A Sporting Life
Sunday
Whatever anyone says, the day after the morning before is always a little bit better when we’ve won. Sunday’s a football workday (after breakfast out and a 30-minute study of the Non-League paper, that is. We go nowhere near the Gloucester City report from yesterday’s debacle however - a game to which the author attributes an entertainment rating of one star, though where the one comes from, no-one’s quite sure). Next week’s programme is completed and sent to the printer, The Citizen report is written and, after an hour sorting through The Photographer’s 101 pictorial offerings, is forwarded to The Citizen. The web site and twitter account are updated, emails are sent and replied to and the blog is starting to take shape. Will Mother Beaumont’s boots or Father Hine’s songs or Simpson Junior’s footwear or The Chef’s Bruce Forsyth impressions or the Groundsman’s legendary diseases feature this week? Decisions, decisions, decisions.
Monday
With the Southern Counties League Cup Finals and Plate competition coming up at the end of February, there’s a ferret through the catalogues to order the requisite silverware and mementoes and, to get ahead of the game, the three London diaries are ninety per cent finished. The blog’s nearly complete – only one more edit to go. Mother Beaumont’s in hiding so doesn’t feature, while neither The Chef (surprisingly) nor The Groundsman (unsurprisingly) haven’t been heard or seen for a fair old while. Father Hine has little to sing about, so Simmo’s revolting boots again come to the fore. And Nora too; we like Nora, so we might be hearing a bit more about her as time goes by. The evening coaching session at Oxstalls is great fun – ball control’s the theme, with our group making most of the decisions in regard to what we do and then taking it in turns to coach their peers.
Tuesday
The blog is finalised and forwarded to the Webmaster, while our bags are packed and ready to go (to Alfreton). Leaving the house at 10.40, we pick up The Chairman at 11.00 sharp and The Photographer at 11.20, before heading north east towards Derbyshire on one of our long-awaited, Gloucester City FC-induced Saga breaks. The Chairman’s in jovial mood as Donnington Park services, right on the junction where the A42 meets the M1, has a Harvester, where he spends a good fifteen minutes at the salad bar, another fifteen perusing the menu, another fifteen explaining every culinary entry apart from those labelled ‘chips’ to The Photographer and a final fifteen in some sort of negotiation with the waiter, the upshot of which is that the portions will be increased to something resembling ‘substantial’.
We eventually rack up at the very grandiose-sounding Alfreton Hall, a real Miss Marple of a place situated at the end of a long narrow lane right behind the doctor’s surgery at ten to three on the dot. There’s a pair of wakes in progress and nicely coloured signs direct visitors to either Emily’s (on the ground floor) or Evelyn’s (on the first floor). Dave the receptionist, cum-Maitre D, cum-barman, cum-waiter is somewhat taken aback as ‘I wasn’t expecting you till four’ and he hasn’t got his shirt & tie on. After being shown to our rooms, we leave Dave to change into his official togs and polish his shoes to take a wander into Alfreton town centre, where we spend a relaxing hour and a bit chewing the mid-afternoon fat in a Costa with only five people in it and an atmosphere that’s flatter than a rattlesnake’s belly.
The Chairman insists we return to our temporary lodgings so he can collect his layers for the dubious entertainment that lies ahead. With no taxi available for an hour and a half, we walk to the Indian on the High Street for some pre-match sustenance, where the only other early-evening customer claims to have a friend who lives in Highnam. The Photographer meanwhile has a forehead with a thousand furrows as he scrutinises a menu he doesn’t understand for the second time today. ‘There’s no chips,’ he laments, to no-one in particular.
There’s no taxi either as the area’s only cab’s an hour and a half away and the delivery driver’s just taken a trio of Chicken Madras’s to an address in downtown Chesterfield, so it’s a 25-minute limp to the Impact Arena, the wonderfully titled home of Alfreton Town FC. The Chairman and our other friend, Trev, squeeze into three and a half seats in the sparsely populated away end (17 standing Gloucester fans + 2 seated = 19) as the home side contrive to miss a whole host of chances but still lead 3-1 at the break. The Photographer spies a couple of injured GCFC players in the stand as we swap ends for the second half and drags them round for a chat, meaning we miss most of the next forty five, which is great news as Alfreton double their tally and Gloucester don’t.
Having spent ten minutes of the midpoint interval ringing for a taxi to take us back to see Dave at the game’s end, but being told there’s nothing for at least an hour and a half, we hobble back through a maze of deserted streets before spending far too long round a table bemoaning the shambles we’ve just witnessed. It’s fair to say that Dave is less than impressed.
