Capital Gains
Thursday
As great speeches of twentieth century history go (‘Peace in our time’; Chamberlain; Munich; 1938: ‘One small step for man’; Armstrong; the moon; 1969: ‘Who’s that fella in the window?’ Kennedy; Dallas; 1963), Bevan’s ‘Yes,’ (in reply to ‘Good morning’; Longlevens; 2020) is a bit of a let-down. On the other hand, some things are looking up: Milton arrives as his usual sparky self, Brockers is fit, wide-eyed and raring to go and Simmo, while being nowhere near first, isn’t last either. That dubious honour falls to Nice Ollie Beaumont, who makes his way quickly to the front of the bus, while Mother B loiters out of sight but not quite out of mind at the rear of the parental throng. Maybe she’s trying to hide those boots and keep well away from being included in this missive.
Ansermoz has suddenly woken up, due in part to being assigned to make the mandatory ‘seat draw’ and partly by the fact that he’s managed to find himself a pew right at the back next to Croose, whose mother’s chosen to stop the car before dropping him off on this occasion. It was apparently one of those really tough, 50:50 decisions, but in the end, she felt the needs of the team had to come first. Unfortunately, Anserz has chosen the only place with a dodgy seatbelt, but Captain B shows he’s got more than one tool in his box by loosening the strap, clicking the catch and declaring we’re ready to depart.
Coaches Wilson and Stalley have both been informed by their day job employers that they’re required to work on both Thursday and Friday this week, which seems a tad harsh seeing as there’s a tour in the offing. As such, Tony ‘The Lens’ Hickey and Andrew ‘The Chef’ Foran have parted with some of their hard-earned and stepped into the breach as First and Second Navigators, amongst other things. 7-Up (7 and a half years old and 7 and a half stone in weight) Romeo is also in tow, having survived the Isle of Wight and already booked into The Mayfair Hotel, ready to spend half of his Easter holiday in Jersey. He’s dressed in full GPSFA regalia, though his top button shows little sign of ever being able to make contact with the buttonhole opposite, testimony to either hot-wash shrinkage or extreme bodily expansion. You do the maths.
As referendum’s are the UK’s in-thing at the moment, we hold an impromptu one and Beaconsfield triumphs over Reading in the services ballot by eleven votes to nil. Simmo, blissfully unaware that someone’s watching him, gives a masterclass of silent nodding on the result being announced, but maybe he’s thinking of something else in addition to revisiting Britain’s largest service station in under two hours’ time. No doubt all will be revealed shortly.
There’s the usual tuneless renditions involving Irn Bru and 7-Up, a litany of nefarious relationships highlighted and a debate on who’s to blame for the climate change problem (well, atmospheric conditions in the bus, actually) all taking place at some point before we spend twenty minutes sitting in a queue caused by a breakdown five miles this side of Oxford. ‘It’s Laura; it is, it really is,’ says Curtis, not for the first (or last) time today.
The sight of the blue motorway sign saying Changri La is only one and a half miles away sees all else forgotten and a unified chant of ‘Services, Services, Services (1st line), ‘Services, Services, Services’ (2nd line), ‘Services, Services, Services’ (3rd line), ‘Services, Ser-vic-es’ (last line) starting up and being repeated unfailingly until the brake is applied, the engine switched off and the exit door opened wide.
Most people are sensible in their Beaconsfield approach to eating, safe in the knowledge that there’s a second stop just forty five minutes down the road from here. The Lens too plumps for the sensible option, insisting he pays for the staff breakfast, then spending the next twenty minutes staring at the Gregg’s invoice with a smile the width of his big red money-making machine. ‘£8.20 all in and effectively two free meals to follow in places far more expensive than this,’ say the thought bubbles emerging from both ears at once.
Back in the bus and we head around the M25, decamping at South Mimms for a second service stop and a £13.71 bill from Subway, where The Lens senses the opportunity of having more than one cookie without putting any sort of a dent in his bank balance. The Chef also senses an opportunity, which is to open a conversation with a random middle-aged man sporting a receding hairline and expanding waistline who he’s never set eyes on before. ‘Sugar in your coffee, Chef?’ asks a good Samaritan at the front of the queue, a distraction that gives the man a chance to make good his escape with a turn of speed that’s more than a little out of character with his physical appearance.
The rain starts in earnest about fifteen minutes before we arrive at Douglas Eyre, where we’re assured the grass pitch is playable, probably because they think our central midfielder can build an ark if everything else goes to pot.
In the changing room, the players are sitting quietly on the dark wooden benches, ambivalent looks stuck on the front of everyone’s battle-hardened face; everyone except Simmo that is, who’s wearing a grin so smug you can almost imagine something monumental is about to happen – or already has. Eyes move automatically from his face to his feet which, for the first time this season are not shod in some hideous pink hue, but instead in a traditional black that glistens with a sheen that says, quite simply, ‘First time out.’
