Go West
Wow, what a civilised way to kick-off the Saturday before Christmas. Get up at eight, relax with a coffee and half a loaf of toast, then check we’ve got both the post code and kit before opening the next window of this year’s GPSFA advent calendar and finding a picture of a werewolf staring back. Or perhaps it’s not a werewolf at all; maybe it’s the groundsman proffering a smile, or a grimace, or a frown, or even his full moon look. Can anyone really tell the difference?
The Photographer’s had a better offer than a Saturday afternoon in Abertawe and spends most of the morning applying a liberal helping of WD 40 to his big red money-making machine in anticipation of coining it in at some upmarket function or other that involves a posse of well-heeled Rotarians and a group of parents from both Chiltern & South Bucks.
The Chairman, meanwhile, has woken from his early-morning nap, during which he dreamt of those courageous sorties of forty-odd years ago, creeping unnoticed behind enemy lines to gather all sorts of vital info for Queen & Country, some of which were highlighted in graphic detail in last week’s blog. At this precise moment however, as we collect the mini bus from its new home in Richmond Gardens, he’s harking back to former glories and is engaged in a pretty futile Saturday morning game of Living Room Hide & Seek with the grandchildren. After being discovered half a dozen times inside two very disappointing minutes squatting down behind the sofa, he’s left wondering whether a spying mission involving breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea establishments in the Principality might have been a better bet than being subjected to a succession of ‘I can see you (again) Grampy’ taunts by a trio of infants who haven’t needed to leave their seats during the entire scenario.
GL2, and Croatia Testudine arrives with a tub of Celebrations that he insists are shared between the players if we win, but become the sole property of the coaching team if we lose. A draw might prove to be a bit of an issue, particularly if, following a bit of a numerical faux pas at training last night, Field Court is involved in any of the resulting calculations.
Ansermoz has succumbed to the dreaded lurgee, but fellow-sufferer Bennett has risen, Lazarus-like, from his Pippin Close sickbed to take his rightful place on the Village People’s ‘Go West’ funbus. Determined to make the most of the soothing warmth and attention available in his much sought-after medical retreat, Lazarus times his arrival perfectly to coincide with that of Croose (ie equal ninth) and the charabanc departs for South Wales a few moments after ten thirty.
There’s a chorus of ‘Will loves Stacey’ as we pass Michael Wood Services, but the remainder of the alleged nefarious relationships involving squad members will remain in the ‘What goes on the bus, stays on the bus’ category. If we don’t reach our Pavilion Roof appeal target before Easter, blackmail might turn out to be the only remaining option.
The toll-less Severn Bridge is crossed, much to the disgruntlement of Coach Wilson and apart from a five-minute slow-down at Newport, we make good time towards our destination. A very odd song involving something to do with ‘black Lamborghini, red Ferrari’ sees Cardiff come and go, while the slip road and a longer-than-usual approach to Bridgend’s Sarn Park stop-off results in a rather repetitive ditty that contains just a single word uttered both loudly and tunelessly at least five hundred times. ‘Services, services, services,’ sings Curtis, completely oblivious to the fact that no-one else is joining in.
Sarn Park is a new and therefore very fresh-looking establishment, albeit having a very limited range of culinary outlets, while the coffee shop lives up to the slow-mo billing that appeared in its most recent advertising campaign: ‘Starbucks entails, In mountains and vales, The slowest sales, In England & Wales.’ Poetry in motion it might be, but it’ll never catch on.
Hine queues for a panini of some description, but by the time he’s finally served, the ‘sell by’ deadline’s been and gone, though this makes precious little difference to a man with an appetite that’s got bigger with each passing hour. Brockbank, on the other hand, indulges in a feast that involves a bar of chocolate, a BK caramel sundae and a packet of Thai Sweet Chilli ‘Sensations’ crisps, meaning no-one sits within sniffing distance of him for half an hour afterwards.
Croose volunteers to join the coaches’ table for the final ten minutes of the service stop, an event that is billed as an early Christmas present, though by the time we eventually return home, no-one’s quite worked out who the Xmas gift was actually for. Coach Stalley has arrived too, having needed to visit Lansdown (Bath) on a golfing matter and as such has made the long trip west by car. There’s another reason why he’s probably come on his own, an explanation that involves a triple negative: ‘No songs, no squeals and no Croose’, but he keeps all of this to himself. The Head Coach could be a key factor in the day’s success or otherwise, bringing with him not only a wealth of technical expertise, but also a car with a Sat Nav, which may yet prove to be even more useful.