Wednesday
‘Breakfast’s 7 till 9,’ were Dave’s last words of the evening, so we congregate at 8.59 in the hotel lounge, a spacious area full of dark brown imitation Jacobean panelling, black funereal furniture and the only other residents of Alfreton Hall, a fearsome looking man with a chiselled jaw and murderous expression and a lady who fails to utter a single word during her early-morning round of toast & marmalade. ‘You got any pepper?’ asks the murderer in a voice that sounds like both the Kray twins speaking at once. ‘N-N-N-No,’ stammers The Photographer, ‘but you can have my black pudding if you like…’
‘Well, that was a substantial meal,’ offers The Chairman, thirty minutes after the terminator has left with his lady friend a few steps behind and twenty nine minutes after everyone else has finished their third coffee of the morning. He employs the table’s only napkin to wipe the egg yolk from around his mouth, takes a quick glance at his wristwatch and issues a contented smile. ‘The good news, gentlemen, is that it’s not long till lunch time,’ he concludes, much to the horror of everyone else.
The journey back is punctuated by a refreshment break at Hopwood Services and we finally arrive home at ten to three. The phone goes at five to. ‘There’s a problem with the electrics in the pavilion,’ says The Groundsman. ‘Can you pop down to the Community Centre……?’
The evening’s taken up with a cricket umpire trainers’ pre-season meeting in the bowels of the Hatherley & Reddings pavilion, a description which would have laid up The Groundsman for at least a month if he’d heard even half of it.
Thursday
We’ve a Girls’ Only netball festival at Bentham, which is great fun, as over half the players are seemingly more interested in having a go on the stop-start hooter than actually getting on the court. A girl from Upton gives the handle such a powerful push that the machine falls apart and the next girl gets the handle stuck in the canister, much to everyone’s very obvious glee. One school finished first in the event and most people laugh, which is probably the right way around. For the kids anyway. Straight down to Oxstalls for a B Team football festival, where a school that shall not be named turns up when they shouldn’t have done, meaning all the fixtures have to be rescheduled. Clue: Deciduous tree, emerald in colour (5, 5).
Friday
The pavilion electrics are fixed and everything’s back on, much to the relief of The Chef, who’s celebrating by raiding the Aldi ‘Best before 2nd February’ shelves. ‘Let’s hope we get a good attendance tomorrow,’ he chortles, ‘otherwise The Chairman will have a busy day tomorrow getting rid of all this stuff.’
Coaching at Oxstalls and Croose is back. Everyone cheers. ‘Hello’ says Hine,’ nice haircut.’ ‘Thanks,’ says Coach Stalley. No-one laughs. 5.47 and Hine bullets home a far post header from Milton’s booming cross. Let’s hope we haven’t peaked too early.
‘I’ll be there at 5 o’clock in the morning,’ concludes The Groundsman’s telephone rant about earth rods, grass cutting and centre circle diameters. ‘And don’t be late.’
Saturday
6.15am and no sign whatsoever of The Groundsman. ‘Digestive issues,’ chortles Bruce ‘The Chef’ Forsyth as he begins to unload the pre-cooked bacon and 24-pack of top shelf loo rolls from the back of his van. ‘I knew he wouldn’t be here,’ says The Photographer. ‘How?’ asks the Vice Chair, as he washes up the fifth of The Groundsman’s weekday mugs, testimony to the limited assistance he gave the electrician earlier in the week. ‘Alimentary, my Dear Watson,’ retorts The Lens, ‘absolutely alimentary.’
Swansea have brought three teams to GL2 and The Yellows are edged out by the odd goal in five, The Croatian making a brief substitute appearance in game one following a frantic 9.30 SOS call from Coach Harris. Meanwhile, Bevan is making a din in the changing room alongside Croose and Ali, who are busy rehearsing for some Elmbridge talent show or other that clearly involves two people in shorts doing an awful lot of squealing.
The visitors are a good side, moving the ball quickly in one-two-three bursts, though it’s the homesters that create several clear chances without being able to convert any of them. Croose leads the line well, while Hine, Bennett, Bevan and Milton are always threatening to provide the key pass or finish that will put us ahead, or indeed bring us level after Meacock has ensured the visitors are in the ascendancy with a 22nd minute finish from ten yards.
