Questions
Thursday. ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round,’ claims the song, but the wheels on the girls’ bus aren’t turning just yet. Coach Delaney has (successfully) completed his four-year MIDAS mini bus refresher, but due to some bureaucratic red tape or other, isn’t allowed to drive the thing until next Monday. Clearly, not everything this Midas touches turns to gold. Cue Coach Stalley’s offer to forgo a day with Croose and Severn Vale’s confirmation that we can use their second machine and the girls’ show at any rate is back on the road.
Saturday; 6.35am. The Longlevens Neighbourhood people haven’t clocked our pre-dawn departure time and the A Team bus is eventually discovered, incarcerated on some bloke’s drive over in Richmond Gardens. Thanks largely to having attended The Chairman’s ‘How to be a Successful Spook’ course back in the summer holidays, the gates are prised open, the bus loaded and the drive emptied without any noticeable reaction from the ‘Beware of the Dog’ household that’s blissfully unaware of the early-morning incursion onto their property. Until they get up and find their drive empty, that is.
‘I’m not as mobile as I used to be,’ were The Chairman’s opening words at the aforementioned gathering, ‘so this will have to be a Powerpoint presentation.’ There were slides depicting a lock being opened, sinister-looking hooded figures skulking around a remote grassy area under the cover of darkness, lights being flicked on and sometimes off and a Bruce Forsyth lookalike arriving with a tray full of ‘premier’ quality sausages. At the end of the seminar, the audience of three filed out, full of covert thoughts and dietary tips, to be confronted by a fella selling ‘two for the price of five’ photo packs. Just like Saturday morning at the Home of Football then.
With the Yellows also leaving for Verulamium at 7.15, there’s a sociable atmosphere on Church Road on the 11th of the 1st, which is one of the very few binary dates in a calendar year. Thoughts waft back to this very same day in 2011, when the short-form date reached a lifetime best of five 1s on the bounce; one of those never to be repeated moments, like sighting Halley’s Comet, viewing the Northern Lights or seeing Gloucester City win three consecutive matches without conceding a goal.
Croose arrives in fifth place, much to the bewilderment of Stavrou Junior and Born Again Milton who, having racked up at the meet-point ten minutes previously, were unanimous in their belief that Double C ‘will be ages yet.’ The Longlevens Arrival Time Epitaph (LATE) instead falls to Lazarus and Pink Alert, both of GL2; Pink Alert has a good reason for his place at the end of the queue as Mother Simpson, having spent last weekend in her brand new ankle huggers, has had to dig her jackboots out of the patio shed as news of the Colney Heath mud has found its way to Cypress Gardens and the rest of the Mediterranean too. Father Bennett’s assertion that he’s engaged in a cricket coaching course at Hartpury in mid-January and couldn’t find his pads is somehow a tad more difficult to believe, however.
Progress down the A40/M40 is swift, but there are the usual ongoing moans and groans regarding air pollution and its detrimental effect on climate change, and as Croose’s initials are the same as the latter, he’s largely blamed for the former. The good news for everyone sitting to the rear of Croose is that as we arrive at everyone’s favourite service station at 8.52am, the ‘Mint Leaves’ Indian outlet isn’t open yet – unlike the windows of the bus, which have been blowing a gale since the Peartree roundabout, 25 miles back on the wrong side of Oxford.
The Bs have arrived too and Beaconsfield is awash with black, yellow and brown & red McDonald’s wrappers. On the adult table, Coach Harris shows signs of cutting back by indulging in a breakfast wrap for starters, a sausage & egg something or other for mains and a little round object that looks like it’s still moving for dessert. Coach Wixey’s forcing down a banger bap the length of a school ruler, while The Photographer’s tried and trusted (Gregg’s) sausage roll gets its weekly airing. ‘Why do you always have the same thing?’ enquires Coach Harris. ‘Cos it’s nice,’ replies Trotter, doing the politically correct thing by leaving ‘and cheap’ off the end of his sentence. At the other extremity of the social spectrum, Coach Wilson’s done the upmarket thing and purchased a 5-cheese toastie from Starbucks, only to find all of them are cheddar. ‘Why do you use a knife & fork to eat a toastie?’ asks Coach Harris. There is no verbal reply, but the eyes suggest ‘Peasant’, though the machinations of the mind, it has to be said, are far, far darker.