There’s a quick team meeting before we leave, a soiree that kicks off with ‘One of our Own’ Bevan announcing, ‘I’ve brought my goalkeeper gloves (just in case),’ meaning that half the day’s selection dilemmas are sorted before an official word is spoken. The conversation soon lapses from 3-4-1 to the wide variety of hairstyles on show, with a number of extremely worrying revelations taking place; two people genuinely wash their locks in something resembling apple juice, while Bevan amongst others divulges that he uses conditioner several times a week. ‘C…C…Con….,’ splutter Born-Again Milton and Pink Alert Simpson, not because they can’t pronounce it, but because they’re so utterly bemused that anyone goes to such incomprehensible lengths when they’ve spent the best part of eleven years perfecting the au natural look.
SNS (Sat Nav Stalley) opts to lead the way on the final leg of the journey, his red Discovery with personalised plates and GPSFA door signs finding itself in the wrong lane twice before we even get back on the M4, which may well be a sign of bad times to come.
Cruising past Port Talbot, we’re reminded of a 1984 cricket tour with Harlequins CC that pitched us up at this unlikeliest of leather & willow destinations. It’s a long time ago, but somewhere in our long-term memory, we’re reminded that Andy Deacon, better known for his time at Gloucester RFC than his exploits as a lower order batsman of little repute, was on board. Deacs paid £27 for two nights in what was advertised as a second floor 4-star room with Steelworks View, but for some odd reason he never made it past the bottom rung of our plush hotel’s spiral staircase.
Incongruously, there’s an illuminated message above the hard shoulder that warns of the dangers of air pollution, just as a row of chimneys belching great clouds of dense white smoke come into view barely half a mile to our left. Junction 47’s not far from here, but after another lane error by the red Discovery on the roundabout immediately after the exit, we’re forced into an A48 U-turn that loses us six minutes, but there’s plenty of time left, so no worries.
The fourth Lane Error half a mile further on doesn’t cause a problem, but turning right onto Pontardulais Road (as included in the venue’s address), most certainly does. After a good three miles and no sign whatsoever of Penyrheol Sports Centre, we’re chugging along in open country when a sign for Merthyr Tydfil suggests that despite the road name, we’d better retrace our steps.
‘Ah, that’s the old Pontardulais Road,’ explains the helpful man at the sports centre, twenty five minutes and two Gorseinon High Street gridlocks later, ‘you wanted the NEW Pontardulais Road, which brings you straight here.’ Always good to know.
Even before the shorts and socks are distributed to people on the NEW Pontardulais Road, Coach Stalley has shrugged off the stigma of a plethora of navigational indiscretions and has emerged from a nearby cubicle in a jet black tracksuit and 3G footwear, in much the same fashion that Clark Kent used to emerge from a phone box, before attempting to save the world and all those who live in it. ‘Is it a bird, is it a plane?’ are CS’s last words, before extending his right arm and exiting the portacabin to set up the cones for FA Warm-Up number 48, which is the one straight after the motorway junction. As we eventually locate him at the far corner of the 3G area, the tell-tale white splodge on the back of his freshly-laundered tracksuit very much suggests that it was actually a bird.
And so to the game. We’re 0-4 down at the interval and Coach Wilson settles into one of his more articulate half-time rants, keeping in mind that all things are relative. Thankfully the referee’s whistle cuts off the more lucid bits and we’re ushered back onto the pitch, ‘….cos we’re only booked on till four.’
The second half’s an improvement and despite Swansea scoring a fifth, we pull a goal back, Croose netting after a good pull-back by Triple A plus Two and we might have grabbed a couple more with a bit of extra composure in front of the sticks. One of our Own puts in a committed, if somewhat unconventional display of Bruce Grobbelaar-inspired custodianship, while Lazarus is an absolute stalwarT with a capital ‘T’, in terms of both a black & yellow heart and a guileful midfield performance.
There’s a welcome return to the changing room after a virtual halestorm has emptied itself on Penyrheol and Croose is temporarily incapacitated as he’s entombed inside his sopping wet shirt that won’t release itself. Hangman also has his left arm stuck, meaning that nearly fifty per cent of Elmbridge’s limbs are out of action for nigh on ten minutes, which is a genuine relief to all concerned.
