Nora
It’s the last Saturday of January and Croose is laid up with what’s been generically described as tonsilitis. On Friday afternoon, Mother Croose, delighted with the household’s new-found tranquility and wanting to keep it just so, mixed up a cocoction featuring a few teaspoonfuls of baking soda and a capful of ‘Mr Muscle’ sink unblocker and prescribed her offspring to imbibe four a day for the forseeable future.
At the end of the road, Mrs Cornelius excitedly proclaimed that, ‘This is the best I’ve felt since 12th September 2008,’ the day on which Young Croose opened his eyes for the very first time, scanned the assembled family, friends and neigbours around his mother’s bedside and uttered the critical first words of his earthly existence: ‘Alright Mrs C; how ya doing?’
Simmo’s last to arrive, but no-one’s surprised. At 7 o’clock this morning, he locked himself in his en suite and began working away on the bus shelter that protruded from just above his forehead. By just after eight thirty, the overhang has been reduced by a good four and a half inches, though the quality of his self-administered topiary results in nothing more than a raised eyebrow from Coach Wilson and a rather pained, ‘Wish I had a bus shelter’ look from Coach Stalley.
We make good time down the A417 and past the South Cerney water parks, racking up at the impressive Gerard Buxton Sports Centre at 9.45 on the dot. The journey southward is remarkably quiet and atmospherically tolerable, but nobody can quite work out why. As we by-pass Ashton Keynes however, the singing starts up and a new catalogue of nefarious relationships unfolds. Apparently, Bevan loves Isla and Curtis loves Nora; Hine is also involved somewhere, but in the end, what he’d really love is to have is some good, old-fashioned shut-eye.
The facilities at the GBSC are testament to the value of selling your old football & cricket grounds for housing, the largesse of an extremely generous philanthropist and a vision that no-one in Gloucester has yet to have. There are all-weather pitches, tennis courts, proper football and cricket grounds and a changing room with the GPSFA sign on the door which, good though the rest may seem, is most definitely the ‘Meilleure Chose’ as they might say if it were situated anywhere near the Parisian suburbs.
It’s a contented pre-match inner sanctum as, with five months of the season now completed, all bar two pairs of the players’ boots have graduated to almost a proper colour, if not a perfect one. Captain Brockbank continues to set an appalling example to the rest of the squad by continuing to model his hideous fluorescent orange things, while Pink Alert Simpson has shown no signs of remorse over the past twenty weeks, despite embarrassing himself, his family, his neighbourhood and indeed the entire population of our great city with footwear of a hue that defies any sort of description using vocabulary that can be remotely described as ‘normal’. Born Again and One of Our Own each sport a pair of nearly-the-right-colour, ‘army green’ slippers, which should come in useful if they’re ever ordered to take part in a Sunday morning manoeuvre any time soon. While their camouflaging qualities are obvious, let’s hope the players wearing them don’t do too much hiding during the game that’s about to unfold.
Coach Stalley is super-keen this morning; he’s got his togs on and equipment and footballs at the ready within three minutes of arriving, while FA warm-up number 147 shines brightly from the screen of his recently-charged, Football Association-embossed ipad. Coach Wilson’s super-keen too; within seconds of the bus grinding to a halt in the 200-space car park, he’s discovered the sports centre’s very nice café and returns with three cups of decent coffee, just seconds after Coach Stalley’s disappeared to set up the cones. One and a half each, then.
As always, there’s a couple of complimentary programmes left on the corner seat of the changing area; they’re excellent, full-colour, 24-page publications that include features, stats, photos, an article about a footballing sombrero and no paragraphs whatsoever. Brockbank looks up in horror at realising this last fact, having spent a lifetime attempting to master the nuances of Field Court’s version of SPAG (Spelling, Punctuation and Grammar, for the uninitiated). ‘I call it Morphology instead of grammar,’ asserts Beaumont, trying to sound as clever as he undoubtedly is. ‘That would be SPAM,’ scolds Coach Wilson, though there’s a glimmer of a smile behind the well-practised glare as the Croatian climbs another rung on CW’s often hidden, but always present, Admiration Ladder.
Coach Stalley’s warm-up is limited to about eight minutes as he finds himself the butt of one of those ‘man jokes’ that the Real Manager, currently in Rugby at a dog show, rolls her right and left eyes in opposite directions and sighs, ‘Really?’ every time she hears about them. After twenty five minutes of standing around waiting for the team to appear, CS scraps FA No 147 and reverts to some good, old-fashioned jogging instead.
