Didn’t We Have a Lovely Time, The Day We Went to Plymouth
After three hours and twelve minutes, an era that included Exeter Services, Greggs and Coldridge’s weekly visit to Burger King, the ‘Welcome to Plymouth’ sign came into view and hopes soared that a great victory could be gained in this most historic of ocean cities. Before that though, we had to play a game.
The map seemed so straightforward, yet the trio of Sat Navs in operation each suggested a different route, the only detail that all three seemingly agreed upon being that a left turn followed by a right was the correct starter for ten. Blunt’s Lane however turned out to be little more than five feet wide and despite any of the instruments having the capacity to suggest ‘reverse now’, technology was momentarily abandoned and the ‘U’ turn order followed seventy five yards further back.
The facilities, both inside and out at Marjon’s are excellent, as was the Plymouth team that operated at a different level to the travelling band as they dished out the proverbial drubbing. ‘Let’s take the positives’ said The Bard, but Jenner’s second half strike apart, there weren’t any. The main event, however, was yet to come.
Before that there was an offer to visit Home Park for the Plymouth Argyle v Notts County League Two debacle, but following a number of post-match reports it seems the correct decision was reached in sticking to the original plan and visiting Plymouth Life Centre instead. And more to the point, another bout of football at that particular moment in time was the medication that no-one in our party required.
Several pools and slides were a useful antidote to the recollections of the playing members of the travelling horde, but even the cafe pasties failed to assuage the memory of what had happened earlier for other members of the assembled flock. At least Gloucester City FC benefitted from their own overnight stay three hundred miles away to gain a point from a goalless encounter at Harrogate Town earlier in the afternoon, the highlights of which were limited to four words on their Saturday Twitter feed (‘A really big point’).
After settling in at the very nicely appointed Duke of Cornwall hotel, the group (eventually) moved, despite the continuously errant Sat Navs, to Ten Pin at the Barbican Leisure Park for the weekend’s main event and the raison d’etre for our visit. Here, minds focussed, knees bent and fingers poised, the group set to work to grind down their opponents with a performance full of grit, organisation, energy and concentration, drawing upon all the experience gained from their training camp at Hollywood Bowl in Watford nine days previously. The decision to visit Hemel Hempstead over La Manga and take the tour of Wembley to give the squad the grounding necessary to provide them with the knowledge & understanding that enables one to perform to the best of one’s ability in the grandest of all arenas, paid handsome dividends for the Black ‘n’ Yellows as they claimed an early lead that they rarely looked like relinquishing. Led by another three-figure return from Troke, the team was quick out of the blocks in the opening third, relentless in pursuit of both ball and pin in the second and the nous to close out the game in the final period meant victory by an average score of two pins per player in the away leg which, added to the advantage gained in November’s home encounter, proved utterly decisive. And should Plymouth have threatened to stage an unlikely fightback, the knowledge that away pins count double in the event of a tie, spurred every member on to bounce their multicoloured spheres off the alley sides as productively as possible, before taking out the end pin and the three back ones next to it, thus proving that technique and skill will only take you so far in this life.
Plymouth were, as always, hugely magnanimous in defeat and generous in both character and mind as they presented the BSBB - Billy Smart Bowling Bowl (a culender; the only trophy from which the entire team can drink at once) – to captain Pledger, amidst some of the most euphoric scenes witnessed at this iconic venue in recent years.
Sunday dawned bright and sunny, the weather reflecting the warm glow of the previous evening’s success and breakfast was taken in the marvellously chandeliered hotel restaurant, with even Richards ‘giving it a go’. A walk along Plymouth’s elevated esplanade where Drake apocryphally finished his game of bowls before legging it after the passing Spanish Armada proved that while there was little ‘Hoe, Hoe, Hoe’ on the pitch the previous morning, the result later in the day had re-motivated and re-energised (almost) everyone.
After Lord Snowdon had maximised the 171 photo opportunities available between 10.00 and 11.00am and packing completed, the charabanc chugged off in the general direction of the ‘please drive along the highlighted route’ towards Saltash – and the city centre – and The Hoe – and Saltash – and the city centre – and the...... . Having circumnavigated a single city twice in about the same length of time it took Drake to circumnavigate the entire globe, the bus finally crossed the Tamar Bridge to enter the spiritual home of the pasty, where GPSFA would play its first ever game in Britain’s most westerly county.