The local scout association is collecting for their late July trip to Poland and the largesse of the departing GPSFA troupe means they’ll probably have enough cash to buy half of Gdansk, never mind spend a couple of nights in a seen-better-times youth hostel in downtown Krakow. It also means that Curtis is now skint, which is another story altogether.
We’re met at Colney Heath by the St Albans coach, St Nicholas Sanders, though speculation is rife about the authenticity of this particular beatification process. St Nicholas spends the first five minutes complaining about someone or other, then shouting at someone or other, resulting in Croose, imagining it must be he who is the subject of the tirade for the simple reason that it usually is, taking refuge behind a bench and for sixty glorious seconds saying absolutely nothing at all.
Brockbank wins the toss and elects to play up the noticeable slope in the first half and the homesters initially use the gradient to their advantage when Stone fires them ahead with just four minutes on the cuckoo clock. The lead doesn’t last long however; Hine, who’s already gone close, thumps an effort against the back post and the alert Triple A-Plus-Two follows in to level matters up.
There’s a desperate scramble in our box as Beaumont, Bevan and Simpson all get in the way of close-range efforts from the The Saints, before Ansermoz eventually clutches the ping-ponging ball and exhales loudly to show everyone his very obvious relief. The last-ditch defending pays dividends almost immediately; Bevan releases Ali who skips away from his marker to finish well; 2-1.
The black & yellows create a couple more pre-interval half chances, but the hosts have more of the ball and territory. With the midfield working back effectively and the backline standing firm, we reach half time still in the ascendancy and it’s a similar story after the interval. ‘They want it more than you do,’ laments St Nicholas from the lofty perch of his upturned bucket as another tackle is won and ten minutes after the break, Croose releases Bennett, who strides clear to finish with aplomb and a bit. 3-1.
Simpson uses his elasticated lower limbs to intercept and clear on numerous occasions; Curtis, Beaumont and Brockbank add determination and stability in the full back positions, while midfielders Bevan, Hine, Bennett, Milton and Ali never stop competing, tracking back and competing again. At the business ends, Croose is a constant threat, keeping the Saints defence interested throughout, while Ansermoz once more displays both a safe pair of hands and a boot colour that mirrors St Nicholas’s less than positive expression.
The hosts continue to press and only two great last-ditch tackles from Brockbank and Milton prevent an ‘interesting’ last few minutes ensuing. The final whistle is met with clenched fists, smiles, sweat and satisfaction (from the visitors), while St Nick’s look is one of complete mystification on discovering that his bucket’s sunk a couple of feet over the course of the second half and only the referee’s concluding intervention has prevented it from disappearing altogether.
There’s chicken nuggets and chips on the post-match menu, but much to the horror of Coach Wilson and much to the approval of Coach Harris, no knives or forks. ‘Santa didn’t bring us any,’ offers St Nick before the actual question is asked, though everyone knows who spends most of advent doing the ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ at Colney Heath FC.
There’s a heartfelt rendition of, ‘Services, Services, Services,’ as we exit the M40 at Oxford, an exhortation loud enough to stir even Hine from his slumbers and we encounter The Yellows for the third and final time today, about twelve metres from a deserted Harry Ramsden’s. ‘Is it really world famous?’ enquires Bennett, reading the advertising slogan above the unused counter and scanning the non-existent queue. Sometimes saying nothing is far more powerful than a full and erudite response.
Coach Wilson is the next person to ask a question, with Coach Harris again the recipient. ‘Why aren’t you playing football today?’ he innocently enquires. The look says it all. Sometimes saying nothing is far more powerful than a full and erudite response. It turns out CH has had a slight disagreement with the manager, with one of them having a somewhat lower opinion of Coach Harris’s ability levels than the other, which is a nice way of saying he’s been dropped.
With eating now in full flow – after all, it’s been a full ninety minutes since the last meal – the social divide once again rears its ugly, discriminatory head. Brockbank and Ansermoz have bought Whoppers so thick they need to dislocate their jaws to get the things inside their mouths; Born Again Milton’s beast meanwhile is called something altogether different, but it’s every bit as big; the last time this happened (early November at Membury), he got ‘it’ stuck halfway down, but even now, no-one’s quite sure halfway down where.
