The early start meant the Coaches had to armour up for a few days with the crazy gang. One Hot Chocolate. One aggressively manly Pistachio Latte. Emotional resilience in takeaway form. The boys assembled outside Longlevens in a fine Gloucester drizzle that felt personal. Faluyi’s parents were once again extremely punctual, having seemingly dropped him off sometime around dawn and sped off before we could make eye contact. Denslow, still proudly sponsored by Badham Pharmacy, arrived carrying his sports bag in one hand and what can only be described as a travelling A&E department in the other, the medical bag scraping along the tarmac like it’s done this tour before.

Ten minutes into the journey and we’d already received a full debrief on Badara’s Valentine’s masterclass. Thoughtful gifts. Effort. Romance. In return, a packet of Sour Patch Kids. Love is brutal at this level. The noise is already at a worryingly high – Whiting questioning his life choices, wondering how he ended up with the crazies. Before we’d even cleared Gloucester, Butler attempted an unscheduled driving assessment, swerving back into lane just in time to avoid introducing us to a very confused motorist. I sat there, head in hand, staring out at the grey horizon thinking one thing only: this is going to be a long, long journey. And we haven’t even hit the services yet.

The service station stop turned into culinary roulette and, in a moment of questionable leadership, I ordered a Kebab Breakfast Wrap. It was elite. Fuel of champions. Or at least fuel of men about to supervise chaos for 72 hours.

While I was contemplating a second one, the boys casually informed me who they’d like to room with. Fascinatingly, every trio delivered their answers with the smooth coordination of a pre-agreed peace treaty. Not a flicker of hesitation. Not a single “I dunno.” The UN could learn from them.

Across the tables, a rogue round of Spin the Bottle with Badara, Whiting, Faluyi and Squibbs began to gather momentum, which is not a sentence you ever want to think about when you’re responsible for other people’s children. Coaches exchanged The Look. Intervention hovered.

Meanwhile, Cox was spotted performing a solo chicken impression to absolutely nobody. No audience. No context. Just commitment. At the same table, Callaghan and Denslow spearheaded a relentless stream of conversational chaos, the kind where every sentence begins mid-thought and ends nowhere near where it started.

And we hadn’t even left the car park.

After a short “five minutes” to the ground that felt suspiciously longer, the boys’ first opposition of tour were Bexley. A scrappy first half with only a couple of silky passages saw Gloucester go in 1–0 down at the break. Not vintage.

The team talk was simple: composure and mean it. No poetry, no whiteboard masterpieces. Just mean it.

They did….to start with.

We started the second half brightly, linking well, and were rewarded when Price decided subtlety was overrated and bent one into the top corner from outside the box. Proper postage stamp. Coaches briefly pretended we’d designed it that way.

Bexley pulled one back from the spot after Squibbs collected only our second yellow card of the season. Penalty converted. 2–2.

Gloucester responded again. A Price free kick to the near post and Badara got the flick that found the net. Back level. Back believing.

Then… another mistake. Bexley back in front. And that’s how it stayed.

Frustrating one. Bexley were there for the taking, but the small errors keep adding up and at this level they get punished. A familiar lesson. One we’ll definitely learn from. Hopefully. Probably.

Spirits improved immediately when the hosts rolled out Domino’s Pizza like peace offerings. Nothing unites a squad after defeat like melted cheese and zero plate discipline.

The hotel journey had its own drama. Callaghan announced from the back that his seatbelt had detached from the seat. Not ideal. Thankfully we were crawling through Dartford Tunnel traffic, so Butler heroically leapt out, climbed into the back, and performed emergency mechanical surgery – saving Callaghan’s journey and potentially his life. Collective sigh of relief. We need our little whippet fit and available on the right wing.

The St Albans Hotel heard actual cheers when the boys discovered they were in their carefully “requested” rooms.

Badara and Squibbs twinning it.

Callaghan, Drew and Whiting together.

Pearson, Cox and Thompson forming the other.

Denslow, Faluyi and Price conveniently stationed next to Coach Butler.

Pure coincidence, obviously.

Card games are played before travelling to the Harvester. Cox proved the winner of Horse Racing, while Thompson and Drew came out on top of Brucey’s Higher or Lower. Good game, good game!

Upon leaving the hotel, the Coaches friend called Karma paid a visit to Faluyi, who had been chopsing not long before, but then goes flying after being tackled by a pavement. Of course, the coaches were concerned and weren’t seen chuckling at all.

On route to The Harvester, the lack of a phone wire meant the official B Team playlist was tragically unavailable. Did this stop the music? Absolutely not. It simply turned the minibus into an off-key West End production. No backing track. No shame. Volume set permanently to “shout at traffic”.

