delivery and FF himself would have been impressed with the strike, but both will be left hoping that F100% Burgess gets today’s youtube technology right so they can properly view and analyse both the build-up and conversion that their temporary absence failed to catch first time around.
Vye slides in Obieri for number two before Archimedes reduces the arrears for Bath just before the mid-game break. The sixteen energy-restoring kit kats were demolished well before we left the sanctity of the changing room cell, so there’s only jaffas and jellies and a volley from Coach Stalley available for the midpoint top-up.
On the other side of the pitch, the Gloucester supporters can only imagine what the delights of the Tupperware box actually taste like as they shiver constantly in the mid-morning mist. Mother Fieldhouse has denied the locals an early-April pick-me-up by replacing her jogging gear with a long orange coat and matching furry boots, while Mother Caple is now ensconced in a padded grey jacket and GPSFA scarf which give little hint as to her early-morning colour co-ordinated offerings. There’s a decent variety of headwear visible amongst the throng, with Father Freeman sporting a red, yellow & black Old Cryptians bobble, which if it wasn’t for the insignia, would look very much like a conical German flag. Father Daniels meanwhile has once again arrived in his Captain Scott of the Antarctic regalia as he’s heard there’s an upcoming Explorer’s Night at the Merton in ten days’ time and he’s decided to get in plenty of practice prior to the big event.
‘Fifty five per cent,’ states Obieri confidently. ‘What?’ asks Coach Stalley. ‘The Gloucester fans make up 55% of the crowd,’ says Obieri and five minutes later Coach Stalley concurs, having counted just nine Bath supporters (including the linesman). ‘Thirty three,’ says Obieri. ‘What?’ asks Coach Stalley. ‘It took you an average of 33 seconds to count each person,’ frowns Obieri, who restores our two-goal advantage just thirty two seconds after the restart.
Archimedes bags his second for Bath to reduce the arrears once more, but the impressive Slider drives one in from just outside the box before WC sidefoots home Obieri’s left wing cross for number five.
Twenty packets of crisps disappear immediately we return to the cell, but only one cheese roll finds a friend and it’s little surprise that it’s Full English who considers it, adopts it, then downs it in one.
The Michael Wood eateries are a different proposition however as the class divide in the group becomes starkly evident. Iron Man and WC frequent Starbucks (along with Coach Wilson, who emerges with a five-cheese toastie, square chocolate brownie and brimful medium latte), Slider does a six-inch Italian at Subway, while the numerous members of the hoi polloi make an immediate beeline for KFC. As everyone knows, WC reads The Times, so it’s no surprise he’s in the UMC section along with Caple, who’s read most of the opposition attacks with aplomb and a bit to date this season. Vye, in the second strand of the social stratum probably peeks at the social columns of the Mail on Sunday when no-one else on The Wheatway is looking, while for the numerous people in the lower echelons, it’s either Match magazine or The Beano, depending on what day of the week it is.
Monday
The early-morning crew is at Longlevens bright and early, despite it being a weekday and raining, though The Groundsman, fearing he may contract rabies or some other unpleasant condition associated with hydrophobia, is peculiarly in absentia. Father Vye, confident that MF won’t be modelling her psychedelia today is maintaining his weekend assault on the April Fashion Crown by once again turning out in his fetching navy blues, though F100%B and Father Ted have each withdrawn from the fray, despite not having entered in the first place. Father Jones isn’t here; no-one’s quite sure where he’s been recently, but word on the street, or Lavington Drive at any rate, suggests he’s keeping a low and somewhat disgruntled profile having once again been overlooked by The Chairman for the ‘A’ Team coach’s role due to the recent impressive run of victories. ‘Hope they lose soon,’ he was reported as mumbling by Enrico from Palermo, one of his more dubious neighbours about whom Mafioso rumours have circulated for years and a man who it is widely believed has genuine links with The Godfather from Hemel, but that’s a conspiracy theory for another day.
Coach Bebber looks on longingly as Coach Harris sits to attention in the Longlevens eating room, devouring one of The Chef’s super-healthy breakfast rolls which he’s paid for out of the tenner he was entrusted with to buy the A Team’s most expensive pack of kit kats yet. Coach B’s on her own today as well, due to Coach Delaney enjoying seven days of sun, sea and sangria in Portugal as he mentally and physically prepares for next week’s ‘vacation’ in the Channel Islands. Realising, much to her obvious delight that there are no salad items whatsoever within half a mile of the pavilion, the Girls’ supremo orders a triple sausage bap with the remains of the tenner and downs it in two, pausing only to compare the nutritional benefits of KFC, Burger King and McDonald’s as part of her five-a-day fast food feastings, which is four Fs in a row for anyone who’s interested in that sort of very odd statistic.