For the record and in the inspirational shadow of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Roddis laid on Jenner to neatly sidestep the keeper to put Gloucester ahead before Jenner’s pass gave Townsend the opportunity to toe poke spectacularly home from twenty yards, the longest such effort since Spencer Hamilton’s arrows of 2006/07. After the break Townsend, still wincing from the pain in the front of his foot, Hylton and Jenner combined to set up Roddis for a fine, non-toe-poked finish which resulted in an unwanted bear-hug from KWR, before Coldridge’s excellent solo strike made it four. Hylton, meanwhile, desperately trying to find the net for the first time this season, saw his parabolic effort strike the upright before bouncing away to safety, much to the disappointment of his colleagues who were eagerly anticipating following KWR’s ceremonial celebration, should the trajectory have been six inches further left.
Post-match packed lunches consumed and with all tracking devices now disabled, no navigational problems were encountered in the escape and good time was made to Sedgemoor, where even Gore had to battle before putting the finish touches to his ham & chicken & tuna & cheese & turkey & cucumber & lettuce & avocado & tomato Subway baguette. Richards meanwhile, being short of a pound for his ham & red onion monolith borrowed ten and returned two (‘Jenner had the rest’), while Roddis – kind, thoughtful and caring to the end, forewent the campus’s food outlets and bought his mum & dad some fruit pastilles as a present, ‘so they’ll be nice to me,’ instead.
6.12pm – Longlevens - and the fun bus was quickly vacated by all apart from Gore who remained in deep slumber until the heating was turned off, and a profusion of clothing that no-one wanted. It had been thirty five hours to the minute since departure and in that time a great victory had been achieved on the alley, followed by more success on the Sabbath. Swimming had been fun, the hotel excellent, the arcade laced with tickets that bought little and we’d walked in the footsteps of legends, even though no-one cared. Following last week’s mid-tour transfer of personnel, the curse of the photographer had struck again, the vagaries of electronic navigation aids had been cruelly exposed, the eateries in service stations of the south west peninsula had recorded record weekend profits and the only fruit pastilles left for Roddis’s exasperated parents were the horrid squidgy yellow ones that no-one likes at the bottom.
And even for those who’ve done this sort of thing many times before, new, important lessons are learned. Write out one hundred times, ‘I must never lend Rico any money again,’ ‘I must never lend Rico any money again,’ ‘I must never......’
Happy days.
The map seemed so straightforward, yet the trio of Sat Navs in operation each suggested a different route, the only detail that all three seemingly agreed upon being that a left turn followed by a right was the correct starter for ten. Blunt’s Lane however turned out to be little more than five feet wide and despite any of the instruments having the capacity to suggest ‘reverse now’, technology was momentarily abandoned and the ‘U’ turn order followed seventy five yards further back.
The facilities, both inside and out at Marjon’s are excellent, as was the Plymouth team that operated at a different level to the travelling band as they dished out the proverbial drubbing. ‘Let’s take the positives’ said The Bard, but Jenner’s second half strike apart, there weren’t any. The main event, however, was yet to come.
Before that there was an offer to visit Home Park for the Plymouth Argyle v Notts County League Two debacle, but following a number of post-match reports it seems the correct decision was reached in sticking to the original plan and visiting Plymouth Life Centre instead. And more to the point, another bout of football at that particular moment in time was the medication that no-one in our party required.
Several pools and slides were a useful antidote to the recollections of the playing members of the travelling horde, but even the cafe pasties failed to assuage the memory of what had happened earlier for other members of the assembled flock. At least Gloucester City FC benefitted from their own overnight stay three hundred miles away to gain a point from a goalless encounter at Harrogate Town earlier in the afternoon, the highlights of which were limited to four words on their Saturday Twitter feed (‘A really big point’).