We arrive and our waitress Megan gives us the kind of smile usually reserved for people who’ve just realised they’re about to run a marathon in Crocs. Fair play to her, she handled it like a seasoned pro.

Menus open. Calm for approximately four seconds.

Squibbs then asks, with full sincerity, if there are bones in the rack of ribs.

Drinks became a science experiment.

Whiting bravely tackles Strawberry Pepsi and looks betrayed by it.

Thompson describes his concoction as “the exquisite taste of the Tangy Lime with the scrumptiousness of the Strawberry” like he’s auditioning for MasterChef.

Denslow creates a chemical trilogy of Pepsi Lime, Tango and Lemonade. He dislikes it immediately and throws it across the table. No one is surprised.

Price gathers the troops for a pre-tea prayer, with a special mention that Denslow does not pass away due to his nut allergy. Denslow’s meal arrives with a little allergy flag in it, which he receives like he’s just been knighted. “I’m special” he says with such glee.

Eating points are in full swing. Squibbs drops the first by failing to finish his salad. Drew lets down his family by ignoring the knife and fork entirely and tearing into his chicken with his hands. Genuinely uncomfortable viewing. Somewhere, an etiquette teacher felt a disturbance in the force.

Mid-meal, Price casually admits to farting on Drew. He forgets he is stood next to a poor, innocent man who has just been handed his dinner. The timing could not have been worse.

Pearson stands alone as the only player not ordering dessert, but does update me on his haircut from the TikTok Abbeymead cutter. We await the upload with concern.

Megan shows me the bill. I briefly consider whether tears are tax deductible.

By the end, the sugar intake has kicked in. Hyper levels are somewhere near the ceiling tiles. Volume back to West End rehearsal mode.

We retreat to the hotel for Diaries, which, remarkably, brings the chaos down to a gentle simmer. For now.

When it comes to DREAM Marks, the judges have spoken.

Diaries

Cox and Drew take top honours. Reflective. Honest. Strong scenes. Pearson loses a point for forgetting his name – despite being reminded.

Rooms

Faluyi, Denslow and Price secure full marks. Clothes hung. Footwear neatly stacked. No suspicious smells (which is good for Denslow). A triumph.

Eating

Maximum points for everyone except Squibbs, Faluyi and Callaghan. Salad negligence and selective finishing coming back to haunt them. Standards are standards.

Attitude

Thompson earns a bonus point for being consistently helpful throughout the day. Carrying things. Offering help. General good egg behaviour.

Match

Across the board it’s 6s and 7s. No heroes. No villains.

Only 4 points separate everyone. All to play for.

With the scores locked in and dignity mostly intact, the boys are tucked up. Within minutes, rooms fall silent one by one.

Peace at last.

For now.

Friday

The wake up calls begin. Badara is the only one requiring emergency intervention. Even Squibbs falling out of bed in the night didn’t stir him. Squibbs leads the operation, assisted by two pillows and the enthusiasm of someone who has waited all year for this moment. Impressive levels of commitment to sleep.

Cox’s room is less “hotel stay” and more “tropical retreat”. Opening the door is like stepping into a sponsored sauna. And there, on the shelf, a lone tooth staring back at us. No explanation offered. None requested.

Room 125 swings the other way. The coaches enter and immediately consider thermal base layers. Frostbite is a genuine concern. Callaghan, wrapped up in his PJs and blanket, insists he’s still hot. Whiting files a formal complaint that Drew sleeps like a starfish and occupies approximately 94% of the mattress.

Breakfast is a plot twist. Eleven lads enter and the other guests brace themselves for impact. Instead, they’re polite. Respectful. Chairs tucked in. Thank yous deployed. The room visibly relaxes. Pearson swerves the mighty Full English in favour of Cornflakes, while the rest of them build plates that defy common sense. Beans and muffins co-existing in peaceful harmony. Nutritionists everywhere weep.

Callaghan loses points after discovering that ambition and capacity are not the same thing. Pearson also takes a hit after reacting to plant-based milk like it’s been poured straight from a laboratory. A strong start to the day.

Arriving in front of Wembley, the boys seem more fascinated by the big IKEA and Costco on the left. Questions are asked.

Walking to the Arena, Price gets tackled by a bollard – almost losing his gingangoolees in the process.

Arrival at the tour and we’re greeted by a slightly worried young man called Eli, who has drawn the short straw of guiding us and a girls’ team around. You could see him clock the numbers, do some quick mental maths, and question his career choices in real time.