On viewing the rain-soaked ground, Noah suggests he starts as sub in order to give himself time to work out a few dimensions, just in case. Someone else takes a look at the midfield area and suggests they may actually need a sub if the water levels rise much further, while Ansermoz clearly doesn’t fancy it as he’s only got his hundred metre swimming badge and that may not be enough, the way things are going.
The conditions don’t have a detrimental effect on Hackney however, who take the lead inside ninety seconds, only for Milton to convert Croose’s cross at the back post for a well taken leveller. The hosts restore their advantage with a goal that several people will want to forget, but a couple of minutes after the break, Bennett plays in Croose for a powerfully-struck equaliser.
Ansermoz produces a fine save to deny the Londoners, before the home side grab what turns out to be the winner with about eight minutes remaining, much to the delight of most of the 14-strong touchline gathering. It’s a new low in more ways than one and a bout of clinical depression sets in the moment the final whistle is blown. The trudge back to the changing room is made even more melancholic as the rain’s suddenly ceased and the sun’s just come out, the dark grey of the previous sixty minutes being replaced by a dose of bright Hackney sunshine. Whatever the proverb says, the righteous clearly don’t come from Glawster on this occasion.
The post-match chips and beans prove to be considerably more popular than the sausages, which clearly aren’t deep fried as The Chef only eats three of them. The Lens flits around taking eating pics of children whose parents he thinks will buy them, while Simmo’s expression, despite the defeat, suggests he feels he’s now finally ‘arrived’, whatever that means.
Next stop, Hollywood Bowl via the North Watford Launderette; Bevan shows his class at the former with an impressive 115, while a batch of no-hopers (in a bowling sense at any rate), don’t. Showing his class at the latter is our new friend Hamid, who executes a kit wash and three drys in just over an hour, while everyone else is enjoying the bright lights at Woodside Leisure Park. Triple A-plus-Two is happy as Larry due to accruing around a million royal blue tickets on the various arcade machines, which he feeds laboriously into a dodgy counting slot, before finishing up with a couple of lollies and a bag of sweets as ‘reward’ for his financial endeavours. He’d have got far more by selling a couple of his vowels on E-Bay.
The technological marvel that’s the I-Phone fails to come up with a decent chippy at which to stop for supper, but The Chef soon engages one of the arcade girls in a one-way conversation, with the desired result that she immediately divulges the name of a suitable eatery in return for her imminent freedom.
As it turns out, it’s only a two-minute hop to Meriden Fish & Chips, where Milton munches his way through half a shark, Hine wanders around eating random bits of fish from various people’s plates and Don the owner impresses everyone with tales of Anthony Joshua(‘s sister) and an athlete who most people have never heard of. The Chef stumps up forty five quid to settle the bill which he initially assumes will be closer to eighty, while The Lens sits back in eternal thanksgiving that Gregg’s does the cheapest breakfast anywhere in the western world. A quick calculation reveals he’s potentially thirty seven smackeroonies better off than he might have been; ‘Great when you can think on your feet at the very first stop,’ he ponders, but doesn’t say.
Hine excels by helping tidy the joint before we leave, gaining himself a bonus attitude point in the process and it’s only a ten-minute jaunt to the Holiday Inn, where rooms are allocated and (some) bags unpacked, before everyone converges on the Diary Room to commit their memories of day one to paper. ‘Can I commit mine to my subconscious instead of the page?’ asks Croose, despite having a fair idea what the answer will be. ‘Four thousand three hundred and twenty one words so far,’ says Beaumont, ‘and I’ve only just reached half time.’ ‘I wonder how many full stops he’s used?’ ponders Brockbank, safe in the knowledge that he’s included none at all. ‘It’s Laura, not Nora,’ laments Curtis. ‘It is, it really is.’
Friday
Ansermoz, Croose and Curtis lose two attitude points apiece for being out of their rooms thirty seconds before the 8.20 roll call, while Brockbank loses one due to his head being in the corridor. The Lens and The Chef are already downstairs and both are doing their best to strike up a conversation with as many random passers-by as possible. The Lens’s motives are purely financial; he’s taken a dozen covert photos of people innocently going about their ante-meridian business and is now attempting to flog as many of them as possible, as it’s his turn to buy the next staff meal. The Chef on the other hand is simply looking for a friend; preferably someone who has a predilection for deep-fried food or who once showed an unhealthy curiosity in the ‘Generation Game’, but in all fairness, it really doesn’t matter what their interests are (or were) as long as they listen to his early-morning chortles.
Today’s first stop is Wembley, a monolith of a place that’s surrounded by a wall of brand new and nearly-built luxury apartments, meaning you can’t see the stadium until you’re a hundred yards from it. Pictures are taken around the feet of Bobby Moore’s statue, an impressive piece of sculpture that moves more in the photoshoot than several of our team did in sixty rainswept minutes at Douglas Eyre yesterday afternoon.
Bennett impresses the guide and anyone else who’s listening by identifying the year something or other happened, while everyone’s impressed to hear that the stadium houses a world record, 2760 toilets. And Beaumont’s used at least half of them.