After settling in at the very nicely appointed Duke of Cornwall hotel, the group (eventually) moved, despite the continuously errant Sat Navs, to Ten Pin at the Barbican Leisure Park for the weekend’s main event and the raison d’etre for our visit. Here, minds focussed, knees bent and fingers poised, the group set to work to grind down their opponents with a performance full of grit, organisation, energy and concentration, drawing upon all the experience gained from their training camp at Hollywood Bowl in Watford nine days previously. The decision to visit Hemel Hempstead over La Manga and take the tour of Wembley to give the squad the grounding necessary to provide them with the knowledge & understanding that enables one to perform to the best of one’s ability in the grandest of all arenas, paid handsome dividends for the Black ‘n’ Yellows as they claimed an early lead that they rarely looked like relinquishing. Led by another three-figure return from Troke, the team was quick out of the blocks in the opening third, relentless in pursuit of both ball and pin in the second and the nous to close out the game in the final period meant victory by an average score of two pins per player in the away leg which, added to the advantage gained in November’s home encounter, proved utterly decisive. And should Plymouth have threatened to stage an unlikely fightback, the knowledge that away pins count double in the event of a tie, spurred every member on to bounce their multicoloured spheres off the alley sides as productively as possible, before taking out the end pin and the three back ones next to it, thus proving that technique and skill will only take you so far in this life.
Plymouth were, as always, hugely magnanimous in defeat and generous in both character and mind as they presented the BSBB - Billy Smart Bowling Bowl (a culender; the only trophy from which the entire team can drink at once) – to captain Pledger, amidst some of the most euphoric scenes witnessed at this iconic venue in recent years.
Sunday dawned bright and sunny, the weather reflecting the warm glow of the previous evening’s success and breakfast was taken in the marvellously chandeliered hotel restaurant, with even Richards ‘giving it a go’. A walk along Plymouth’s elevated esplanade where Drake apocryphally finished his game of bowls before legging it after the passing Spanish Armada proved that while there was little ‘Hoe, Hoe, Hoe’ on the pitch the previous morning, the result later in the day had re-motivated and re-energised (almost) everyone.
After Lord Snowdon had maximised the 171 photo opportunities available between 10.00 and 11.00am and packing completed, the charabanc chugged off in the general direction of the ‘please drive along the highlighted route’ towards Saltash – and the city centre – and The Hoe – and Saltash – and the city centre – and the...... . Having circumnavigated a single city twice in about the same length of time it took Drake to circumnavigate the entire globe, the bus finally crossed the Tamar Bridge to enter the spiritual home of the pasty, where GPSFA would play its first ever game in Britain’s most westerly county.
For the record and in the inspirational shadow of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Roddis laid on Jenner to neatly sidestep the keeper to put Gloucester ahead before Jenner’s pass gave Townsend the opportunity to toe poke spectacularly home from twenty yards, the longest such effort since Spencer Hamilton’s arrows of 2006/07. After the break Townsend, still wincing from the pain in the front of his foot, Hylton and Jenner combined to set up Roddis for a fine, non-toe-poked finish which resulted in an unwanted bear-hug from KWR, before Coldridge’s excellent solo strike made it four. Hylton, meanwhile, desperately trying to find the net for the first time this season, saw his parabolic effort strike the upright before bouncing away to safety, much to the disappointment of his colleagues who were eagerly anticipating following KWR’s ceremonial celebration, should the trajectory have been six inches further left.
Post-match packed lunches consumed and with all tracking devices now disabled, no navigational problems were encountered in the escape and good time was made to Sedgemoor, where even Gore had to battle before putting the finish touches to his ham & chicken & tuna & cheese & turkey & cucumber & lettuce & avocado & tomato Subway baguette. Richards meanwhile, being short of a pound for his ham & red onion monolith borrowed ten and returned two (‘Jenner had the rest’), while Roddis – kind, thoughtful and caring to the end, forewent the campus’s food outlets and bought his mum & dad some fruit pastilles as a present, ‘so they’ll be nice to me,’ instead.
6.12pm – Longlevens - and the fun bus was quickly vacated by all apart from Gore who remained in deep slumber until the heating was turned off, and a profusion of clothing that no-one wanted. It had been thirty five hours to the minute since departure and in that time a great victory had been achieved on the alley, followed by more success on the Sabbath. Swimming had been fun, the hotel excellent, the arcade laced with tickets that bought little and we’d walked in the footsteps of legends, even though no-one cared. Following last week’s mid-tour transfer of personnel, the curse of the photographer had struck again, the vagaries of electronic navigation aids had been cruelly exposed, the eateries in service stations of the south west peninsula had recorded record weekend profits and the only fruit pastilles left for Roddis’s exasperated parents were the horrid squidgy yellow ones that no-one likes at the bottom.
And even for those who’ve done this sort of thing many times before, new, important lessons are learned. Write out one hundred times, ‘I must never lend Rico any money again,’ ‘I must never lend Rico any money again,’ ‘I must never......’
Happy days.