Other coaches absent include Wixey, who’s put his back out, Stalley, who’s left his coaches’ tablet out (and subsequently lost it) and Wilson, who’s out completing some twelve million pound printing deal with Barclays. At least Wixey and Stalley have good reasons for not being here. High Definition is properly delighted at the absence of Coach Stalley in particular, but his jaw drops noticeably when Burgess includes both cones and skipping in the day’s Captain Marvel warm-up routine. Physio Jones takes pity on the embittered custodian and chucks a couple of footballs in his general direction, while a watchful Lettuce weaves carefully through the assault course, desperate not to incur even the slightest twinge or tweak that may result in treatment from yet another amateur in a black & yellow waterproof.
The opening ten minutes is evenly matched, but once Obieri fires the hosts ahead, Bexley fall apart in more ways than one and by the time another 600 seconds have elapsed, another Burgess howitzer of a free kick and a neat slide-rule finish from Vye have impacted negatively on their mood. Obieri completes his treble due to the visitors’ defence rebounding attempted clearances off various parts of his anatomy, while May’s ninth goal of the season is from twice the distance of the sum of his eight previous scores put together.
Obieri adds a couple more after the break before HD is denied a clean sheet by a well struck free kick, but the best moment of the game occurs just ten seconds from time. A Bexley forward goes one-on-one, HD saves; the follow-up’s blocked on the line by Iron Man’s retreating key ring fob, while two more bodies pile in to ensure we don’t concede a second. Full English and Obieri are watching from the bench; if they could have got there fast enough, they’d have been in there too. We all love creativity, the beautiful game and all that stuff, but Great Resolve Instinctively Transpires, otherwise known as Grit, is more often than not what separates the good from the really good and the really good from the great.
And talking about good, better, best and any other comparative adjectives that come to mind, what is it that a few ‘adults’ from South East London think is so impressive about showing themselves up in front of their own children, with a sixty-minute dialogue that can only suggest they had a zero IQ at birth and it’s been in freefall ever since? Any person in any position of influence needs to consider way beyond the humdrum obvious, way beyond the superficially materialistic and certainly way beyond the personally bigoted, is that what we all do, way beyond anything else, is set the example. The right example or the wrong example, but the example, plain and simple, nonetheless. ‘Satis dictum’, as Julius Caesar might once have concluded.
The EW (East-West) Shield is presented by a man from Bexley to B & C, who’ve both been desperate to get their hands on some tangible woodenware for the past seven months, while Mother Brown departs the celebrating horde for a three-day post-Jersey knees-up in deepest Devon. Unsurprisingly, his number two shirt is deposited inside out in the big blue bag, along with the number five (whose is that?) and sadly, the number seven too. Excitement must have got the better of the captain, though maybe he’s just been mixing with the wrong sort of people, or the wearer of number five at any rate. Only three items are left behind this week and due to his not getting changed, none of them belong to Full English. All three articles are tracked down by sniffer dogs to players whose initials are AM, which comes as no surprise whatsoever to their long-suffering guardians, who are seriously thinking of getting each and every garment electronically tagged for the upcoming sojourn in the Channel Islands.
There’s the pre-Jersey parents’ meeting, a visit from the King’s groundsman to have a look at the pitch and a drop-in from a man who’s masterminding the next phase of the pavilion refurbishment, so it’s just gone five before the padlock’s finally snapped on the big green gates. It’s been a long, but interesting day during which, in Clint Eastwood-speak, we’ve seen examples of the Good, the Bad and the pretty Ugly, amongst numerous other things. And it’s up to you, dear reader, to decide which bits or which people, fit what.
Gloucester: High Definition; Mother Brown, Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaris; Han Solo, WC, Slider, Howitzer, Lettuce; The Determinator. Physio: Full English.
Mother Caple is impressively garbed in yellow & black, while Father Vye’s early-April shorts are the best (and only real) offering from the male fraternity. Mother Daniels, on seeing Mother Fieldhouse materialise out of the early-morning ether, immediately removes her almost-new, bright yellow GPSFA winkle-pickers, slips them into a scented hessian bag and puts them on the ‘Jersey pile’ in the back seat of her impressive sports mobile.
Father Myatt is eminently noticeable by his absence; in fact, he hasn’t been seen in public for the past seven days following yet another late-night disappointment at last Saturday’s end-of-the-month Fancy Dress Retro Evening in the Red Lion. Rumour has it that he’s finally accepted there are some things in this life that aren’t meant to be and that elusive lamb shank may well be one of them.
Full English reports in with a groin strain, borne out of Thursday evening’s realisation that he’s the only person in the squad who hasn’t, until now, had one, so is immediately installed as the new team physio. ‘I’m not being treated by him,’ announces Lettuce, the only squad member to have received a plethora of TLC from a proper physiotherapist on that memorable evening when the semi final first leg v Wycombe was won. ‘Semi final?’ queries Lettuce, ‘I can’t remember anything about a semi final. But the treatment from the Real Thing was amazing.’
