Titanic
We’re off to sunny Lansdown, an exposed plateau just behind the Park & Ride, for a double header versus Bath and Bournemouth, hoping to get things back on track following last week’s reversal against Swansea. Coach Wilson’s in a less-than-convivial mood as he’s failed to read the correspondence correctly and turned up at 8.25 for a 10.15 departure, meaning that for the duration of the intervening period, he’s on the receiving end of one of The Photographer’s commercial spiels. ‘I reckon, as they (Bridgend) haven’t been here before, I might get away with one of my ‘Three for the Price of Four (scams),’ The Lens enthuses as the mini bus grinds to a halt and CW mistakenly feels that salvation may just be at hand.
The Groundsman’s already departed, having proved he’s got a tele as, in the absence of anything else, he’s now suffering from some oriental viral condition or other, while Bruce The Chef Forsyth is practising his ‘Nice to see you, to see you nice,’ welcome on The Chairman, who impresses all those watching by sliding his left hand around the flapjack tray while maintaining eye contact with The Chef in yet another reminder of those covert days of yore behind the Iron Curtain and whatever lay beyond.
Brockers turns up rested, smiling and full of the joys of pre-spring, having missed last night’s coaching session in favour of a school trip to the London Eye and Houses of Parliament. ‘Didn’t like the river though,’ he says, before noticing Coach Wilson’s inquisitively furrowed brow, followed by, ‘it was too brown,’ in answer to the question that never came. ‘I’m not interested in the river,’ says CW, ‘only in finding out who altered today’s departure time.’
Progress south is swift due to the uncluttered nature of the motorway, which is more than can be said for the changing rooms at Lansdown South, where the notice on the wall implores users to ‘Keep the premises clean and tidy’, while the packet & bottle- infested floor silently implores everyone to bring a brush the next time they visit.
Game one is against Bath and we play down the slope in the first half. As the action gets underway, there are three GPSFA supporters out of a crowd totalling eight (8) ‘lining’ the far touchline – Father Hine, Father Brockbank and Mother Simpson, monikers that make the supporter’s group sound like an assemblage of priests and nuns. Two years ago, we genuinely had a Father Ted, but before anyone gets carried away, his Irish lineage was restricted to a long weekend in Dublin with a group of mates from Brockworth.
Four minutes in and we take the lead; Lazarus’s jinking run down the left followed by the perfect pulled-back cross sees Triple A-plus-Two sidefoot home from a perfect position at the back post. Coach Wilson mumbles something which may have been complimentary, before beginning his weekly wander around the perimeter of the playing area.
Lazarus is involved in virtually everything during the first quarter and a couple of minutes after the goal forces a fine save from the Bath keeper, whose orange bib flies smartly through the air to tip the ball around the left-hand upright. Or the right-hand one, depending on which way you’re facing. In all the years that we’ve been playing Bath, no-one can remember them ever possessing a bona fide goalkeeper’s jersey.
Not to worry; orange bib is rooted to the spot as Hine heads Bennett’s resulting corner against the woodwork, the rebound cutting Father Hine off after the first syllable and involuntary arm swing precipitated by his defining tune, ND’s ‘Sweet Caroline’. By now the crowd has moved into double figures with the arrival of Father Ali plus younger son, while in the home end a tall man with a short dog stops off for a rest on his morning walk across the downs.
The Croatian, Brockers and Nora look confident in the city backline and it’s Nora who combines with Croose to set up Hine for a very composed, change-of-feet finish to put the visitors two up. Within a split second of the ball nestling in the corner of the net, three things happen. Firstly, the Bennett’s arrive en masse now that Lazarus has completed his top ten minute display; secondly, Father Hine is in full voice, arms aloft with a side-to-side sway reminiscent of a model ship in a tub, shortly before it struck an iceberg on its way to becoming one of the most watched films of all time and thirdly, the lady with the pink coat and silvery handbag who’s found herself in the away end by mistake, gives ‘Forever in Blue Jacket’ a stare capable of sinking an ocean liner and marches off to a new position down by the bottom right corner flag. It’s fair to say, she seems somewhat less than impressed.