Grove fires in a terrific second for Swansea midway through the second half, a great strike that effectively seals the Welsh team’s victory, but the home side continue to compete and create several more half chances without being able to apply the decisive touch. In the changing room afterwards, Croose does his shirt up slightly lop-sidedly, the first button in the second hole, the second button in the third hole and so on. It’s a fair reflection of how the game’s gone. Lots of buttons in lots of button holes, but none of them quite lining up as they are meant to do.
There’s a frantic clean-up and sweep-out to get away by 2.15 so we can shoot up to the Hartwell & Spiers for the home game against Spennymoor Town, wherever that is. The day goes rapidly downhill though as soon as we park up in the lay-by and limp down the deserted entrance road at five to three. There are 236 hardy souls in the ‘stadium’, including about thirty who’ve made the long trek down from Durham to witness ninety minutes of desultory fare. Gloucester lose 2-1 and the only redeeming moment of the afternoon is the final whistle, when we discover Blyth have lost again and we can all get away and start enjoying life once more. ‘It was better,’ announces some bloke we’ve never seen before. ‘Better than what?’ comes the rather astounded reply. ‘Better than having your toenails pulled out with a pair of pliers,’ suggests someone else, who makes it as far as the tea bar before bursting into tears and having to be consoled by a friend with a guide dog and stick. ‘Worst thing I’ve seen for ages,’ says the man. ‘Who’s the lucky one now?’ says the friend.
‘How was it?’ asks the Real Manager shortly after six. ‘Always better when we’ve won,’ would have been an apposite reply, though ‘Wonderful, just wonderful,’ are the words that are actually spoken. Around the city, at the very same moment, other redoubtable utterances can be heard. ‘Please - not that film again, dad,’ bemoans Ansermoz. ‘When I can I have some proper-coloured boots?’ questions Brockbank. ‘Just make sure I’m not in that dreadful blog,’ orders Mother Beaumont. ‘Keep the top on that sink unblocker in future,’ gargles Croose. ‘Please,’ reminds his mum. ‘Pilau rice for me,’ says The Croatian. And, ‘It’s Laura, not Nora,’ pleads Curtis from a semi-prone position on a sofa somewhere in Meadowleaze. ‘It is, it really is.’
Gloucester A: Stavrou Junior; Caramel Sundae, Pink Alert, Nora; Born Again, One of our Own, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline; On Time Again; Triple A-plus-Two, Croatia Testudine.
Whatever anyone says, the day after the morning before is always a little bit better when we’ve won. Sunday’s a football workday (after breakfast out and a 30-minute study of the Non-League paper, that is. We go nowhere near the Gloucester City report from yesterday’s debacle however - a game to which the author attributes an entertainment rating of one star, though where the one comes from, no-one’s quite sure). Next week’s programme is completed and sent to the printer, The Citizen report is written and, after an hour sorting through The Photographer’s 101 pictorial offerings, is forwarded to The Citizen. The web site and twitter account are updated, emails are sent and replied to and the blog is starting to take shape. Will Mother Beaumont’s boots or Father Hine’s songs or Simpson Junior’s footwear or The Chef’s Bruce Forsyth impressions or the Groundsman’s legendary diseases feature this week? Decisions, decisions, decisions.
Monday
With the Southern Counties League Cup Finals and Plate competition coming up at the end of February, there’s a ferret through the catalogues to order the requisite silverware and mementoes and, to get ahead of the game, the three London diaries are ninety per cent finished. The blog’s nearly complete – only one more edit to go. Mother Beaumont’s in hiding so doesn’t feature, while neither The Chef (surprisingly) nor The Groundsman (unsurprisingly) haven’t been heard or seen for a fair old while. Father Hine has little to sing about, so Simmo’s revolting boots again come to the fore. And Nora too; we like Nora, so we might be hearing a bit more about her as time goes by. The evening coaching session at Oxstalls is great fun – ball control’s the theme, with our group making most of the decisions in regard to what we do and then taking it in turns to coach their peers.
Tuesday
The blog is finalised and forwarded to the Webmaster, while our bags are packed and ready to go (to Alfreton). Leaving the house at 10.40, we pick up The Chairman at 11.00 sharp and The Photographer at 11.20, before heading north east towards Derbyshire on one of our long-awaited, Gloucester City FC-induced Saga breaks. The Chairman’s in jovial mood as Donnington Park services, right on the junction where the A42 meets the M1, has a Harvester, where he spends a good fifteen minutes at the salad bar, another fifteen perusing the menu, another fifteen explaining every culinary entry apart from those labelled ‘chips’ to The Photographer and a final fifteen in some sort of negotiation with the waiter, the upshot of which is that the portions will be increased to something resembling ‘substantial’.