Back on the bus and it’s only a short trip down the NEW Pontardulais Road to Swansea services, which are situated right next to Junction 47. The red Discovery’s made a welcome return to Lansdown, meaning there are no lane issues before we pile into Burger King for a post-match top-up. At one end of the scale, Brockbank destroys a double Whopper in forty-seven seconds flat, while One of our Own and Curtis, with a packet of onion rings each, are very much at the other end. Croatia Testudine declines any sort of nutrition whatsoever as he’s saving himself for later, a comment that draws a quizzical look from Croose, just as he’s biting into his double cheeseburger.
Two things break out as we cross the Severn Bridge for a second time: Slade’s ‘And Here’s to You, Merry Christmas’ and Coach Wilson’s biggest smile for several seasons. Or more accurately, his only smile for several seasons. ‘We’re back Ollie,’ he shouts excitedly, ‘we’re back in England.’ ‘Enjoy the Celebrations,’ replies OB, though whether he means the street party CW’s organised to mark our safe return, or the big red box the team has forsaken following our earlier reversal, no-one really knows.
7.30 and everyone’s departed the bus and gone their separate ways. One of our Own is heading straight off to Beckenham in Kent, where his gran will be clearing up after her birthday party by the time he finally arrives. Lazarus is returning to the warmth and comfort of his centrally heated bed at Pippin Close hospital, while Croose can’t understand why his mum has padded the walls of his wonderfully tidy room in Elmbridge’s Sisson’s Road.
Meanwhile, there’s a party going on in Highnam’s Maidenhall and Croatia Testudine is finally feasting on the chicken tikka and pilau rice that has just arrived via the bright red delivery car from the Nepalese Chef. Most of the family is present, together with a fair selection of both neighbours and more distant friends. It’s the occasion of the removal of the once-green Duke of Wellingtons, which have been ever-present on Mother Beaumont’s feet since a week last Wednesday. It all goes well, with Father B’s monkey wrench only being called into action on a couple of occasions.
Only a few hundred yards away as the big bad crow flies, The Chairman’s lounging on his favourite chair having a revitalising nap. Just fifteen minutes ago, he’d been spotted for the 87th time in the evening session of the Hide & Seek trilogy. ‘You’re behind the sofa, Grampy,’ the single grandchild who’d still got both eyes slightly open had shouted, and with that the Chairman finally accepted that it probably wasn’t going to be his day.
And it hasn’t been our day either. A 216-mile round trip with five goals against, four wrong turnings, three miles of countryside, two Pontardulais Roads and not a sniff of a partridge or a pear tree. Roll on 2020.
Gloucester A: One of Our Own; Croatia Testudine, Caramel Sundae, Pink Alert; Born Again, Just-On-Time, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline; Triple A plus Two; Traditional.
The Photographer’s had a better offer than a Saturday afternoon in Abertawe and spends most of the morning applying a liberal helping of WD 40 to his big red money-making machine in anticipation of coining it in at some upmarket function or other that involves a posse of well-heeled Rotarians and a group of parents from both Chiltern & South Bucks.
The Chairman, meanwhile, has woken from his early-morning nap, during which he dreamt of those courageous sorties of forty-odd years ago, creeping unnoticed behind enemy lines to gather all sorts of vital info for Queen & Country, some of which were highlighted in graphic detail in last week’s blog. At this precise moment however, as we collect the mini bus from its new home in Richmond Gardens, he’s harking back to former glories and is engaged in a pretty futile Saturday morning game of Living Room Hide & Seek with the grandchildren. After being discovered half a dozen times inside two very disappointing minutes squatting down behind the sofa, he’s left wondering whether a spying mission involving breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea establishments in the Principality might have been a better bet than being subjected to a succession of ‘I can see you (again) Grampy’ taunts by a trio of infants who haven’t needed to leave their seats during the entire scenario.
GL2, and Croatia Testudine arrives with a tub of Celebrations that he insists are shared between the players if we win, but become the sole property of the coaching team if we lose. A draw might prove to be a bit of an issue, particularly if, following a bit of a numerical faux pas at training last night, Field Court is involved in any of the resulting calculations.
Ansermoz has succumbed to the dreaded lurgee, but fellow-sufferer Bennett has risen, Lazarus-like, from his Pippin Close sickbed to take his rightful place on the Village People’s ‘Go West’ funbus. Determined to make the most of the soothing warmth and attention available in his much sought-after medical retreat, Lazarus times his arrival perfectly to coincide with that of Croose (ie equal ninth) and the charabanc departs for South Wales a few moments after ten thirty.
There’s a chorus of ‘Will loves Stacey’ as we pass Michael Wood Services, but the remainder of the alleged nefarious relationships involving squad members will remain in the ‘What goes on the bus, stays on the bus’ category. If we don’t reach our Pavilion Roof appeal target before Easter, blackmail might turn out to be the only remaining option.