Brockbank is interviewed in the press room and, like most incumbents of the captain’s hot seat, gives little away to the assembled journalists. Ansermoz has his photo taken next to Pickford’s bright yellow jersey, safe in the knowledge that he’s made far fewer mistakes than its owner has this season. Hine’s mesmerised by a glass cabinet housing Harry Kane’s hat trick boots, but three pairs and three goals and one game doesn’t quite equate, not even at Beech Green.
Back on the bus and the Services song restarts as we bank into the exit lane for London Gateway. The charity collection, started yesterday in a Subway drinks container at South Mimms gathers pace, with the captain donating a job lot of 10p pieces. Always good to beg after an evening in the arcade. Milton’s on the generous side too, while Croose also drops a contribution into the tub. Unfortunately, it turns out to be a red & blue sweet wrapper and the unprecedented gush of warm and squelchy feelings that the boy’s at last showing some signs of genuine philanthropic tendencies are well and truly quashed, as he’s sent to the rubbish bin with immediate effect.
On the eating front, Subway draws 5-5 with BK, suggesting that semi-healthy living is becoming slightly more popular as the season progresses. Beaumont, meanwhile, has a problem in Waitrose as his sandwiches (roast chicken & bacon) are out of reach on the top shelf. They’re £4.45 for the pair, while the same contents with a WHS label are available for half the price next door. Standards are standards though, a mantra to which The Lens will surely attest. ‘Are you sure you want tomatoes with your turkey?’ he quips to both staff members at once. ‘And jalapenos?’ thinking there may be an extra 10p on his bill, which he reduces somewhat by choosing the cookie whose ‘sell by’ date was yesterday and therefore half the price. ‘Foran’s shout later and it’ll be far more expensive than this,’ he thinks, but doesn’t say.
Triple A-plus-two downs a Margarita sub and Hine a six-inch meatball Italian, before it’s back to the Holiday Inn to collect football and swimming kit and a change of clothes ready for the evening ahead.
The game versus St Albans has been switched to the all-weather at Nicholas Breakspear, as Colney Heath has almost as much water on it as Douglas Eyre had yesterday. Almost, but not quite.
We’re against the wind in the first half but defend manfully, with Orange Boots Brockers, Black Boots Simmo and Traditional Boots Curtis in resilient mood at the back, Milton and Hine dropping in and Bevan sitting in front of the back four. The St Albans coach, St Nicholas Sanders, later uses a thinly disguised metaphor comparing a chair to One of our Own’s influence on the game, but that’s only half the story. The other half is that Bevan is (much) better than that and the metaphor doesn’t quite add up, but even the home supporters laugh, which is what it was all about anyway.
Bennett’s buzzing, Croose is working manfully to hold the ball up and in the 21st minute, Hine plops one inside the back post to give us the lead. In all fairness, we’ve looked dangerous on the break throughout and even though the hosts grab a leveller following a corner, we always look like we might pinch another, despite the first half finishing all square at one apiece.
Ali and Beaumont replace Croose and Brockers at the interval, simply because they’re the two positions that ‘double up’ and ten minutes in, Ali makes the difference. A pass back to the keeper is hounded by all his vowels at once, leading to the clearance being blocked and the loose ball poked over the line. Cue celebrations and the removal of the injured keeper following a goal made from those irreplaceable attributes of commitment and not giving up. The next ten minutes see more disciplined defending, more threats on the break and eventually a third goal courtesy of Bennett’s blocked effort and Ali’s volleyed finish. Ansermoz, who’s had a fine game between the visitors’ sticks, almost joins in the party, testimony to his emotional involvement in the team ethos and not just in his own performance. ‘I love winning,’ says his player profile, something that is abundantly clear here.
Everything that was poor about the Hackney display is good today and the demons of the last 24 hours have been well and truly exorcised. At centre back, Simpson has turned in his best performance of the season, and along with Bevan and Bennett in central midfield, he’s helped give the team a core that’s proved to be the difference between two pretty similar sides. Brockers, Beaumont and Curtis have been solid and uncomplicated on both sides of the defence, while Milton and Hine have proved to be hugely effective in both offensive and defensive mode. At the nub ends, Ansermoz has again offered a safe pair of hands, while the Elmbridge twins have led the line with aplomb, both against the wind and later, when we had it in our favour. A complete team performance and a proper reason to celebrate, so we zoom off to Woodside Leisure Centre for an hour and a bit of swimming and chatting in equal measure.
The Chef and The Lens nip down the road to rescue the stuff we managed to leave at the chippy last night, where they indulge in a meal and a cuppa ‘on the house’, a gesture by Meridan Don that excites the photographer no end, as it’s free. The swimmers speculate as to the possibilities regarding eating this evening; if the absentees arrive back in time, we’ll climb on the bus and go somewhere nice; if not, we may be forced to eat Romeo, though that’s likely to be a bit of a waste as we go home tomorrow afternoon and there’d be a month’s worth of meat left over.