There’s more to celebrate right on the stroke of half time as Hine bends a right-foot effort into the top corner from the edge of the box to send FH off to Little Stoke Park in jovial mood, where his beloved Hardwicke FC will soon beat the hosts 4-0 to cement seventh spot in the County League with nine games to play. It probably won’t be enough to get them into Europe, but a couple of Domino’s pizzas and a Tennant’s Extra or three back at the shack will more than make up for their continental disappointment.
The second half sees Bath pull a goal back as Kiely converts a right wing cross from close range, much to the annoyance of Ansermoz, whose hopes of a coveted clean sheet are dashed once more. Gloucester soon net a fourth however, as Triple A-plus-two is on hand after Milton’s initial effort is saved, before Born Again nets his second ‘goal’ of the season with a far post header that is immediately ruled out by the referee’s vertical arm. ‘Offside,’ says the official, as Milton looks eagerly from left to right for some moral support from his mates, as he considers everything from going on hunger strike to dangling off the edge of the Clifton Gorge in silent protest at this perceived injustice. No-one responds. Not even his mates.
The remaining kit-kats, jaffa cakes and jelly babies are scoffed / swallowed / decapitated within moments of the final whistle, bringing sixty seconds of intense genocide to this windswept outpost of Aquae Sulis.
A JPL Development Centre representing Bournemouth are next up, but they find themselves one down with barely a minute on the clock as Hine nudges Pink Boots’ pass beyond the keeper and immediately places his shaking hands over both his ears. It’s a needless action however as Sweet Caroline Senior is ten miles away, somewhere in the Bristol suburbs, regaling every detail of his offspring’s earlier brace to a changing room audience that looks unlikely to regain consciousness any time soon.
The remainder of the half sees the visitors in total control with centre forward Croose, having been denied twice by the keeper and once by the woodwork, wondering if he’ll ever score again. ‘Do you think it was offside?’ Milton asks Coach Wilson in a tone resembling Icarus’s lament, but the response isn’t what he’d hoped for: a wry smile as a final jaffa cake is pulled from a seemingly empty container with a sleight of hand that would turn David Copperfield olive green with envy and a single word aimed at ending any further questioning. ‘Yes.’
The city team up the ante after the break, but after being played in by Bennett, Bevan drags his effort wide of the wrong post. The misfiring midfielder’s ‘if looks could kill’ face and Gestapo stomp back to the halfway line tells you all you need to know about the mental torment he’s currently experiencing. Barely a minute later however, Triple A-plus-Two’s left wing cross gives Croose the opportunity to end his scoring drought, before Croose turns provider and lays off to Bevan who crashes a drive in off the far post, before standing stock still in silent celebration. ‘Blow me, I thought he was going to stick his arms out, sing some dreadful song and pretend he was on the Titanic,’ reveals Coach Wilson afterwards, and when the same player charges through to further exorcise his demons within a hundred seconds of his first mental purification, the stock-still tableau is practised to perfection for a second statuesque time.
Triple A-plus-Two nets his third goal of the morning to put an end to Ball Mouth’s (as Soccer AM would say) resistance and celebrates with a slightly greater degree of animation than One of our Own demonstrated a few minutes earlier. Nice Ollie Beaumont is pushed forward for a late corner, meeting a partially-cleared ball nearly on the half volley and standing stock still immediately afterwards, just as Bevan had done a few moments previously. Unfortunately, while the aftermath is almost identical, the orientation of the shot is slightly more to the right, meaning that while The Croatian is outwardly giving little away, the turmoil within is probably raging like a Bevan on a prow.
As penance for scoring three goals apiece over the course of the morning, Sweet Caroline (Junior) and Triple A (plus two) are delegated by the Bath manager to break into his car and retrieve a carrier bag full of cheese baps and sausage rolls which serve as a post-match pick-me-up. ‘We’re studying Neolithic Man in history at school,’ explains Bennett, moments before extracting the innards from his sausage roll as one might remove the large intestine from some hairy creature that will shortly serve as dinner.
Michaelwood Services, the only motorway stop-off to be named after a TV presenter, is now minus its iconic footbridge, but the northbound side still boasts a good deal of outlets which confuse both Croose and Ansermoz, whose decision-making skills are called into serious question. ‘I think we’ll…’ ‘No, that one’s better….’ ‘But this is cheaper…’ ‘I don’t like their chips…..,’ mull the Gruesome Twosome. They eventually settle on KFC, giving Colonel Sanders a 7-3 verdict over Subway, with The Croatian abstaining from the consumption of fast food due to his forthcoming Chicken Tikka and pilau rice. He says he’s not having any tonight, but everyone knows he is. ‘That header,’ says Milton. ‘Shut up,’ says CW.