The sun shines throughout the jaunt down the M5 and up the M4, but the moment we exit onto the A46 and get within sniffing distance of Lansdown, the sky clouds over and a Mordorian gloom descends upon the West Country. The deserted changing room complex at Lansdown South has a Tolkienian feel too, the locked black doors and greying exterior walls desperately requiring some ‘Welcome to Bath’ signage and a gallon or two of Dulux magnolia.
It’s Wasp who finally discovers the only entrance that’s not clamped shut and enthusiastically buzzes around collecting anyone and everyone before leading them into an interior space that’s still got last season’s mud and match trappings strewn across the once-lilac concrete floor. Iron Man has entered into the spirit of things by procuring a key ring fob bearing his (other) non de plume, ‘Ted’ and it’s only to be hoped that his father’s got a similar one too. He may even have a dog collar, but maybe that’s pushing things a bit too far.
Father Fieldhouse is back in town following a three-month sabbatical in Afghan, but after waiting the best part of a hundred days to see his second son play, misses his goal which comes following a ‘May the Force be with you’ right-wing cross. Han Solo himself would have been impressed with the delivery and FF himself would have been impressed with the strike, but both will be left hoping that F100% Burgess gets today’s youtube technology right so they can properly view and analyse both the build-up and conversion that their temporary absence failed to catch first time around.
Vye slides in Obieri for number two before Archimedes reduces the arrears for Bath just before the mid-game break. The sixteen energy-restoring kit kats were demolished well before we left the sanctity of the changing room cell, so there’s only jaffas and jellies and a volley from Coach Stalley available for the midpoint top-up.
On the other side of the pitch, the Gloucester supporters can only imagine what the delights of the Tupperware box actually taste like as they shiver constantly in the mid-morning mist. Mother Fieldhouse has denied the locals an early-April pick-me-up by replacing her jogging gear with a long orange coat and matching furry boots, while Mother Caple is now ensconced in a padded grey jacket and GPSFA scarf which give little hint as to her early-morning colour co-ordinated offerings. There’s a decent variety of headwear visible amongst the throng, with Father Freeman sporting a red, yellow & black Old Cryptians bobble, which if it wasn’t for the insignia, would look very much like a conical German flag. Father Daniels meanwhile has once again arrived in his Captain Scott of the Antarctic regalia as he’s heard there’s an upcoming Explorer’s Night at the Merton in ten days’ time and he’s decided to get in plenty of practice prior to the big event.
‘Fifty five per cent,’ states Obieri confidently. ‘What?’ asks Coach Stalley. ‘The Gloucester fans make up 55% of the crowd,’ says Obieri and five minutes later Coach Stalley concurs, having counted just nine Bath supporters (including the linesman). ‘Thirty three,’ says Obieri. ‘What?’ asks Coach Stalley. ‘It took you an average of 33 seconds to count each person,’ frowns Obieri, who restores our two-goal advantage just thirty two seconds after the restart.
Archimedes bags his second for Bath to reduce the arrears once more, but the impressive Slider drives one in from just outside the box before WC sidefoots home Obieri’s left wing cross for number five.
Twenty packets of crisps disappear immediately we return to the cell, but only one cheese roll finds a friend and it’s little surprise that it’s Full English who considers it, adopts it, then downs it in one.
The Michael Wood eateries are a different proposition however as the class divide in the group becomes starkly evident. Iron Man and WC frequent Starbucks (along with Coach Wilson, who emerges with a five-cheese toastie, square chocolate brownie and brimful medium latte), Slider does a six-inch Italian at Subway, while the numerous members of the hoi polloi make an immediate beeline for KFC. As everyone knows, WC reads The Times, so it’s no surprise he’s in the UMC section along with Caple, who’s read most of the opposition attacks with aplomb and a bit to date this season. Vye, in the second strand of the social stratum probably peeks at the social columns of the Mail on Sunday when no-one else on The Wheatway is looking, while for the numerous people in the lower echelons, it’s either Match magazine or The Beano, depending on what day of the week it is.
Monday
The early-morning crew is at Longlevens bright and early, despite it being a weekday and raining, though The Groundsman, fearing he may contract rabies or some other unpleasant condition associated with hydrophobia, is peculiarly in absentia. Father Vye, confident that MF won’t be modelling her psychedelia today is maintaining his weekend assault on the April Fashion Crown by once again turning out in his fetching navy blues, though F100%B and Father Ted have each withdrawn from the fray, despite not having entered in the first place. Father Jones isn’t here; no-one’s quite sure where he’s been recently, but word on the street, or Lavington Drive at any rate, suggests he’s keeping a low and somewhat disgruntled profile having once again been overlooked by The Chairman for the ‘A’ Team coach’s role due to the recent impressive run of victories. ‘Hope they lose soon,’ he was reported as mumbling by Enrico from Palermo, one of his more dubious neighbours about whom Mafioso rumours have circulated for years and a man who it is widely believed has genuine links with The Godfather from Hemel, but that’s a conspiracy theory for another day.