Thankfully, for Romeo’s sake at any rate, the bus returns and we decamp to Uncle Ronald’s just around the corner, a decision that seems to go down well with most people, particularly the photographer, who thanks his lucky stars it was his turn to pay at Subway earlier. Milton and Curtis share twenty nuggets, as do Bennett and Hine, while Brockbank indulges in his usual ‘complete package’ that features a main, a side and a dessert. The Lens’s post-grub photos show Ansermoz lurking menacingly at the rear of the long table with a meal that’s largely hidden by Ali’s chicken fillet, but his mum’s pre-tour proclamation that, ‘Our Ben likes his burgers,’ may just be a giveaway as to the edible contents of his fist. Also prominent in the photo is one of Simmo’s intensely brooding looks and just a glimmer of a grin from Croose, which makes him seem even more sinister-looking than usual.
Testudine has followed his Waitrose experience with chicken fillets, as they’re the healthiest thing he can find on the menu, while at the other end of the culinary scale, Romeo devours everything within arm’s reach, including a brown paper bag with a red letter ‘M’ on the side, followed by a couple of long, thin straws for dessert. It’s unclear what Bevan’s imbibing, but more importantly, he’s left that dreadful psychedelic t-shirt that ‘graced’ Hollywood Bowl yesterday evening behind and replaced it with a light grey Adidas top. Maybe he’s chosen them the wrong way around, as it would require an awful lot of ketchup spillage before anything showed up on Thursday’s multicoloured outfit. Or perhaps that’s why it was multicoloured in the first place.
In the absence of TRRI (The Real Room Inspector), everyone scores pretty highly on the nightly inspection, including, surprisingly, Room 223, an abode featuring both Croose and Curtis in a Double C that no-one in their right mind would consider to be even remotely tidy. House number 225 is the least ordered, as Simmo’s pillow is adorning a table top and the same person’s jacket is scrunched up on top of the bed. His new black boots are nowhere to be seen, however, which is just as it should be. Seven out of ten and think yourself lucky.
Saturday
Eight of our eleven-boy squad are still fast asleep as 8.20 chimes, with only (the nice) room 221 (Bennett, Beaumont and Hine) up, dressed, teeth cleaned and ready for whatever Day Three has to offer. Over in 223, Curtis is unconscious in a very odd position, half in, half out of his sack, like a contortionist round a pole. In 232, Bevan looks like something from a 1970s Saturday night horror movie as he emerges scarily from his pit, but Brockbank (226) takes the honours by sitting bolt upright and emitting laser beams of hate from his half-open peepers the moment someone utters the opening syllable of ‘Good Morning, Vietnam’. Simmo and Ali meanwhile ignore their curtains being flung open, resubmerge themselves beneath their quilts and go back to sleep.
The breakfast buffet again proves popular, as does the entire squad, who the hotel receptionists describe as ‘the nicest group that’s ever visited.’ They’re not the most observant though – Ali, Curtis and Simpson have each forgotten to check their bathroom shelves and they later discover they’ve left their toothbrushes behind.
The M4 is shut and there’s a hold-up on the M25, so kick-off at Woking is put back to ten past twelve, giving everyone enough time to focus their mind on what’s always a difficult game, being the final leg of a pretty tiring three days.
Brockers wins the toss and, playing against the elements in the first period, we are made to work hard by a committed Woking team eager to make up for their big defeat by the Black & Yellows earlier in the season. Ansermoz does well at full vertical stretch to keep out a well struck volley and there’s a timely interception from Beaumont as the hosts threaten once more.
The deadlock is broken by Bennett however, who embarks on a mazy run rounded off with a composed finish and Hine proves that despite the debilitating effect of the last two and a bit days, he’s wide awake by following in after Bevan’s initial effort is parried by the keeper for number two.
Simpson, Curtis and Beaumont are always in the game however and the trend continues after half time until, with ten minutes remaining, Milton makes the points (almost) safe with his second strike of the tour. A fourth score with just a few minutes remaining is courtesy of Ali’s searing pace and puts the final gloss on a hard-working display. While the encounter itself lacks the excitement of the St Albans victory less than twenty four hours earlier, this is a ‘professional’ and focussed performance and each player can and should be well proud of the way they approached their latest challenge.
Pizza demolished, several players, led by Hine, help clear away the dining chairs and tables in the Brockwood Farm pavilion, a gesture much appreciated by the Woking hierarchy, before it’s back on the bus for the last leg of our third tour of the campaign, if you include Plymouth in the equation.
We’ve been away for all of fifty nine hours and in that time have played three games, had an underwater experience, toured Wembley, gone bowling and swimming, spent two nights and eaten two breakfasts in the Holiday Inn, had four service stops and seen a sight that most people had on their lifelong bucket list, but never thought they’d actually witness – Simmo wearing a pair of glorious, traditional, jet black boots. It would be almost impossible to fit much more into two and a half days of a life, but a few early nights and a welcome return to a staple meat & two veg should help prepare everyone for the next chapter of the 2019/20 adventure. And where does that take us? Back to St Albans, of course.
#CarpeDiem
Gloucester: Stavrou Junior; Croatia Testudine, Orange Boots, Black Boots, Nora; Born Again, One of our Own, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline (Junior); Triple A-plus-Two; Kojak.