Sainsbury’s in Barnett Way is our final venue of a busy day. The Girls and Bs have filled bags and stacked trolleys as if there’s no tomorrow, but we arrive with the football results pending and the Scotland v England rugby about to start. The tills are closing down faster than the shops in the city centre, but at five o’clock on the dot, six weeks of Gloucester City-orientated hurt is anaesthetised by the news that the not-so-mighty Tigers have ground out a 2-1 win at bottom of the table Bradford (Park Avenue) and, with Blyth losing again, are now six points clear of the dreaded red zone. There’s a celebratory smile with a second upturned banana immediately afterwards as a nice lady with a packed trolley finally allows Croose anywhere near her shopping bag and there’s a wry grin too as a big fella with shoulders like tallboys and a voice like the cry of an expiring mouse pulls out a pair of Tesco carriers that produce a death stare from the Sainsbury’s lady in charge.
We collect about sixty one quid from the three-team total of five hundred and sixty one pounds twenty pence, while the nice lady with the packed trolley furnishes Croose with the odd 20p for putting her eggs underneath six bottles of wine and a large tray of dog food.
‘I enjoyed that,’ says The Croatian who, in league with Hine, unsurprisingly attracted the majority of the late-afternoon customers. ‘Me too,’ says Brockbank, ‘so much better than that river.’ ‘Anyone for sausage rolls?’ asks Bennett, but no-one replies. ‘That header, do you….?’ pleads Milton, but thinks better of it after catching sight of Coach Wilson’s laser beam peepers. That was a huge day,’ says Simmo. ‘Massive,’ says Ansermoz. ‘Gargantuan,’ says The Croatian, the only player likely to know such a term.
‘Colossal,’ says Ali, a word which impresses Coach Wilson no end. ‘Big?’ offers Croose, a word that impresses no-one at all. ‘Absolutely titanic,’ says Bevan, smiling at last. ‘Honestly,’ says Curtis, not for the first time this year, ‘it’s Laura; it is, it really is.’
Gloucester A: Stavrou Junior; Croatia Testudine, Caramel Sundae, Pink Alert, Nora; Born Again, One of our Own, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline Junior; The Eggsterminator, Triple A-plus-Two.
The Groundsman’s already departed, having proved he’s got a tele as, in the absence of anything else, he’s now suffering from some oriental viral condition or other, while Bruce The Chef Forsyth is practising his ‘Nice to see you, to see you nice,’ welcome on The Chairman, who impresses all those watching by sliding his left hand around the flapjack tray while maintaining eye contact with The Chef in yet another reminder of those covert days of yore behind the Iron Curtain and whatever lay beyond.
Brockers turns up rested, smiling and full of the joys of pre-spring, having missed last night’s coaching session in favour of a school trip to the London Eye and Houses of Parliament. ‘Didn’t like the river though,’ he says, before noticing Coach Wilson’s inquisitively furrowed brow, followed by, ‘it was too brown,’ in answer to the question that never came. ‘I’m not interested in the river,’ says CW, ‘only in finding out who altered today’s departure time.’
Progress south is swift due to the uncluttered nature of the motorway, which is more than can be said for the changing rooms at Lansdown South, where the notice on the wall implores users to ‘Keep the premises clean and tidy’, while the packet & bottle- infested floor silently implores everyone to bring a brush the next time they visit.
Game one is against Bath and we play down the slope in the first half. As the action gets underway, there are three GPSFA supporters out of a crowd totalling eight (8) ‘lining’ the far touchline – Father Hine, Father Brockbank and Mother Simpson, monikers that make the supporter’s group sound like an assemblage of priests and nuns. Two years ago, we genuinely had a Father Ted, but before anyone gets carried away, his Irish lineage was restricted to a long weekend in Dublin with a group of mates from Brockworth.
Four minutes in and we take the lead; Lazarus’s jinking run down the left followed by the perfect pulled-back cross sees Triple A-plus-Two sidefoot home from a perfect position at the back post. Coach Wilson mumbles something which may have been complimentary, before beginning his weekly wander around the perimeter of the playing area.