Croose and Curtis (unsurprisingly) and Beaumont (surprisingly) make up the Dirty (half) Dozen, while around the corner in Starbucks, posh Lucas Simpson is ordering a Frappuccino with Cookies & Cream, a concoction which is so upper-crust that he’s joined at the table by Bennett and Hine, who spend most of the time staring at Pink Boots with an equal amount of complete astonishment and the utmost admiration. They’re joined momentarily by Ali and Bevan, but barely five seconds after plonking themselves down, Triple A-plus-Two realises that if anyone thinks of many more transitive verbs for Simpson’s impressive creation, they’ll have more As than him and life will never quite be the same again, so he sticks his nose in the air and disappears in the general direction of Subway, with Bevan still in tow.
It’s a tunelessly loud charabanc that weaves its way along the A40 back to the city, with Bevan now taking the brunt of the blame for the intoxicating atmospheric conditions within. Coach Wilson’s attempts at Fiendish Sudoku Number 1412 are twice interrupted by a bout of high-pitched alphabetic squealing, which is unsurprising as the perpetrators turn out to be Ali, Brockbank and Croose. ‘If I wanted letters, I’d be doing the crossword,’ bemoans CW, who threatens the unseemly trio with fates far beyond the boundaries of A, B & C. It doesn’t take long for the errant triumvirate to work out that the warnings add up to the non-opening of windows or any other ventilation devices for the entirety of next weekend’s sojourn to the south coast of Devon and the noises stop immediately.
We’re back at base and the troops have scattered far and wide, but the inquests have only just begun. ‘Did you really eat all that?’ queries Mother Milton. ‘How much did you put in that bucket?’ frowns Father Curtis. ‘What’s a Frappuccino?’ asks Mother Simpson. ‘Do you have to sleep when people sing?’ ventures Father Hine. ‘Can anyone find that sedative?’ pleads Mother Croose. But while the interrogations continue, people can sleep easily in Gloucester this evening. Because today at any rate, the team answered all the questions. And most of the answers were correct.
Gloucester A: Stavrou Junior; Croatia Testudine, Pink Alert, Gdansk; Caramel Sundae, One of Our Own, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline Junior; Triple A-plus-Two; On-Time, Born Again.
Saturday; 6.35am. The Longlevens Neighbourhood people haven’t clocked our pre-dawn departure time and the A Team bus is eventually discovered, incarcerated on some bloke’s drive over in Richmond Gardens. Thanks largely to having attended The Chairman’s ‘How to be a Successful Spook’ course back in the summer holidays, the gates are prised open, the bus loaded and the drive emptied without any noticeable reaction from the ‘Beware of the Dog’ household that’s blissfully unaware of the early-morning incursion onto their property. Until they get up and find their drive empty, that is.
‘I’m not as mobile as I used to be,’ were The Chairman’s opening words at the aforementioned gathering, ‘so this will have to be a Powerpoint presentation.’ There were slides depicting a lock being opened, sinister-looking hooded figures skulking around a remote grassy area under the cover of darkness, lights being flicked on and sometimes off and a Bruce Forsyth lookalike arriving with a tray full of ‘premier’ quality sausages. At the end of the seminar, the audience of three filed out, full of covert thoughts and dietary tips, to be confronted by a fella selling ‘two for the price of five’ photo packs. Just like Saturday morning at the Home of Football then.
With the Yellows also leaving for Verulamium at 7.15, there’s a sociable atmosphere on Church Road on the 11th of the 1st, which is one of the very few binary dates in a calendar year. Thoughts waft back to this very same day in 2011, when the short-form date reached a lifetime best of five 1s on the bounce; one of those never to be repeated moments, like sighting Halley’s Comet, viewing the Northern Lights or seeing Gloucester City win three consecutive matches without conceding a goal.