As great speeches of twentieth century history go (‘Peace in our time’; Chamberlain; Munich; 1938: ‘One small step for man’; Armstrong; the moon; 1969: ‘Who’s that fella in the window?’ Kennedy; Dallas; 1963), Bevan’s ‘Yes,’ (in reply to ‘Good morning’; Longlevens; 2020) is a bit of a let-down. On the other hand, some things are looking up: Milton arrives as his usual sparky self, Brockers is fit, wide-eyed and raring to go and Simmo, while being nowhere near first, isn’t last either. That dubious honour falls to Nice Ollie Beaumont, who makes his way quickly to the front of the bus, while Mother B loiters out of sight but not quite out of mind at the rear of the parental throng. Maybe she’s trying to hide those boots and keep well away from being included in this missive.
Ansermoz has suddenly woken up, due in part to being assigned to make the mandatory ‘seat draw’ and partly by the fact that he’s managed to find himself a pew right at the back next to Croose, whose mother’s chosen to stop the car before dropping him off on this occasion. It was apparently one of those really tough, 50:50 decisions, but in the end, she felt the needs of the team had to come first. Unfortunately, Anserz has chosen the only place with a dodgy seatbelt, but Captain B shows he’s got more than one tool in his box by loosening the strap, clicking the catch and declaring we’re ready to depart.
Coaches Wilson and Stalley have both been informed by their day job employers that they’re required to work on both Thursday and Friday this week, which seems a tad harsh seeing as there’s a tour in the offing. As such, Tony ‘The Lens’ Hickey and Andrew ‘The Chef’ Foran have parted with some of their hard-earned and stepped into the breach as First and Second Navigators, amongst other things. 7-Up (7 and a half years old and 7 and a half stone in weight) Romeo is also in tow, having survived the Isle of Wight and already booked into The Mayfair Hotel, ready to spend half of his Easter holiday in Jersey. He’s dressed in full GPSFA regalia, though his top button shows little sign of ever being able to make contact with the buttonhole opposite, testimony to either hot-wash shrinkage or extreme bodily expansion. You do the maths.
As referendum’s are the UK’s in-thing at the moment, we hold an impromptu one and Beaconsfield triumphs over Reading in the services ballot by eleven votes to nil. Simmo, blissfully unaware that someone’s watching him, gives a masterclass of silent nodding on the result being announced, but maybe he’s thinking of something else in addition to revisiting Britain’s largest service station in under two hours’ time. No doubt all will be revealed shortly.
There’s the usual tuneless renditions involving Irn Bru and 7-Up, a litany of nefarious relationships highlighted and a debate on who’s to blame for the climate change problem (well, atmospheric conditions in the bus, actually) all taking place at some point before we spend twenty minutes sitting in a queue caused by a breakdown five miles this side of Oxford. ‘It’s Laura; it is, it really is,’ says Curtis, not for the first (or last) time today.
The sight of the blue motorway sign saying Changri La is only one and a half miles away sees all else forgotten and a unified chant of ‘Services, Services, Services (1st line), ‘Services, Services, Services’ (2nd line), ‘Services, Services, Services’ (3rd line), ‘Services, Ser-vic-es’ (last line) starting up and being repeated unfailingly until the brake is applied, the engine switched off and the exit door opened wide.
Most people are sensible in their Beaconsfield approach to eating, safe in the knowledge that there’s a second stop just forty five minutes down the road from here. The Lens too plumps for the sensible option, insisting he pays for the staff breakfast, then spending the next twenty minutes staring at the Gregg’s invoice with a smile the width of his big red money-making machine. ‘£8.20 all in and effectively two free meals to follow in places far more expensive than this,’ say the thought bubbles emerging from both ears at once.
Back in the bus and we head around the M25, decamping at South Mimms for a second service stop and a £13.71 bill from Subway, where The Lens senses the opportunity of having more than one cookie without putting any sort of a dent in his bank balance. The Chef also senses an opportunity, which is to open a conversation with a random middle-aged man sporting a receding hairline and expanding waistline who he’s never set eyes on before. ‘Sugar in your coffee, Chef?’ asks a good Samaritan at the front of the queue, a distraction that gives the man a chance to make good his escape with a turn of speed that’s more than a little out of character with his physical appearance.
The rain starts in earnest about fifteen minutes before we arrive at Douglas Eyre, where we’re assured the grass pitch is playable, probably because they think our central midfielder can build an ark if everything else goes to pot.
In the changing room, the players are sitting quietly on the dark wooden benches, ambivalent looks stuck on the front of everyone’s battle-hardened face; everyone except Simmo that is, who’s wearing a grin so smug you can almost imagine something monumental is about to happen – or already has. Eyes move automatically from his face to his feet which, for the first time this season are not shod in some hideous pink hue, but instead in a traditional black that glistens with a sheen that says, quite simply, ‘First time out.’
On viewing the rain-soaked ground, Noah suggests he starts as sub in order to give himself time to work out a few dimensions, just in case. Someone else takes a look at the midfield area and suggests they may actually need a sub if the water levels rise much further, while Ansermoz clearly doesn’t fancy it as he’s only got his hundred metre swimming badge and that may not be enough, the way things are going.