Lazarus is involved in virtually everything during the first quarter and a couple of minutes after the goal forces a fine save from the Bath keeper, whose orange bib flies smartly through the air to tip the ball around the left-hand upright. Or the right-hand one, depending on which way you’re facing. In all the years that we’ve been playing Bath, no-one can remember them ever possessing a bona fide goalkeeper’s jersey.
Not to worry; orange bib is rooted to the spot as Hine heads Bennett’s resulting corner against the woodwork, the rebound cutting Father Hine off after the first syllable and involuntary arm swing precipitated by his defining tune, ND’s ‘Sweet Caroline’. By now the crowd has moved into double figures with the arrival of Father Ali plus younger son, while in the home end a tall man with a short dog stops off for a rest on his morning walk across the downs.
The Croatian, Brockers and Nora look confident in the city backline and it’s Nora who combines with Croose to set up Hine for a very composed, change-of-feet finish to put the visitors two up. Within a split second of the ball nestling in the corner of the net, three things happen. Firstly, the Bennett’s arrive en masse now that Lazarus has completed his top ten minute display; secondly, Father Hine is in full voice, arms aloft with a side-to-side sway reminiscent of a model ship in a tub, shortly before it struck an iceberg on its way to becoming one of the most watched films of all time and thirdly, the lady with the pink coat and silvery handbag who’s found herself in the away end by mistake, gives ‘Forever in Blue Jacket’ a stare capable of sinking an ocean liner and marches off to a new position down by the bottom right corner flag. It’s fair to say, she seems somewhat less than impressed.
There’s more to celebrate right on the stroke of half time as Hine bends a right-foot effort into the top corner from the edge of the box to send FH off to Little Stoke Park in jovial mood, where his beloved Hardwicke FC will soon beat the hosts 4-0 to cement seventh spot in the County League with nine games to play. It probably won’t be enough to get them into Europe, but a couple of Domino’s pizzas and a Tennant’s Extra or three back at the shack will more than make up for their continental disappointment.
The second half sees Bath pull a goal back as Kiely converts a right wing cross from close range, much to the annoyance of Ansermoz, whose hopes of a coveted clean sheet are dashed once more. Gloucester soon net a fourth however, as Triple A-plus-two is on hand after Milton’s initial effort is saved, before Born Again nets his second ‘goal’ of the season with a far post header that is immediately ruled out by the referee’s vertical arm. ‘Offside,’ says the official, as Milton looks eagerly from left to right for some moral support from his mates, as he considers everything from going on hunger strike to dangling off the edge of the Clifton Gorge in silent protest at this perceived injustice. No-one responds. Not even his mates.
The remaining kit-kats, jaffa cakes and jelly babies are scoffed / swallowed / decapitated within moments of the final whistle, bringing sixty seconds of intense genocide to this windswept outpost of Aquae Sulis.
A JPL Development Centre representing Bournemouth are next up, but they find themselves one down with barely a minute on the clock as Hine nudges Pink Boots’ pass beyond the keeper and immediately places his shaking hands over both his ears. It’s a needless action however as Sweet Caroline Senior is ten miles away, somewhere in the Bristol suburbs, regaling every detail of his offspring’s earlier brace to a changing room audience that looks unlikely to regain consciousness any time soon.
The remainder of the half sees the visitors in total control with centre forward Croose, having been denied twice by the keeper and once by the woodwork, wondering if he’ll ever score again. ‘Do you think it was offside?’ Milton asks Coach Wilson in a tone resembling Icarus’s lament, but the response isn’t what he’d hoped for: a wry smile as a final jaffa cake is pulled from a seemingly empty container with a sleight of hand that would turn David Copperfield olive green with envy and a single word aimed at ending any further questioning. ‘Yes.’
The city team up the ante after the break, but after being played in by Bennett, Bevan drags his effort wide of the wrong post. The misfiring midfielder’s ‘if looks could kill’ face and Gestapo stomp back to the halfway line tells you all you need to know about the mental torment he’s currently experiencing. Barely a minute later however, Triple A-plus-Two’s left wing cross gives Croose the opportunity to end his scoring drought, before Croose turns provider and lays off to Bevan who crashes a drive in off the far post, before standing stock still in silent celebration. ‘Blow me, I thought he was going to stick his arms out, sing some dreadful song and pretend he was on the Titanic,’ reveals Coach Wilson afterwards, and when the same player charges through to further exorcise his demons within a hundred seconds of his first mental purification, the stock-still tableau is practised to perfection for a second statuesque time.