Playing up the slope in the first half, the visitors struggle to find any type of edge or cohesion and it’s the hosts that enjoy the lion’s share of meaningful possession. On twelve minutes however, the away side claim the lead as the left-sided pink boot plays in black-boot Bennett, who rounds the keeper to finish well.
Bennett is providing much of the away team’s breakaway threat, but the visitors are indebted to keeper Ansermoz, who produces a great save to deny Falstaff and a second fine effort to keep out Fenton, as they reach the interval still a goal to the good.
With this week’s jaffa cake box only yielding eighteen orangey things and there being no jelly babies to satisfy Hine’s decapitation tendencies, several players grab a kit-kat in order to attempt to stimulate their competitive juices and the second half proves to be an evenly-contested affair. Curtis spends the first ten minutes on the bench (okay, grass), humming ‘Tell Nora I love her,’ completely oblivious to what’s going on just a few metres away on the other side of the white line. Triple A-plus-Two, One of our Own and Lazarus each go close to grabbing a second for the visitors, but Brockbank, Pink Alert and the ever-reliable Croatia Testudine have to work hard to quell Swindon’s efforts to force a draw.
Sweet Caroline mixes tenacity and quality as he and Lazarus force the last bits of vigour from their starting-to-ache limbs following last night’s energy-sapping 5-a-side finals and the relief / exhilaration of holding out for a 1-0 win is obvious in the players’ expressions in the thirty seconds or so immediately after the final whistle.
‘I think it was the warm-up that made the difference,’ opines Coach Stalley during his three-minute, post-match makeover that sees him hot-foot it into the well-appointed refreshment area a good fifteen minutes before anyone else arrives. The Real Manager would be appalled. Back in the changing room, Coach Wilson’s found some images of Last of the Summer Wine on his phone and shares them with the team, who, to a man/boy find them uproariously amusing. ‘Is she really called Nora Batty?’ gasps Bevan, incredulously. ‘Is your girlfriend really called Isla White?’ retorts Coach Wilson. ‘It’s Laura, not Nora,’ squeaks Curtis, but everyone ignores him.
The Croatian covers his polystyrene container in tomato ketchup, safe in the knowledge that none of the coaches will pinch his chips if he does so. It works a treat. Most people spend two quid on a huge piece of cake for dessert; The Croation however is saving himself for his Saturday evening chicken tikka and pilau rice. He says he isn’t, but everyone knows he is. ‘Chicken Tikka Masala,’ says Brockbank. ‘What about it?’ asks Coach Wilson. ‘I like it,’ says Brockers.
‘Chicken Jalfrezi,’ offers Lazarus. ‘Now we’re getting there,’ replies Coach Wilson. ‘I tried vindaloo once,’ said Ansermoz. ‘The curry or the song?’ asks CW. ‘Both,’ says Ansermoz, ‘and each one left me with a very sore throat.’ ‘It’s Laura,’ pleads Curtis, but once again, no-one’s listening.
For the second time in the same day, we arrive at our destination exactly on time and Curtis departs almost immediately as his dad’s not collecting him. Simmo’s aglow with pride, having scored a Friday evening brace for his beloved Longlevens twenty four hours previously and providing the assist for Saturday’s winner just over a hundred and eighty minutes ago. At least today’s effort happened without him needing to leave the sanctity of his own half. Bevan disappears with his hair still perfectly gelled, despite effecting a dozen defensive headers over the course of the morning.
The bus is dropped off and the day soon takes a dramatic turn for the worse with a visit to the Hartwell & Spiers Jubilee Stadium, a somewhat euphemistic title for a field with a fence around it. There are quite a few ex-GPSFA people there, including Spence who plays, Kotwica who warms up and Hanks who watches. The Weatherman (full back; 2017/18) is also there, as is Martyn Ellis, a one-season co-manager (1989/90), who’s still wearing the same brown trousers as he did then.
The final whistle is welcomed by everyone who’s trekked to Evesham in the search of an afternoon of football, despite Southport heading back up the M6 with a 1-0 win. Eight people boo, six clap and everyone else is just relieved it’s all over for another week. The bloke on the tannoy plays, ‘Always look on the bright side of life’ extremely loudly, then follows it immediately with everyone’s favourite Rick Valance number. As Ricky’s dulcet tones carry on the wind all the way to a living room in Meadowleaze, Curtis squeezes open one eye and then the other and looks utterly and completely forlorn. ‘It’s Laura,’ he implores to no-one in particular. ‘It is, it really is.’