The conditions don’t have a detrimental effect on Hackney however, who take the lead inside ninety seconds, only for Milton to convert Croose’s cross at the back post for a well taken leveller. The hosts restore their advantage with a goal that several people will want to forget, but a couple of minutes after the break, Bennett plays in Croose for a powerfully-struck equaliser.
Ansermoz produces a fine save to deny the Londoners, before the home side grab what turns out to be the winner with about eight minutes remaining, much to the delight of most of the 14-strong touchline gathering. It’s a new low in more ways than one and a bout of clinical depression sets in the moment the final whistle is blown. The trudge back to the changing room is made even more melancholic as the rain’s suddenly ceased and the sun’s just come out, the dark grey of the previous sixty minutes being replaced by a dose of bright Hackney sunshine. Whatever the proverb says, the righteous clearly don’t come from Glawster on this occasion.
The post-match chips and beans prove to be considerably more popular than the sausages, which clearly aren’t deep fried as The Chef only eats three of them. The Lens flits around taking eating pics of children whose parents he thinks will buy them, while Simmo’s expression, despite the defeat, suggests he feels he’s now finally ‘arrived’, whatever that means.
Next stop, Hollywood Bowl via the North Watford Launderette; Bevan shows his class at the former with an impressive 115, while a batch of no-hopers (in a bowling sense at any rate), don’t. Showing his class at the latter is our new friend Hamid, who executes a kit wash and three drys in just over an hour, while everyone else is enjoying the bright lights at Woodside Leisure Park. Triple A-plus-Two is happy as Larry due to accruing around a million royal blue tickets on the various arcade machines, which he feeds laboriously into a dodgy counting slot, before finishing up with a couple of lollies and a bag of sweets as ‘reward’ for his financial endeavours. He’d have got far more by selling a couple of his vowels on E-Bay.
The technological marvel that’s the I-Phone fails to come up with a decent chippy at which to stop for supper, but The Chef soon engages one of the arcade girls in a one-way conversation, with the desired result that she immediately divulges the name of a suitable eatery in return for her imminent freedom.
As it turns out, it’s only a two-minute hop to Meriden Fish & Chips, where Milton munches his way through half a shark, Hine wanders around eating random bits of fish from various people’s plates and Don the owner impresses everyone with tales of Anthony Joshua(‘s sister) and an athlete who most people have never heard of. The Chef stumps up forty five quid to settle the bill which he initially assumes will be closer to eighty, while The Lens sits back in eternal thanksgiving that Gregg’s does the cheapest breakfast anywhere in the western world. A quick calculation reveals he’s potentially thirty seven smackeroonies better off than he might have been; ‘Great when you can think on your feet at the very first stop,’ he ponders, but doesn’t say.
Hine excels by helping tidy the joint before we leave, gaining himself a bonus attitude point in the process and it’s only a ten-minute jaunt to the Holiday Inn, where rooms are allocated and (some) bags unpacked, before everyone converges on the Diary Room to commit their memories of day one to paper. ‘Can I commit mine to my subconscious instead of the page?’ asks Croose, despite having a fair idea what the answer will be. ‘Four thousand three hundred and twenty one words so far,’ says Beaumont, ‘and I’ve only just reached half time.’ ‘I wonder how many full stops he’s used?’ ponders Brockbank, safe in the knowledge that he’s included none at all. ‘It’s Laura, not Nora,’ laments Curtis. ‘It is, it really is.’
Friday
Ansermoz, Croose and Curtis lose two attitude points apiece for being out of their rooms thirty seconds before the 8.20 roll call, while Brockbank loses one due to his head being in the corridor. The Lens and The Chef are already downstairs and both are doing their best to strike up a conversation with as many random passers-by as possible. The Lens’s motives are purely financial; he’s taken a dozen covert photos of people innocently going about their ante-meridian business and is now attempting to flog as many of them as possible, as it’s his turn to buy the next staff meal. The Chef on the other hand is simply looking for a friend; preferably someone who has a predilection for deep-fried food or who once showed an unhealthy curiosity in the ‘Generation Game’, but in all fairness, it really doesn’t matter what their interests are (or were) as long as they listen to his early-morning chortles.
Today’s first stop is Wembley, a monolith of a place that’s surrounded by a wall of brand new and nearly-built luxury apartments, meaning you can’t see the stadium until you’re a hundred yards from it. Pictures are taken around the feet of Bobby Moore’s statue, an impressive piece of sculpture that moves more in the photoshoot than several of our team did in sixty rainswept minutes at Douglas Eyre yesterday afternoon.
Bennett impresses the guide and anyone else who’s listening by identifying the year something or other happened, while everyone’s impressed to hear that the stadium houses a world record, 2760 toilets. And Beaumont’s used at least half of them.