Triple A-plus-Two nets his third goal of the morning to put an end to Ball Mouth’s (as Soccer AM would say) resistance and celebrates with a slightly greater degree of animation than One of our Own demonstrated a few minutes earlier. Nice Ollie Beaumont is pushed forward for a late corner, meeting a partially-cleared ball nearly on the half volley and standing stock still immediately afterwards, just as Bevan had done a few moments previously. Unfortunately, while the aftermath is almost identical, the orientation of the shot is slightly more to the right, meaning that while The Croatian is outwardly giving little away, the turmoil within is probably raging like a Bevan on a prow.
As penance for scoring three goals apiece over the course of the morning, Sweet Caroline (Junior) and Triple A (plus two) are delegated by the Bath manager to break into his car and retrieve a carrier bag full of cheese baps and sausage rolls which serve as a post-match pick-me-up. ‘We’re studying Neolithic Man in history at school,’ explains Bennett, moments before extracting the innards from his sausage roll as one might remove the large intestine from some hairy creature that will shortly serve as dinner.
Michaelwood Services, the only motorway stop-off to be named after a TV presenter, is now minus its iconic footbridge, but the northbound side still boasts a good deal of outlets which confuse both Croose and Ansermoz, whose decision-making skills are called into serious question. ‘I think we’ll…’ ‘No, that one’s better….’ ‘But this is cheaper…’ ‘I don’t like their chips…..,’ mull the Gruesome Twosome. They eventually settle on KFC, giving Colonel Sanders a 7-3 verdict over Subway, with The Croatian abstaining from the consumption of fast food due to his forthcoming Chicken Tikka and pilau rice. He says he’s not having any tonight, but everyone knows he is. ‘That header,’ says Milton. ‘Shut up,’ says CW.
Sainsbury’s in Barnett Way is our final venue of a busy day. The Girls and Bs have filled bags and stacked trolleys as if there’s no tomorrow, but we arrive with the football results pending and the Scotland v England rugby about to start. The tills are closing down faster than the shops in the city centre, but at five o’clock on the dot, six weeks of Gloucester City-orientated hurt is anaesthetised by the news that the not-so-mighty Tigers have ground out a 2-1 win at bottom of the table Bradford (Park Avenue) and, with Blyth losing again, are now six points clear of the dreaded red zone. There’s a celebratory smile with a second upturned banana immediately afterwards as a nice lady with a packed trolley finally allows Croose anywhere near her shopping bag and there’s a wry grin too as a big fella with shoulders like tallboys and a voice like the cry of an expiring mouse pulls out a pair of Tesco carriers that produce a death stare from the Sainsbury’s lady in charge.
We collect about sixty one quid from the three-team total of five hundred and sixty one pounds twenty pence, while the nice lady with the packed trolley furnishes Croose with the odd 20p for putting her eggs underneath six bottles of wine and a large tray of dog food.
‘I enjoyed that,’ says The Croatian who, in league with Hine, unsurprisingly attracted the majority of the late-afternoon customers. ‘Me too,’ says Brockbank, ‘so much better than that river.’ ‘Anyone for sausage rolls?’ asks Bennett, but no-one replies. ‘That header, do you….?’ pleads Milton, but thinks better of it after catching sight of Coach Wilson’s laser beam peepers. That was a huge day,’ says Simmo. ‘Massive,’ says Ansermoz. ‘Gargantuan,’ says The Croatian, the only player likely to know such a term.
‘Colossal,’ says Ali, a word which impresses Coach Wilson no end. ‘Big?’ offers Croose, a word that impresses no-one at all. ‘Absolutely titanic,’ says Bevan, smiling at last. ‘Honestly,’ says Curtis, not for the first time this year, ‘it’s Laura; it is, it really is.’
Gloucester A: Stavrou Junior; Croatia Testudine, Caramel Sundae, Pink Alert, Nora; Born Again, One of our Own, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline Junior; The Eggsterminator, Triple A-plus-Two.