Croose arrives in fifth place, much to the bewilderment of Stavrou Junior and Born Again Milton who, having racked up at the meet-point ten minutes previously, were unanimous in their belief that Double C ‘will be ages yet.’ The Longlevens Arrival Time Epitaph (LATE) instead falls to Lazarus and Pink Alert, both of GL2; Pink Alert has a good reason for his place at the end of the queue as Mother Simpson, having spent last weekend in her brand new ankle huggers, has had to dig her jackboots out of the patio shed as news of the Colney Heath mud has found its way to Cypress Gardens and the rest of the Mediterranean too. Father Bennett’s assertion that he’s engaged in a cricket coaching course at Hartpury in mid-January and couldn’t find his pads is somehow a tad more difficult to believe, however.
Progress down the A40/M40 is swift, but there are the usual ongoing moans and groans regarding air pollution and its detrimental effect on climate change, and as Croose’s initials are the same as the latter, he’s largely blamed for the former. The good news for everyone sitting to the rear of Croose is that as we arrive at everyone’s favourite service station at 8.52am, the ‘Mint Leaves’ Indian outlet isn’t open yet – unlike the windows of the bus, which have been blowing a gale since the Peartree roundabout, 25 miles back on the wrong side of Oxford.
The Bs have arrived too and Beaconsfield is awash with black, yellow and brown & red McDonald’s wrappers. On the adult table, Coach Harris shows signs of cutting back by indulging in a breakfast wrap for starters, a sausage & egg something or other for mains and a little round object that looks like it’s still moving for dessert. Coach Wixey’s forcing down a banger bap the length of a school ruler, while The Photographer’s tried and trusted (Gregg’s) sausage roll gets its weekly airing. ‘Why do you always have the same thing?’ enquires Coach Harris. ‘Cos it’s nice,’ replies Trotter, doing the politically correct thing by leaving ‘and cheap’ off the end of his sentence. At the other extremity of the social spectrum, Coach Wilson’s done the upmarket thing and purchased a 5-cheese toastie from Starbucks, only to find all of them are cheddar. ‘Why do you use a knife & fork to eat a toastie?’ asks Coach Harris. There is no verbal reply, but the eyes suggest ‘Peasant’, though the machinations of the mind, it has to be said, are far, far darker.
The local scout association is collecting for their late July trip to Poland and the largesse of the departing GPSFA troupe means they’ll probably have enough cash to buy half of Gdansk, never mind spend a couple of nights in a seen-better-times youth hostel in downtown Krakow. It also means that Curtis is now skint, which is another story altogether.
We’re met at Colney Heath by the St Albans coach, St Nicholas Sanders, though speculation is rife about the authenticity of this particular beatification process. St Nicholas spends the first five minutes complaining about someone or other, then shouting at someone or other, resulting in Croose, imagining it must be he who is the subject of the tirade for the simple reason that it usually is, taking refuge behind a bench and for sixty glorious seconds saying absolutely nothing at all.
Brockbank wins the toss and elects to play up the noticeable slope in the first half and the homesters initially use the gradient to their advantage when Stone fires them ahead with just four minutes on the cuckoo clock. The lead doesn’t last long however; Hine, who’s already gone close, thumps an effort against the back post and the alert Triple A-Plus-Two follows in to level matters up.
There’s a desperate scramble in our box as Beaumont, Bevan and Simpson all get in the way of close-range efforts from the The Saints, before Ansermoz eventually clutches the ping-ponging ball and exhales loudly to show everyone his very obvious relief. The last-ditch defending pays dividends almost immediately; Bevan releases Ali who skips away from his marker to finish well; 2-1.
The black & yellows create a couple more pre-interval half chances, but the hosts have more of the ball and territory. With the midfield working back effectively and the backline standing firm, we reach half time still in the ascendancy and it’s a similar story after the interval. ‘They want it more than you do,’ laments St Nicholas from the lofty perch of his upturned bucket as another tackle is won and ten minutes after the break, Croose releases Bennett, who strides clear to finish with aplomb and a bit. 3-1.
Simpson uses his elasticated lower limbs to intercept and clear on numerous occasions; Curtis, Beaumont and Brockbank add determination and stability in the full back positions, while midfielders Bevan, Hine, Bennett, Milton and Ali never stop competing, tracking back and competing again. At the business ends, Croose is a constant threat, keeping the Saints defence interested throughout, while Ansermoz once more displays both a safe pair of hands and a boot colour that mirrors St Nicholas’s less than positive expression.