Gloucester A: Stavrou Junior; Croatia Testudine, Pink Alert, Nora; Caramel Sundae, One of our Own, Lazarus, Born Again; Triple A-plus-Two; Sweet Caroline Junior. Ill: Lino.
At the end of the road, Mrs Cornelius excitedly proclaimed that, ‘This is the best I’ve felt since 12th September 2008,’ the day on which Young Croose opened his eyes for the very first time, scanned the assembled family, friends and neigbours around his mother’s bedside and uttered the critical first words of his earthly existence: ‘Alright Mrs C; how ya doing?’
Simmo’s last to arrive, but no-one’s surprised. At 7 o’clock this morning, he locked himself in his en suite and began working away on the bus shelter that protruded from just above his forehead. By just after eight thirty, the overhang has been reduced by a good four and a half inches, though the quality of his self-administered topiary results in nothing more than a raised eyebrow from Coach Wilson and a rather pained, ‘Wish I had a bus shelter’ look from Coach Stalley.
We make good time down the A417 and past the South Cerney water parks, racking up at the impressive Gerard Buxton Sports Centre at 9.45 on the dot. The journey southward is remarkably quiet and atmospherically tolerable, but nobody can quite work out why. As we by-pass Ashton Keynes however, the singing starts up and a new catalogue of nefarious relationships unfolds. Apparently, Bevan loves Isla and Curtis loves Nora; Hine is also involved somewhere, but in the end, what he’d really love is to have is some good, old-fashioned shut-eye.
The facilities at the GBSC are testament to the value of selling your old football & cricket grounds for housing, the largesse of an extremely generous philanthropist and a vision that no-one in Gloucester has yet to have. There are all-weather pitches, tennis courts, proper football and cricket grounds and a changing room with the GPSFA sign on the door which, good though the rest may seem, is most definitely the ‘Meilleure Chose’ as they might say if it were situated anywhere near the Parisian suburbs.
It’s a contented pre-match inner sanctum as, with five months of the season now completed, all bar two pairs of the players’ boots have graduated to almost a proper colour, if not a perfect one. Captain Brockbank continues to set an appalling example to the rest of the squad by continuing to model his hideous fluorescent orange things, while Pink Alert Simpson has shown no signs of remorse over the past twenty weeks, despite embarrassing himself, his family, his neighbourhood and indeed the entire population of our great city with footwear of a hue that defies any sort of description using vocabulary that can be remotely described as ‘normal’. Born Again and One of Our Own each sport a pair of nearly-the-right-colour, ‘army green’ slippers, which should come in useful if they’re ever ordered to take part in a Sunday morning manoeuvre any time soon. While their camouflaging qualities are obvious, let’s hope the players wearing them don’t do too much hiding during the game that’s about to unfold.
Coach Stalley is super-keen this morning; he’s got his togs on and equipment and footballs at the ready within three minutes of arriving, while FA warm-up number 147 shines brightly from the screen of his recently-charged, Football Association-embossed ipad. Coach Wilson’s super-keen too; within seconds of the bus grinding to a halt in the 200-space car park, he’s discovered the sports centre’s very nice café and returns with three cups of decent coffee, just seconds after Coach Stalley’s disappeared to set up the cones. One and a half each, then.
As always, there’s a couple of complimentary programmes left on the corner seat of the changing area; they’re excellent, full-colour, 24-page publications that include features, stats, photos, an article about a footballing sombrero and no paragraphs whatsoever. Brockbank looks up in horror at realising this last fact, having spent a lifetime attempting to master the nuances of Field Court’s version of SPAG (Spelling, Punctuation and Grammar, for the uninitiated). ‘I call it Morphology instead of grammar,’ asserts Beaumont, trying to sound as clever as he undoubtedly is. ‘That would be SPAM,’ scolds Coach Wilson, though there’s a glimmer of a smile behind the well-practised glare as the Croatian climbs another rung on CW’s often hidden, but always present, Admiration Ladder.
Coach Stalley’s warm-up is limited to about eight minutes as he finds himself the butt of one of those ‘man jokes’ that the Real Manager, currently in Rugby at a dog show, rolls her right and left eyes in opposite directions and sighs, ‘Really?’ every time she hears about them. After twenty five minutes of standing around waiting for the team to appear, CS scraps FA No 147 and reverts to some good, old-fashioned jogging instead.
Playing up the slope in the first half, the visitors struggle to find any type of edge or cohesion and it’s the hosts that enjoy the lion’s share of meaningful possession. On twelve minutes however, the away side claim the lead as the left-sided pink boot plays in black-boot Bennett, who rounds the keeper to finish well.