Brockbank is interviewed in the press room and, like most incumbents of the captain’s hot seat, gives little away to the assembled journalists. Ansermoz has his photo taken next to Pickford’s bright yellow jersey, safe in the knowledge that he’s made far fewer mistakes than its owner has this season. Hine’s mesmerised by a glass cabinet housing Harry Kane’s hat trick boots, but three pairs and three goals and one game doesn’t quite equate, not even at Beech Green.
Back on the bus and the Services song restarts as we bank into the exit lane for London Gateway. The charity collection, started yesterday in a Subway drinks container at South Mimms gathers pace, with the captain donating a job lot of 10p pieces. Always good to beg after an evening in the arcade. Milton’s on the generous side too, while Croose also drops a contribution into the tub. Unfortunately, it turns out to be a red & blue sweet wrapper and the unprecedented gush of warm and squelchy feelings that the boy’s at last showing some signs of genuine philanthropic tendencies are well and truly quashed, as he’s sent to the rubbish bin with immediate effect.
On the eating front, Subway draws 5-5 with BK, suggesting that semi-healthy living is becoming slightly more popular as the season progresses. Beaumont, meanwhile, has a problem in Waitrose as his sandwiches (roast chicken & bacon) are out of reach on the top shelf. They’re £4.45 for the pair, while the same contents with a WHS label are available for half the price next door. Standards are standards though, a mantra to which The Lens will surely attest. ‘Are you sure you want tomatoes with your turkey?’ he quips to both staff members at once. ‘And jalapenos?’ thinking there may be an extra 10p on his bill, which he reduces somewhat by choosing the cookie whose ‘sell by’ date was yesterday and therefore half the price. ‘Foran’s shout later and it’ll be far more expensive than this,’ he thinks, but doesn’t say.
Triple A-plus-two downs a Margarita sub and Hine a six-inch meatball Italian, before it’s back to the Holiday Inn to collect football and swimming kit and a change of clothes ready for the evening ahead.
The game versus St Albans has been switched to the all-weather at Nicholas Breakspear, as Colney Heath has almost as much water on it as Douglas Eyre had yesterday. Almost, but not quite.
We’re against the wind in the first half but defend manfully, with Orange Boots Brockers, Black Boots Simmo and Traditional Boots Curtis in resilient mood at the back, Milton and Hine dropping in and Bevan sitting in front of the back four. The St Albans coach, St Nicholas Sanders, later uses a thinly disguised metaphor comparing a chair to One of our Own’s influence on the game, but that’s only half the story. The other half is that Bevan is (much) better than that and the metaphor doesn’t quite add up, but even the home supporters laugh, which is what it was all about anyway.
Bennett’s buzzing, Croose is working manfully to hold the ball up and in the 21st minute, Hine plops one inside the back post to give us the lead. In all fairness, we’ve looked dangerous on the break throughout and even though the hosts grab a leveller following a corner, we always look like we might pinch another, despite the first half finishing all square at one apiece.
Ali and Beaumont replace Croose and Brockers at the interval, simply because they’re the two positions that ‘double up’ and ten minutes in, Ali makes the difference. A pass back to the keeper is hounded by all his vowels at once, leading to the clearance being blocked and the loose ball poked over the line. Cue celebrations and the removal of the injured keeper following a goal made from those irreplaceable attributes of commitment and not giving up. The next ten minutes see more disciplined defending, more threats on the break and eventually a third goal courtesy of Bennett’s blocked effort and Ali’s volleyed finish. Ansermoz, who’s had a fine game between the visitors’ sticks, almost joins in the party, testimony to his emotional involvement in the team ethos and not just in his own performance. ‘I love winning,’ says his player profile, something that is abundantly clear here.
Everything that was poor about the Hackney display is good today and the demons of the last 24 hours have been well and truly exorcised. At centre back, Simpson has turned in his best performance of the season, and along with Bevan and Bennett in central midfield, he’s helped give the team a core that’s proved to be the difference between two pretty similar sides. Brockers, Beaumont and Curtis have been solid and uncomplicated on both sides of the defence, while Milton and Hine have proved to be hugely effective in both offensive and defensive mode. At the nub ends, Ansermoz has again offered a safe pair of hands, while the Elmbridge twins have led the line with aplomb, both against the wind and later, when we had it in our favour. A complete team performance and a proper reason to celebrate, so we zoom off to Woodside Leisure Centre for an hour and a bit of swimming and chatting in equal measure.
The Chef and The Lens nip down the road to rescue the stuff we managed to leave at the chippy last night, where they indulge in a meal and a cuppa ‘on the house’, a gesture by Meridan Don that excites the photographer no end, as it’s free. The swimmers speculate as to the possibilities regarding eating this evening; if the absentees arrive back in time, we’ll climb on the bus and go somewhere nice; if not, we may be forced to eat Romeo, though that’s likely to be a bit of a waste as we go home tomorrow afternoon and there’d be a month’s worth of meat left over.
