For several very good reasons, we’re embarking on a record fifth away jaunt of the season, with the Holiday Inn at Hemel Hempstead, just off Junction 8 of the M1, our home-from-home for Friday evening/Saturday morning.

There’s not too much traffic on the M25, so we arrive in pretty good time before descending on the McDonald’s that’s unfortunate enough to be located just off the next roundabout. Next stop Hollywood Bowl in North Watford, a mere eight minutes’ drive away, but a combination of traffic light queues and a misfiring Bob-Nav means it takes more like forty-eight.

Clifford’s a bit of a whizz on averages and quickly works out that his team of five are statistically ahead of Folley’s team of six, but he’s reckoned without the spares and extras and his all-conquering bowling fellows finish up being sunk without trace.

Into the arcade and The Model’s in charge of the ticket-yielding hammer, eventually accumulating a staggering amount of little blue ones that he exchanges for a single packet of Haribo’s. CV is also in the tickets, a puzzle of black & white cubes that effectively costs not far off a tenner being his reward for an evening well spent. Or not, as the case may be. Folley works out that the cuddly toy grabber is probably fixed after five separate efforts floppily fail to even find an arm. Captain B temporarily loses his wallet which is no surprise at all, while Buckers doesn’t lose anything, which is a complete and utter shock to everyone that is fortunate enough to know him.

Back to the Holiday Inn and an hour-long chat about what we’ve learned this year, what our favourite hotel has been and one thing we would do if we had the chance to live it all over again. It’s a nice sixty minutes, but by the end a few eyes are drooping, Harold’s fringe has stopped twitching and AW is flat out under the desk, so mission accomplished in more ways than one.

Breakfast at the HI is always a highlight, with cereals and fruit and the toast machine and buffet counter all in slightly different locations, though we wandered around the Crystal Maze under three months ago and everyone seems to remember where everything is located. Buckers fails to get lost and doesn’t lose anything for the second time in twenty-four amazing hours, Bobby Brooks and Harold continue to impress with their no-frills approach to metronomic eating and Captain Thomas Mann(er)ing works his way through his nine hundred and forty seventh piece of dried toast of the season. On the corner table, NJH and Leopold consume so much in thirty-one food-laden minutes, that not only have they grown half an inch by the time we check out, but the price of HI breakfasts is immediately doubled to make up for the immediate shortfall in culinary supplies.

No problem with Bob-Nav as we make the short trek across the great divide that separates Hemel and St Albans – we’ve left it switched off – and we rack up at Colney Heath FC with time to spare. There are five games to play in our final footballing outing of the season and we perform pretty well in our first-ever encounter with Slough who, much to AW’s consternation, are wearing a kit that reminds him of Wolverhampton, but no breakthrough is achieved and the game ends scoreless.

Some fine defending from The Model, McLarney and CV and a hard-working midfield display quells most of Stevenage’s threats in Game Two and twice in the last few minutes we strike the woodwork, firstly from Thomas’s excellent free kick and secondly from Captain Bennett’s deflected effort. ‘That free kick will haunt me for the rest of my life,’ offers Thomas in a moment of random contemplation as we’re getting back on the mini bus afterwards, just as Harold disappears behind a hedge due to the loos being too far from the car park. 0-0 again at the final whistle.

A great finish from Nice Jacob Hayes gives us a half-time lead against Wokingham in Game Three, while the reaction of substitutes Clifford and Buckers is just as good and the perfect illustration that there really is no ‘I’ in team. Not this team, anyway. Or are they celebrating the fact that Buckers’ belongings are still intact? No-one’s quite sure. Wokingham though level from the spot and grab a last-kick winner, but again the performance has been good and no-one can fault the attitude, focus and effort that is being put in by all concerned.

AW gives us the lead our early dominance against Caerphilly probably warrants, then provides a brace of assists that sees NJH head home a right-wing corner and Clifford bury an effort that possibly warrants the knee-slide celebration that follows. ‘I’ll take that,’ says AW at the final whistle. ‘Me too,’ agrees Clifford. ‘Yeeees,’ shouts Folley. ‘Who’s lost what?’ enquires Buckers.