The hosts continue to press and only two great last-ditch tackles from Brockbank and Milton prevent an ‘interesting’ last few minutes ensuing. The final whistle is met with clenched fists, smiles, sweat and satisfaction (from the visitors), while St Nick’s look is one of complete mystification on discovering that his bucket’s sunk a couple of feet over the course of the second half and only the referee’s concluding intervention has prevented it from disappearing altogether.
There’s chicken nuggets and chips on the post-match menu, but much to the horror of Coach Wilson and much to the approval of Coach Harris, no knives or forks. ‘Santa didn’t bring us any,’ offers St Nick before the actual question is asked, though everyone knows who spends most of advent doing the ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ at Colney Heath FC.
There’s a heartfelt rendition of, ‘Services, Services, Services,’ as we exit the M40 at Oxford, an exhortation loud enough to stir even Hine from his slumbers and we encounter The Yellows for the third and final time today, about twelve metres from a deserted Harry Ramsden’s. ‘Is it really world famous?’ enquires Bennett, reading the advertising slogan above the unused counter and scanning the non-existent queue. Sometimes saying nothing is far more powerful than a full and erudite response.
Coach Wilson is the next person to ask a question, with Coach Harris again the recipient. ‘Why aren’t you playing football today?’ he innocently enquires. The look says it all. Sometimes saying nothing is far more powerful than a full and erudite response. It turns out CH has had a slight disagreement with the manager, with one of them having a somewhat lower opinion of Coach Harris’s ability levels than the other, which is a nice way of saying he’s been dropped.
With eating now in full flow – after all, it’s been a full ninety minutes since the last meal – the social divide once again rears its ugly, discriminatory head. Brockbank and Ansermoz have bought Whoppers so thick they need to dislocate their jaws to get the things inside their mouths; Born Again Milton’s beast meanwhile is called something altogether different, but it’s every bit as big; the last time this happened (early November at Membury), he got ‘it’ stuck halfway down, but even now, no-one’s quite sure halfway down where.
Croose and Curtis (unsurprisingly) and Beaumont (surprisingly) make up the Dirty (half) Dozen, while around the corner in Starbucks, posh Lucas Simpson is ordering a Frappuccino with Cookies & Cream, a concoction which is so upper-crust that he’s joined at the table by Bennett and Hine, who spend most of the time staring at Pink Boots with an equal amount of complete astonishment and the utmost admiration. They’re joined momentarily by Ali and Bevan, but barely five seconds after plonking themselves down, Triple A-plus-Two realises that if anyone thinks of many more transitive verbs for Simpson’s impressive creation, they’ll have more As than him and life will never quite be the same again, so he sticks his nose in the air and disappears in the general direction of Subway, with Bevan still in tow.
It’s a tunelessly loud charabanc that weaves its way along the A40 back to the city, with Bevan now taking the brunt of the blame for the intoxicating atmospheric conditions within. Coach Wilson’s attempts at Fiendish Sudoku Number 1412 are twice interrupted by a bout of high-pitched alphabetic squealing, which is unsurprising as the perpetrators turn out to be Ali, Brockbank and Croose. ‘If I wanted letters, I’d be doing the crossword,’ bemoans CW, who threatens the unseemly trio with fates far beyond the boundaries of A, B & C. It doesn’t take long for the errant triumvirate to work out that the warnings add up to the non-opening of windows or any other ventilation devices for the entirety of next weekend’s sojourn to the south coast of Devon and the noises stop immediately.
We’re back at base and the troops have scattered far and wide, but the inquests have only just begun. ‘Did you really eat all that?’ queries Mother Milton. ‘How much did you put in that bucket?’ frowns Father Curtis. ‘What’s a Frappuccino?’ asks Mother Simpson. ‘Do you have to sleep when people sing?’ ventures Father Hine. ‘Can anyone find that sedative?’ pleads Mother Croose. But while the interrogations continue, people can sleep easily in Gloucester this evening. Because today at any rate, the team answered all the questions. And most of the answers were correct.
Gloucester A: Stavrou Junior; Croatia Testudine, Pink Alert, Gdansk; Caramel Sundae, One of Our Own, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline Junior; Triple A-plus-Two; On-Time, Born Again.