We eventually rack up at the very grandiose-sounding Alfreton Hall, a real Miss Marple of a place situated at the end of a long narrow lane right behind the doctor’s surgery at ten to three on the dot. There’s a pair of wakes in progress and nicely coloured signs direct visitors to either Emily’s (on the ground floor) or Evelyn’s (on the first floor). Dave the receptionist, cum-Maitre D, cum-barman, cum-waiter is somewhat taken aback as ‘I wasn’t expecting you till four’ and he hasn’t got his shirt & tie on. After being shown to our rooms, we leave Dave to change into his official togs and polish his shoes to take a wander into Alfreton town centre, where we spend a relaxing hour and a bit chewing the mid-afternoon fat in a Costa with only five people in it and an atmosphere that’s flatter than a rattlesnake’s belly.
The Chairman insists we return to our temporary lodgings so he can collect his layers for the dubious entertainment that lies ahead. With no taxi available for an hour and a half, we walk to the Indian on the High Street for some pre-match sustenance, where the only other early-evening customer claims to have a friend who lives in Highnam. The Photographer meanwhile has a forehead with a thousand furrows as he scrutinises a menu he doesn’t understand for the second time today. ‘There’s no chips,’ he laments, to no-one in particular.
There’s no taxi either as the area’s only cab’s an hour and a half away and the delivery driver’s just taken a trio of Chicken Madras’s to an address in downtown Chesterfield, so it’s a 25-minute limp to the Impact Arena, the wonderfully titled home of Alfreton Town FC. The Chairman and our other friend, Trev, squeeze into three and a half seats in the sparsely populated away end (17 standing Gloucester fans + 2 seated = 19) as the home side contrive to miss a whole host of chances but still lead 3-1 at the break. The Photographer spies a couple of injured GCFC players in the stand as we swap ends for the second half and drags them round for a chat, meaning we miss most of the next forty five, which is great news as Alfreton double their tally and Gloucester don’t.
Having spent ten minutes of the midpoint interval ringing for a taxi to take us back to see Dave at the game’s end, but being told there’s nothing for at least an hour and a half, we hobble back through a maze of deserted streets before spending far too long round a table bemoaning the shambles we’ve just witnessed. It’s fair to say that Dave is less than impressed.
Wednesday
‘Breakfast’s 7 till 9,’ were Dave’s last words of the evening, so we congregate at 8.59 in the hotel lounge, a spacious area full of dark brown imitation Jacobean panelling, black funereal furniture and the only other residents of Alfreton Hall, a fearsome looking man with a chiselled jaw and murderous expression and a lady who fails to utter a single word during her early-morning round of toast & marmalade. ‘You got any pepper?’ asks the murderer in a voice that sounds like both the Kray twins speaking at once. ‘N-N-N-No,’ stammers The Photographer, ‘but you can have my black pudding if you like…’
‘Well, that was a substantial meal,’ offers The Chairman, thirty minutes after the terminator has left with his lady friend a few steps behind and twenty nine minutes after everyone else has finished their third coffee of the morning. He employs the table’s only napkin to wipe the egg yolk from around his mouth, takes a quick glance at his wristwatch and issues a contented smile. ‘The good news, gentlemen, is that it’s not long till lunch time,’ he concludes, much to the horror of everyone else.
The journey back is punctuated by a refreshment break at Hopwood Services and we finally arrive home at ten to three. The phone goes at five to. ‘There’s a problem with the electrics in the pavilion,’ says The Groundsman. ‘Can you pop down to the Community Centre……?’
The evening’s taken up with a cricket umpire trainers’ pre-season meeting in the bowels of the Hatherley & Reddings pavilion, a description which would have laid up The Groundsman for at least a month if he’d heard even half of it.
Thursday
We’ve a Girls’ Only netball festival at Bentham, which is great fun, as over half the players are seemingly more interested in having a go on the stop-start hooter than actually getting on the court. A girl from Upton gives the handle such a powerful push that the machine falls apart and the next girl gets the handle stuck in the canister, much to everyone’s very obvious glee. One school finished first in the event and most people laugh, which is probably the right way around. For the kids anyway. Straight down to Oxstalls for a B Team football festival, where a school that shall not be named turns up when they shouldn’t have done, meaning all the fixtures have to be rescheduled. Clue: Deciduous tree, emerald in colour (5, 5).