Thankfully, for Romeo’s sake at any rate, the bus returns and we decamp to Uncle Ronald’s just around the corner, a decision that seems to go down well with most people, particularly the photographer, who thanks his lucky stars it was his turn to pay at Subway earlier. Milton and Curtis share twenty nuggets, as do Bennett and Hine, while Brockbank indulges in his usual ‘complete package’ that features a main, a side and a dessert. The Lens’s post-grub photos show Ansermoz lurking menacingly at the rear of the long table with a meal that’s largely hidden by Ali’s chicken fillet, but his mum’s pre-tour proclamation that, ‘Our Ben likes his burgers,’ may just be a giveaway as to the edible contents of his fist. Also prominent in the photo is one of Simmo’s intensely brooding looks and just a glimmer of a grin from Croose, which makes him seem even more sinister-looking than usual.
Testudine has followed his Waitrose experience with chicken fillets, as they’re the healthiest thing he can find on the menu, while at the other end of the culinary scale, Romeo devours everything within arm’s reach, including a brown paper bag with a red letter ‘M’ on the side, followed by a couple of long, thin straws for dessert. It’s unclear what Bevan’s imbibing, but more importantly, he’s left that dreadful psychedelic t-shirt that ‘graced’ Hollywood Bowl yesterday evening behind and replaced it with a light grey Adidas top. Maybe he’s chosen them the wrong way around, as it would require an awful lot of ketchup spillage before anything showed up on Thursday’s multicoloured outfit. Or perhaps that’s why it was multicoloured in the first place.
In the absence of TRRI (The Real Room Inspector), everyone scores pretty highly on the nightly inspection, including, surprisingly, Room 223, an abode featuring both Croose and Curtis in a Double C that no-one in their right mind would consider to be even remotely tidy. House number 225 is the least ordered, as Simmo’s pillow is adorning a table top and the same person’s jacket is scrunched up on top of the bed. His new black boots are nowhere to be seen, however, which is just as it should be. Seven out of ten and think yourself lucky.
Saturday
Eight of our eleven-boy squad are still fast asleep as 8.20 chimes, with only (the nice) room 221 (Bennett, Beaumont and Hine) up, dressed, teeth cleaned and ready for whatever Day Three has to offer. Over in 223, Curtis is unconscious in a very odd position, half in, half out of his sack, like a contortionist round a pole. In 232, Bevan looks like something from a 1970s Saturday night horror movie as he emerges scarily from his pit, but Brockbank (226) takes the honours by sitting bolt upright and emitting laser beams of hate from his half-open peepers the moment someone utters the opening syllable of ‘Good Morning, Vietnam’. Simmo and Ali meanwhile ignore their curtains being flung open, resubmerge themselves beneath their quilts and go back to sleep.
The breakfast buffet again proves popular, as does the entire squad, who the hotel receptionists describe as ‘the nicest group that’s ever visited.’ They’re not the most observant though – Ali, Curtis and Simpson have each forgotten to check their bathroom shelves and they later discover they’ve left their toothbrushes behind.
The M4 is shut and there’s a hold-up on the M25, so kick-off at Woking is put back to ten past twelve, giving everyone enough time to focus their mind on what’s always a difficult game, being the final leg of a pretty tiring three days.
Brockers wins the toss and, playing against the elements in the first period, we are made to work hard by a committed Woking team eager to make up for their big defeat by the Black & Yellows earlier in the season. Ansermoz does well at full vertical stretch to keep out a well struck volley and there’s a timely interception from Beaumont as the hosts threaten once more.
The deadlock is broken by Bennett however, who embarks on a mazy run rounded off with a composed finish and Hine proves that despite the debilitating effect of the last two and a bit days, he’s wide awake by following in after Bevan’s initial effort is parried by the keeper for number two.
Simpson, Curtis and Beaumont are always in the game however and the trend continues after half time until, with ten minutes remaining, Milton makes the points (almost) safe with his second strike of the tour. A fourth score with just a few minutes remaining is courtesy of Ali’s searing pace and puts the final gloss on a hard-working display. While the encounter itself lacks the excitement of the St Albans victory less than twenty four hours earlier, this is a ‘professional’ and focussed performance and each player can and should be well proud of the way they approached their latest challenge.
Pizza demolished, several players, led by Hine, help clear away the dining chairs and tables in the Brockwood Farm pavilion, a gesture much appreciated by the Woking hierarchy, before it’s back on the bus for the last leg of our third tour of the campaign, if you include Plymouth in the equation.
We’ve been away for all of fifty nine hours and in that time have played three games, had an underwater experience, toured Wembley, gone bowling and swimming, spent two nights and eaten two breakfasts in the Holiday Inn, had four service stops and seen a sight that most people had on their lifelong bucket list, but never thought they’d actually witness – Simmo wearing a pair of glorious, traditional, jet black boots. It would be almost impossible to fit much more into two and a half days of a life, but a few early nights and a welcome return to a staple meat & two veg should help prepare everyone for the next chapter of the 2019/20 adventure. And where does that take us? Back to St Albans, of course.
#CarpeDiem
Gloucester: Stavrou Junior; Croatia Testudine, Orange Boots, Black Boots, Nora; Born Again, One of our Own, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline (Junior); Triple A-plus-Two; Kojak.