The toll-less Severn Bridge is crossed, much to the disgruntlement of Coach Wilson and apart from a five-minute slow-down at Newport, we make good time towards our destination. A very odd song involving something to do with ‘black Lamborghini, red Ferrari’ sees Cardiff come and go, while the slip road and a longer-than-usual approach to Bridgend’s Sarn Park stop-off results in a rather repetitive ditty that contains just a single word uttered both loudly and tunelessly at least five hundred times. ‘Services, services, services,’ sings Curtis, completely oblivious to the fact that no-one else is joining in.
Sarn Park is a new and therefore very fresh-looking establishment, albeit having a very limited range of culinary outlets, while the coffee shop lives up to the slow-mo billing that appeared in its most recent advertising campaign: ‘Starbucks entails, In mountains and vales, The slowest sales, In England & Wales.’ Poetry in motion it might be, but it’ll never catch on.
Hine queues for a panini of some description, but by the time he’s finally served, the ‘sell by’ deadline’s been and gone, though this makes precious little difference to a man with an appetite that’s got bigger with each passing hour. Brockbank, on the other hand, indulges in a feast that involves a bar of chocolate, a BK caramel sundae and a packet of Thai Sweet Chilli ‘Sensations’ crisps, meaning no-one sits within sniffing distance of him for half an hour afterwards.
Croose volunteers to join the coaches’ table for the final ten minutes of the service stop, an event that is billed as an early Christmas present, though by the time we eventually return home, no-one’s quite worked out who the Xmas gift was actually for. Coach Stalley has arrived too, having needed to visit Lansdown (Bath) on a golfing matter and as such has made the long trip west by car. There’s another reason why he’s probably come on his own, an explanation that involves a triple negative: ‘No songs, no squeals and no Croose’, but he keeps all of this to himself. The Head Coach could be a key factor in the day’s success or otherwise, bringing with him not only a wealth of technical expertise, but also a car with a Sat Nav, which may yet prove to be even more useful.
There’s a quick team meeting before we leave, a soiree that kicks off with ‘One of our Own’ Bevan announcing, ‘I’ve brought my goalkeeper gloves (just in case),’ meaning that half the day’s selection dilemmas are sorted before an official word is spoken. The conversation soon lapses from 3-4-1 to the wide variety of hairstyles on show, with a number of extremely worrying revelations taking place; two people genuinely wash their locks in something resembling apple juice, while Bevan amongst others divulges that he uses conditioner several times a week. ‘C…C…Con….,’ splutter Born-Again Milton and Pink Alert Simpson, not because they can’t pronounce it, but because they’re so utterly bemused that anyone goes to such incomprehensible lengths when they’ve spent the best part of eleven years perfecting the au natural look.
SNS (Sat Nav Stalley) opts to lead the way on the final leg of the journey, his red Discovery with personalised plates and GPSFA door signs finding itself in the wrong lane twice before we even get back on the M4, which may well be a sign of bad times to come.
Cruising past Port Talbot, we’re reminded of a 1984 cricket tour with Harlequins CC that pitched us up at this unlikeliest of leather & willow destinations. It’s a long time ago, but somewhere in our long-term memory, we’re reminded that Andy Deacon, better known for his time at Gloucester RFC than his exploits as a lower order batsman of little repute, was on board. Deacs paid £27 for two nights in what was advertised as a second floor 4-star room with Steelworks View, but for some odd reason he never made it past the bottom rung of our plush hotel’s spiral staircase.
Incongruously, there’s an illuminated message above the hard shoulder that warns of the dangers of air pollution, just as a row of chimneys belching great clouds of dense white smoke come into view barely half a mile to our left. Junction 47’s not far from here, but after another lane error by the red Discovery on the roundabout immediately after the exit, we’re forced into an A48 U-turn that loses us six minutes, but there’s plenty of time left, so no worries.
The fourth Lane Error half a mile further on doesn’t cause a problem, but turning right onto Pontardulais Road (as included in the venue’s address), most certainly does. After a good three miles and no sign whatsoever of Penyrheol Sports Centre, we’re chugging along in open country when a sign for Merthyr Tydfil suggests that despite the road name, we’d better retrace our steps.
‘Ah, that’s the old Pontardulais Road,’ explains the helpful man at the sports centre, twenty five minutes and two Gorseinon High Street gridlocks later, ‘you wanted the NEW Pontardulais Road, which brings you straight here.’ Always good to know.