The tour itself is impressively incident-free. The boys and girls maintain a respectful two-metre forcefield from each other at all times, like identical magnets refusing to cooperate. Plenty of scrambling for photos in front of heroes: Ronaldo, Messi, Palmer, Saka, Foden and Kane. Price manages to get a photo with pretty much anyone who’s ever had their name printed on a shirt. Squibbs stations himself proudly in front of the Pickford top. Denslow lifts a Player of the Match trophy roughly his own body weight and looks like he’s about to sign a five-year deal.

Both teams are challenged to roar “Hello Wembley!” in unison. They absolutely deliver. The echo bounces round the stadium and sends the coaches into mild flashbacks of the minibus volume levels.

In the Press Room, Coach Jon from the girls’ team takes the manager’s chair and opens the floor to questions. A run of sensible(ish) tactical queries follows. Then Drew asks Jon why he has a big forehead. Press conference immediately adjourned. Jon retires to the corner. Media duties suspended until further notice.

Denslow, Price and Drew were subjected to Coach Butler’s unsolicited documentary series, “West Ham: The Glory Years (All Three of Them)”, while descending from the Royal Box. Somewhere between 1964 and “we were massive, actually,” the lads aged visibly. By the bottom of the stairs, Denslow was considering early retirement.

To be fair, the kids are very well behaved throughout and it’s a genuinely pleasant tour. The England Shop is our final stop. Magnets are secured. Mini footballs roughly the size of something you’d buy for a hamster are purchased. One foam finger makes a brief appearance before being confiscated to prevent it becoming an airborne hazard on the minibus.

Lunch is Sainsbury’s Meal Deals. Pearson appears to survive on approximately two peas. Callaghan tackles half a sausage roll and declares himself satisfied. Denslow and I opt for sushi. When asked if this makes us posh, he delivers a firm, emotionless “No.” Case closed.

Races outside Wembley finish the visit. Coach Butler wins his respective heats with suspicious efficiency. Price attempts what can only be described as a last-ditch slide tackle at the line and, thankfully, misses. Wembley survives. Just about.

Back at the hotel, Coach Butler went room to room like a headteacher doing GCSE invigilation checks. In 125, he walked in to find Whiting urgently attempting to smuggle Drew’s foam finger into the safe, as if it were a priceless artefact from the West Ham United trophy cabinet.

Butler began calmly explaining the purpose of the safe. Mid-sentence, Drew proudly shouted the full code across the corridor for the benefit of the entire hotel.

Security: compromised.

Foam finger: secured.

Common sense: still at Wembley.

The game against St Albans happened. Enough said.

Burger King provided the evening’s fine dining experience. Nothing says “elite athlete nutrition plan” quite like a Whopper and a dream.

Cox, Pearson and Price boldly requested their burgers with no sauce. No sauce. In a fast food establishment where sauce is basically the personality. The Coaches briefly considered deducting tour points for crimes against moisture, but caught ourselves in a rare moment of maturity and let it slide. Growth.

Pearson then endured a full internal crisis after putting his recycling in the wrong bin. The look on his face suggested he’d personally accelerated global warming. For a solid 30 seconds he stood there, contemplating his carbon footprint and whether Greta Thunberg would ever forgive him.

All in all, morale high. Sauce low. Planet tentatively surviving.

Back to the hotel for a Wembley Quiz, which quickly turned into a live study of group dynamics.

In last place were Callaghan, Drew & Cox. There was less “teamwork” and more “forensic analysis of who ruined it.” Each answer was followed by three faces silently suggesting, It definitely wasn’t me. A masterclass in deflection.

Pearson, Squibbs, Faluyi & Badara racked up 24 points. A chaotic coalition. Pearson attempting to bring order, while the others operated on vibes and loud confidence. Respectable score. Questionable process.

But cruising to victory with the calm of seasoned pundits were Whiting, Thompson, Denslow & Price. Clinical. Efficient. Mildly smug.

A competitive evening. No friendships officially ended. Yet.

Redemption arc activated.

Diaries were a different story tonight. Actual sentences. Full stops. Handwriting that didn’t look like it had been completed during an earthquake. Cox, Drew and Squibbs all bag 9s.  Attitude marks also creep up a notch, with the boys being very good company today. Credit where it’s due, they’ve been a solid group.

Room inspections follow and, again, a strong showing. Beds vaguely resemble beds. Floors visible. Only one room with a damp towel lurking under the sink. However, no 10s tonight. The ceiling remains unbroken. Standards remain high.

Overall leaderboard is tight. Cox, Drew and Thompson currently lead the way, but it’s congested. Only 6 points separate everyone. One crumpled bath matt on the floor and this whole thing flips on its head.

Saturday

The morning call goes smoothly… bar Room 125. Naturally.