Coach Bebber looks on longingly as Coach Harris sits to attention in the Longlevens eating room, devouring one of The Chef’s super-healthy breakfast rolls which he’s paid for out of the tenner he was entrusted with to buy the A Team’s most expensive pack of kit kats yet. Coach B’s on her own today as well, due to Coach Delaney enjoying seven days of sun, sea and sangria in Portugal as he mentally and physically prepares for next week’s ‘vacation’ in the Channel Islands. Realising, much to her obvious delight that there are no salad items whatsoever within half a mile of the pavilion, the Girls’ supremo orders a triple sausage bap with the remains of the tenner and downs it in two, pausing only to compare the nutritional benefits of KFC, Burger King and McDonald’s as part of her five-a-day fast food feastings, which is four Fs in a row for anyone who’s interested in that sort of very odd statistic.
Other coaches absent include Wixey, who’s put his back out, Stalley, who’s left his coaches’ tablet out (and subsequently lost it) and Wilson, who’s out completing some twelve million pound printing deal with Barclays. At least Wixey and Stalley have good reasons for not being here. High Definition is properly delighted at the absence of Coach Stalley in particular, but his jaw drops noticeably when Burgess includes both cones and skipping in the day’s Captain Marvel warm-up routine. Physio Jones takes pity on the embittered custodian and chucks a couple of footballs in his general direction, while a watchful Lettuce weaves carefully through the assault course, desperate not to incur even the slightest twinge or tweak that may result in treatment from yet another amateur in a black & yellow waterproof.
The opening ten minutes is evenly matched, but once Obieri fires the hosts ahead, Bexley fall apart in more ways than one and by the time another 600 seconds have elapsed, another Burgess howitzer of a free kick and a neat slide-rule finish from Vye have impacted negatively on their mood. Obieri completes his treble due to the visitors’ defence rebounding attempted clearances off various parts of his anatomy, while May’s ninth goal of the season is from twice the distance of the sum of his eight previous scores put together.
Obieri adds a couple more after the break before HD is denied a clean sheet by a well struck free kick, but the best moment of the game occurs just ten seconds from time. A Bexley forward goes one-on-one, HD saves; the follow-up’s blocked on the line by Iron Man’s retreating key ring fob, while two more bodies pile in to ensure we don’t concede a second. Full English and Obieri are watching from the bench; if they could have got there fast enough, they’d have been in there too. We all love creativity, the beautiful game and all that stuff, but Great Resolve Instinctively Transpires, otherwise known as Grit, is more often than not what separates the good from the really good and the really good from the great.
And talking about good, better, best and any other comparative adjectives that come to mind, what is it that a few ‘adults’ from South East London think is so impressive about showing themselves up in front of their own children, with a sixty-minute dialogue that can only suggest they had a zero IQ at birth and it’s been in freefall ever since? Any person in any position of influence needs to consider way beyond the humdrum obvious, way beyond the superficially materialistic and certainly way beyond the personally bigoted, is that what we all do, way beyond anything else, is set the example. The right example or the wrong example, but the example, plain and simple, nonetheless. ‘Satis dictum’, as Julius Caesar might once have concluded.
The EW (East-West) Shield is presented by a man from Bexley to B & C, who’ve both been desperate to get their hands on some tangible woodenware for the past seven months, while Mother Brown departs the celebrating horde for a three-day post-Jersey knees-up in deepest Devon. Unsurprisingly, his number two shirt is deposited inside out in the big blue bag, along with the number five (whose is that?) and sadly, the number seven too. Excitement must have got the better of the captain, though maybe he’s just been mixing with the wrong sort of people, or the wearer of number five at any rate. Only three items are left behind this week and due to his not getting changed, none of them belong to Full English. All three articles are tracked down by sniffer dogs to players whose initials are AM, which comes as no surprise whatsoever to their long-suffering guardians, who are seriously thinking of getting each and every garment electronically tagged for the upcoming sojourn in the Channel Islands.
There’s the pre-Jersey parents’ meeting, a visit from the King’s groundsman to have a look at the pitch and a drop-in from a man who’s masterminding the next phase of the pavilion refurbishment, so it’s just gone five before the padlock’s finally snapped on the big green gates. It’s been a long, but interesting day during which, in Clint Eastwood-speak, we’ve seen examples of the Good, the Bad and the pretty Ugly, amongst numerous other things. And it’s up to you, dear reader, to decide which bits or which people, fit what.
Gloucester: High Definition; Mother Brown, Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaris; Han Solo, WC, Slider, Howitzer, Lettuce; The Determinator. Physio: Full English.