Even before the shorts and socks are distributed to people on the NEW Pontardulais Road, Coach Stalley has shrugged off the stigma of a plethora of navigational indiscretions and has emerged from a nearby cubicle in a jet black tracksuit and 3G footwear, in much the same fashion that Clark Kent used to emerge from a phone box, before attempting to save the world and all those who live in it. ‘Is it a bird, is it a plane?’ are CS’s last words, before extending his right arm and exiting the portacabin to set up the cones for FA Warm-Up number 48, which is the one straight after the motorway junction. As we eventually locate him at the far corner of the 3G area, the tell-tale white splodge on the back of his freshly-laundered tracksuit very much suggests that it was actually a bird.
And so to the game. We’re 0-4 down at the interval and Coach Wilson settles into one of his more articulate half-time rants, keeping in mind that all things are relative. Thankfully the referee’s whistle cuts off the more lucid bits and we’re ushered back onto the pitch, ‘….cos we’re only booked on till four.’
The second half’s an improvement and despite Swansea scoring a fifth, we pull a goal back, Croose netting after a good pull-back by Triple A plus Two and we might have grabbed a couple more with a bit of extra composure in front of the sticks. One of our Own puts in a committed, if somewhat unconventional display of Bruce Grobbelaar-inspired custodianship, while Lazarus is an absolute stalwarT with a capital ‘T’, in terms of both a black & yellow heart and a guileful midfield performance.
There’s a welcome return to the changing room after a virtual halestorm has emptied itself on Penyrheol and Croose is temporarily incapacitated as he’s entombed inside his sopping wet shirt that won’t release itself. Hangman also has his left arm stuck, meaning that nearly fifty per cent of Elmbridge’s limbs are out of action for nigh on ten minutes, which is a genuine relief to all concerned.
Back on the bus and it’s only a short trip down the NEW Pontardulais Road to Swansea services, which are situated right next to Junction 47. The red Discovery’s made a welcome return to Lansdown, meaning there are no lane issues before we pile into Burger King for a post-match top-up. At one end of the scale, Brockbank destroys a double Whopper in forty-seven seconds flat, while One of our Own and Curtis, with a packet of onion rings each, are very much at the other end. Croatia Testudine declines any sort of nutrition whatsoever as he’s saving himself for later, a comment that draws a quizzical look from Croose, just as he’s biting into his double cheeseburger.
Two things break out as we cross the Severn Bridge for a second time: Slade’s ‘And Here’s to You, Merry Christmas’ and Coach Wilson’s biggest smile for several seasons. Or more accurately, his only smile for several seasons. ‘We’re back Ollie,’ he shouts excitedly, ‘we’re back in England.’ ‘Enjoy the Celebrations,’ replies OB, though whether he means the street party CW’s organised to mark our safe return, or the big red box the team has forsaken following our earlier reversal, no-one really knows.
7.30 and everyone’s departed the bus and gone their separate ways. One of our Own is heading straight off to Beckenham in Kent, where his gran will be clearing up after her birthday party by the time he finally arrives. Lazarus is returning to the warmth and comfort of his centrally heated bed at Pippin Close hospital, while Croose can’t understand why his mum has padded the walls of his wonderfully tidy room in Elmbridge’s Sisson’s Road.
Meanwhile, there’s a party going on in Highnam’s Maidenhall and Croatia Testudine is finally feasting on the chicken tikka and pilau rice that has just arrived via the bright red delivery car from the Nepalese Chef. Most of the family is present, together with a fair selection of both neighbours and more distant friends. It’s the occasion of the removal of the once-green Duke of Wellingtons, which have been ever-present on Mother Beaumont’s feet since a week last Wednesday. It all goes well, with Father B’s monkey wrench only being called into action on a couple of occasions.
Only a few hundred yards away as the big bad crow flies, The Chairman’s lounging on his favourite chair having a revitalising nap. Just fifteen minutes ago, he’d been spotted for the 87th time in the evening session of the Hide & Seek trilogy. ‘You’re behind the sofa, Grampy,’ the single grandchild who’d still got both eyes slightly open had shouted, and with that the Chairman finally accepted that it probably wasn’t going to be his day.
And it hasn’t been our day either. A 216-mile round trip with five goals against, four wrong turnings, three miles of countryside, two Pontardulais Roads and not a sniff of a partridge or a pear tree. Roll on 2020.
Gloucester A: One of Our Own; Croatia Testudine, Caramel Sundae, Pink Alert; Born Again, Just-On-Time, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline; Triple A plus Two; Traditional.