Coach Butler once again performs emergency services for the lads, first rescuing them from an arctic shower situation by discovering the radical concept of turning the heating up. Minutes later, he prevents what can only be described as “The Great Sink Flood of 2026”… which turned out to be a tap dripping because it hadn’t been turned off properly. Room 125 remain consistent in their need for adult supervision.

Pearson greets us like we’ve just cancelled a scheduled Olympic recovery session, thoroughly unimpressed at the interruption to his athlete rest-time. Meanwhile Whiting is perched there grinning like he’s been waiting for backup, almost certainly hoping we’ll relocate him from Starfish Drew’s sleeping radius.

It’s also uncovered that Callaghan’s breakfast performance dip yesterday wasn’t fatigue related. It was Maoam related. A pre-breakfast sugar festival will do that. Lessons have been learned. Growth.

Thompson decides to get sarcastically brave and is invited to repeat himself to my face. To his credit, he does. To his body’s discredit, it’s shaking slightly while he does it. Courage comes in many forms.

In historic news, Denslow completes an entire meal without spilling a drink. Applause echoes down the corridor. The bar has been raised. Literally.

Cox and Squibbs double up on bacon and muffins, while Faluyi doubles-doubles on croissants like he’s carb-loading for an ultra marathon he hasn’t told us about.

And finally, Whiting confirms he’s had a brilliant first tour. Judging by how comfortably he’s settled into the chaos, I’d say he’s officially one of us now. There’s no turning back.

When reading out the DREAM Marks, in what should have been a calm, reflective moment of growth and maturity… Drew decided it was the perfect time to square up to a fire extinguisher.

A brief headbutt contest followed. The extinguisher now carries a noticeable dent. Drew, however, remains entirely unchanged. No additional common sense appears to have been absorbed in the exchange. If anything, the extinguisher may have come off worse psychologically.

We can confirm the extinguisher did not retaliate. Probably out of pity. 

Final Room Inspections delivered drama in minor key.

A single point was lost across the floor for curtains being left closed, pillows looking like they’d survived a small earthquake, and a rogue Lynx shower gel abandoned like it had been excommunicated mid-lather.

Then there was Room 125.

In a move that can only be described as “collective amnesia but make it fashion”, each occupant managed to leave behind an item. Not subtle items either. We’re talking a full coat. A pair of shorts. And an actual bag. Not a sock. Not a shin pad. A bag. The kind designed specifically to hold all the things you’re meant to remember.

At this stage, we’re considering installing a lost property counter directly outside 125 and charging rent.

Standards generally high. Awareness in 125… pending investigation.

With today’s game being cancelled and everything between Hertfordshire and home booked up (I’m sure, purely coincidental and not that they’d heard of some of boys), Bowling in Gloucester was decided before home time.

The side bumpers were deployed immediately, mainly to protect innocent civilians on neighbouring lanes. Badara and Faluyi were less “aiming for pins” and more “issuing general warnings to the building.” At one point I’m fairly sure Lane 22 considered filing a complaint.

Denslow was reminded for the 274th time not to wander into other people’s lanes. I’m considering a lanyard. Or a small electric fence.

Callaghan began with the now-famous double-arm launch technique. It looked like he was trying to shot-put the earth back into orbit. To his credit, he grew into the game. Squibbs started like a seasoned pro, full of authority, then gradually faded like a New Year’s resolution. Drew looked like he’d done this before… until he hadn’t. Meanwhile Cox quietly went about dismantling the field, strolling into the final three frames like he’d been bowling since dial-up internet. Eleven years old. Twenty years of experience. Obviously.

Pearson and Thompson demonstrated their trademark politeness by gently rolling the ball as if apologising to it. Whiting somehow managed to score zero with bumpers up. Zero. With protection on both sides. I still don’t know how that’s mathematically possible. It may need reviewing by Mensa.

Cox claimed the first strike of the day and soaked up the applause like a man who knew it was coming. Price’s happiest moment arrived when his score hit 67. Six-and-seven. Pure joy. Sometimes life is simple.

Cox eventually ran out as deserved Champion, narrowly beating the Coaches. I was repeatedly let down by Butler, who insists it was “lane conditions.” Of course.

Parents arrived in gentle waves to reclaim their offspring. A few looked slightly fragile. Pure coincidence that there was a nightclub directly opposite their hotel, I’m sure. Warm goodbyes, genuine thank yous, and a collective Coaches’ exhale loud enough to register on local seismographs.

Overall, a tour of brilliant young men growing in confidence and camaraderie off the pitch. Plenty to learn about bringing that same togetherness onto it. But a cracking group to take away, even if Lane 22 may never fully recover.

Tourists;
Squibbs, Denslow, Cox, Faluyi, Pearson, Callaghan, Thompson, Price, Drew, Badara & Coach Whiting