Bennett is providing much of the away team’s breakaway threat, but the visitors are indebted to keeper Ansermoz, who produces a great save to deny Falstaff and a second fine effort to keep out Fenton, as they reach the interval still a goal to the good.
With this week’s jaffa cake box only yielding eighteen orangey things and there being no jelly babies to satisfy Hine’s decapitation tendencies, several players grab a kit-kat in order to attempt to stimulate their competitive juices and the second half proves to be an evenly-contested affair. Curtis spends the first ten minutes on the bench (okay, grass), humming ‘Tell Nora I love her,’ completely oblivious to what’s going on just a few metres away on the other side of the white line. Triple A-plus-Two, One of our Own and Lazarus each go close to grabbing a second for the visitors, but Brockbank, Pink Alert and the ever-reliable Croatia Testudine have to work hard to quell Swindon’s efforts to force a draw.
Sweet Caroline mixes tenacity and quality as he and Lazarus force the last bits of vigour from their starting-to-ache limbs following last night’s energy-sapping 5-a-side finals and the relief / exhilaration of holding out for a 1-0 win is obvious in the players’ expressions in the thirty seconds or so immediately after the final whistle.
‘I think it was the warm-up that made the difference,’ opines Coach Stalley during his three-minute, post-match makeover that sees him hot-foot it into the well-appointed refreshment area a good fifteen minutes before anyone else arrives. The Real Manager would be appalled. Back in the changing room, Coach Wilson’s found some images of Last of the Summer Wine on his phone and shares them with the team, who, to a man/boy find them uproariously amusing. ‘Is she really called Nora Batty?’ gasps Bevan, incredulously. ‘Is your girlfriend really called Isla White?’ retorts Coach Wilson. ‘It’s Laura, not Nora,’ squeaks Curtis, but everyone ignores him.
The Croatian covers his polystyrene container in tomato ketchup, safe in the knowledge that none of the coaches will pinch his chips if he does so. It works a treat. Most people spend two quid on a huge piece of cake for dessert; The Croation however is saving himself for his Saturday evening chicken tikka and pilau rice. He says he isn’t, but everyone knows he is. ‘Chicken Tikka Masala,’ says Brockbank. ‘What about it?’ asks Coach Wilson. ‘I like it,’ says Brockers.
‘Chicken Jalfrezi,’ offers Lazarus. ‘Now we’re getting there,’ replies Coach Wilson. ‘I tried vindaloo once,’ said Ansermoz. ‘The curry or the song?’ asks CW. ‘Both,’ says Ansermoz, ‘and each one left me with a very sore throat.’ ‘It’s Laura,’ pleads Curtis, but once again, no-one’s listening.
For the second time in the same day, we arrive at our destination exactly on time and Curtis departs almost immediately as his dad’s not collecting him. Simmo’s aglow with pride, having scored a Friday evening brace for his beloved Longlevens twenty four hours previously and providing the assist for Saturday’s winner just over a hundred and eighty minutes ago. At least today’s effort happened without him needing to leave the sanctity of his own half. Bevan disappears with his hair still perfectly gelled, despite effecting a dozen defensive headers over the course of the morning.
The bus is dropped off and the day soon takes a dramatic turn for the worse with a visit to the Hartwell & Spiers Jubilee Stadium, a somewhat euphemistic title for a field with a fence around it. There are quite a few ex-GPSFA people there, including Spence who plays, Kotwica who warms up and Hanks who watches. The Weatherman (full back; 2017/18) is also there, as is Martyn Ellis, a one-season co-manager (1989/90), who’s still wearing the same brown trousers as he did then.
The final whistle is welcomed by everyone who’s trekked to Evesham in the search of an afternoon of football, despite Southport heading back up the M6 with a 1-0 win. Eight people boo, six clap and everyone else is just relieved it’s all over for another week. The bloke on the tannoy plays, ‘Always look on the bright side of life’ extremely loudly, then follows it immediately with everyone’s favourite Rick Valance number. As Ricky’s dulcet tones carry on the wind all the way to a living room in Meadowleaze, Curtis squeezes open one eye and then the other and looks utterly and completely forlorn. ‘It’s Laura,’ he implores to no-one in particular. ‘It is, it really is.’
Gloucester A: Stavrou Junior; Croatia Testudine, Pink Alert, Nora; Caramel Sundae, One of our Own, Lazarus, Born Again; Triple A-plus-Two; Sweet Caroline Junior. Ill: Lino.