St Albans are the overall winners of the SCLC Intermediate tournament, but we push them all the way in our final outing before registering our third draw in five games and finishing the event with a fifty-fifty record and a string of very pleasing performances. Buckers exits the tour after the presentations to search for a group of long-lost family members who are rumoured to be living somewhere in deepest Hertfordshire, but not before leaving his warm-up top in the vicinity of the container of melting chocolate digestives.

There’s a final service stop at the home of the M40 fountains (Oxford Services), a final Meatball Marinara for Nice Jacob Hayes, a final tour of the purple credit card to placate the electronic menu before Harold’s and CV’s hundred and seventh sortie into KFC, a final temporary wallet-loss for Captain Bennett and a final boost to Subway’s share capital from the majority of the Class of 21/22.

Many people have contributed so much to the last nine months, but the biggest thanks of all goes to the players and all the parents who have supported them in so many different ways. Friendships have prospered, people have developed and memories have been made. Life is about two things – the present and the future and all at GPSFA hope that the ‘now’ that’s been the last nine months is just about the best ‘now’ it could possibly have been.

I’m Just A Boy

I love playing footy; for me it’s the best.

I’m out with my mates, no time for a rest;

It’s active and exciting; there’s challenge galore,

Can’t wait for the next game; I always want more.

I train really hard; that’s how it should be,

I give of my all; that’s always the key;

My prep’s always decent, my focus is good;

And winning’s important; just like it should.

I love all the atmosphere, the noise and the crowd,

The hubbub, the tension; I feel really wowed.

Though some of the people get too carried away,

Cos all I really want, is to go out and play.

It’s not the World Cup, though some won’t agree;

It’s not life or death; well, it isn’t for me.

Yes, the excitement is great, the tension is too,

But enjoyment’s the thing, for me – and for you.

‘Do this, do that,’ some of them scream,

‘Do something else,’ they shout at the team.

‘Not good enough,’ they say when something goes wrong,

But I don’t want to hear the moans of the throng.

I’m just a boy; I’m ten and a bit;

I tackle and shoot and head it and kick.

I’m not a man, or an adult or even a teen,

I’m ten and a bit; you know what I mean?

I love playing footy, but it’s not all that I do;

I enjoy all the kid things, that’s serious and true.

Be proud of me personally, for what I put in,

My effort, my attitude, they’ll both help me win.

I’m just a boy; I’m two years plus nine,

My life is unfolding, a bit at a time;

Yes, plan for the future, get ready for then,

But enjoy the today, cos it won’t come again.

So help me be good, the best I can be,

Whatever that looks like, it’s special to me;

Not just at footy, or English or maths,

But in all that I do, following all of my paths.

I don’t want obsession, or pressure or stress,

But I want you to help me, to get to my best;

To find the right balance, of enjoyment and drive,

Cos that’s the best place for progress to thrive.

I like the sand and the water, the smell of the surf,

The ice creams and bike rides, the laughs and the mirth;

The chit-chat, the banter, the jokes and the jaunts,

But not negatives or vetoes, not ridicule or taunts.

That won’t make me, or my friend down the way,

Better at anything, whatever you say;

Help me, support me, nudge me, please do;

Give me the structure that I need to get through.

Thanks for the commitment, the love and the care,

Thanks for the support and for just being there.

Yes, plan for the future, get ready for then,

But enjoy the today, ‘cos it won’t come again.

With thanks to the likes of Edgar Guest and James Ingham, who penned the original ‘I’m just a Boy’ poems. Thanks too to the legions of child psychologists, behaviouralists and sports scientists, whose multiple independent studies all say pretty much the same things. As the mouldy sausage said to the other mouldy sausage: ‘Ten thousand flies can’t possibly all be wrong.’