Friday
The pavilion electrics are fixed and everything’s back on, much to the relief of The Chef, who’s celebrating by raiding the Aldi ‘Best before 2nd February’ shelves. ‘Let’s hope we get a good attendance tomorrow,’ he chortles, ‘otherwise The Chairman will have a busy day tomorrow getting rid of all this stuff.’
Coaching at Oxstalls and Croose is back. Everyone cheers. ‘Hello’ says Hine,’ nice haircut.’ ‘Thanks,’ says Coach Stalley. No-one laughs. 5.47 and Hine bullets home a far post header from Milton’s booming cross. Let’s hope we haven’t peaked too early.
‘I’ll be there at 5 o’clock in the morning,’ concludes The Groundsman’s telephone rant about earth rods, grass cutting and centre circle diameters. ‘And don’t be late.’
Saturday
6.15am and no sign whatsoever of The Groundsman. ‘Digestive issues,’ chortles Bruce ‘The Chef’ Forsyth as he begins to unload the pre-cooked bacon and 24-pack of top shelf loo rolls from the back of his van. ‘I knew he wouldn’t be here,’ says The Photographer. ‘How?’ asks the Vice Chair, as he washes up the fifth of The Groundsman’s weekday mugs, testimony to the limited assistance he gave the electrician earlier in the week. ‘Alimentary, my Dear Watson,’ retorts The Lens, ‘absolutely alimentary.’
Swansea have brought three teams to GL2 and The Yellows are edged out by the odd goal in five, The Croatian making a brief substitute appearance in game one following a frantic 9.30 SOS call from Coach Harris. Meanwhile, Bevan is making a din in the changing room alongside Croose and Ali, who are busy rehearsing for some Elmbridge talent show or other that clearly involves two people in shorts doing an awful lot of squealing.
The visitors are a good side, moving the ball quickly in one-two-three bursts, though it’s the homesters that create several clear chances without being able to convert any of them. Croose leads the line well, while Hine, Bennett, Bevan and Milton are always threatening to provide the key pass or finish that will put us ahead, or indeed bring us level after Meacock has ensured the visitors are in the ascendancy with a 22nd minute finish from ten yards.
Grove fires in a terrific second for Swansea midway through the second half, a great strike that effectively seals the Welsh team’s victory, but the home side continue to compete and create several more half chances without being able to apply the decisive touch. In the changing room afterwards, Croose does his shirt up slightly lop-sidedly, the first button in the second hole, the second button in the third hole and so on. It’s a fair reflection of how the game’s gone. Lots of buttons in lots of button holes, but none of them quite lining up as they are meant to do.
There’s a frantic clean-up and sweep-out to get away by 2.15 so we can shoot up to the Hartwell & Spiers for the home game against Spennymoor Town, wherever that is. The day goes rapidly downhill though as soon as we park up in the lay-by and limp down the deserted entrance road at five to three. There are 236 hardy souls in the ‘stadium’, including about thirty who’ve made the long trek down from Durham to witness ninety minutes of desultory fare. Gloucester lose 2-1 and the only redeeming moment of the afternoon is the final whistle, when we discover Blyth have lost again and we can all get away and start enjoying life once more. ‘It was better,’ announces some bloke we’ve never seen before. ‘Better than what?’ comes the rather astounded reply. ‘Better than having your toenails pulled out with a pair of pliers,’ suggests someone else, who makes it as far as the tea bar before bursting into tears and having to be consoled by a friend with a guide dog and stick. ‘Worst thing I’ve seen for ages,’ says the man. ‘Who’s the lucky one now?’ says the friend.
‘How was it?’ asks the Real Manager shortly after six. ‘Always better when we’ve won,’ would have been an apposite reply, though ‘Wonderful, just wonderful,’ are the words that are actually spoken. Around the city, at the very same moment, other redoubtable utterances can be heard. ‘Please - not that film again, dad,’ bemoans Ansermoz. ‘When I can I have some proper-coloured boots?’ questions Brockbank. ‘Just make sure I’m not in that dreadful blog,’ orders Mother Beaumont. ‘Keep the top on that sink unblocker in future,’ gargles Croose. ‘Please,’ reminds his mum. ‘Pilau rice for me,’ says The Croatian. And, ‘It’s Laura, not Nora,’ pleads Curtis from a semi-prone position on a sofa somewhere in Meadowleaze. ‘It is, it really is.’
Gloucester A: Stavrou Junior; Caramel Sundae, Pink Alert, Nora; Born Again, One of our Own, Lazarus, Sweet Caroline; On Time Again; Triple A-plus-Two, Croatia Testudine.
