Nostradamus
‘Heavy overnight rain will clear before you arrive at Longlevens, but will return around 2.30pm, shortly before you leave,’ said the Real Weatherman at the British Broadcasting Corporation on Friday’s midday forecast, and so it came to pass.
The deluges that had blighted everyone’s favourite weekday are, temporarily at any rate, a thing of the past and the only rumble in the jungle is a surprisingly sprightly groundsman who, apart from an aching back, a dodgy leg, a squeaking hip and a bilious gall bladder, is feeling remarkably fit and healthy this morning.
All things considered, the pitch is in a remarkably healthy condition too, its natural drainage system rendering it more than fit to play, despite the ongoing portents of doom delivered at ten-minute intervals by Gloucester’s very own version of The English Patient.
Because not so fit and healthy is our very own Weatherman, who’s lying in a hospital bed at Red Arrow General, wishing he was as bright eyed and bushy tailed as The Groundsman purports to be, but everything in this world’s relative and he dismisses the thought immediately before eagerly turning to chapter thirteen of his brand new book about climate change.
The Lens has a work experience assistant this morning, which gets him out of ninety per cent of his early morning duties and when he suggests she helps carry out the goals, the proportion reaches a nice round hundred. The rest of the time Evie’s given a step-by-step guide to maximising profits by advertising mathematically dubious ‘Buy two for the price of three’ offers and ‘Buy one, get none’ free’ campaigns. Being a young lady of high moral fibre though, she steadfastly refuses to make a run for it, but instead stands with her back to the fire exit for the second part of the day.
Our numbers are increased by twenty per cent as Big Sam and Billy Elliott Knight jog in without breaking stride, direct from the County Cross Country Competition, an event which features a very big hill, a shedload of mud and four Cs in its title. This year it also features a red-clad, Zola Budd-like figure, who completes the course shoeless in a desperate and ultimately successful attempt to make the shire’s top ten and in so doing inserts yet another ‘R’ into his ever-expanding intermediate pseudonym.
As per the pre-match forecast, Sutton Coldfield are a fine side, but there’s nothing between the teams in the first half as Muzzie, Nureyev, Billy and Lacoste ensure the midfield area is evenly contested, while the highly versatile Scarface, Margaret Albert Pargeter and Big Sam from The Oaks remain steadfast at the back.
Indeed, it’s Gloucester that go closest to breaking the deadlock, Billy’s well struck free kick being tipped over and a second such effort being turned behind at the back stick.
The visitors up the tempo after the break however and after Kenny pulls out those big strong hands to perform one for the cameras, Sutton claim the lead with a very well taken effort into the top left corner from twelve yards.
The hosts work hard to try to get back on terms, but despite The Colonel’s determined running, some decent forays down the flanks and the hard graft of the city midfield, there is no way past a very resolute and frankly impressive defence.
With seven minutes remaining another excellent goal involving a third man run, whatever that is, and a clinical finish wraps up the tie and puts the West Midlanders into the Shires Cup final for the first time ever (though this is only the second time they’ve entered).
There’s a clutch of warm up tops and a pair of black gloves designed to fit very small hands (so they’re clearly not Kenny’s) left in the changing room and a fully laden kit bag left outside the loos. The crowd has dissipated too, with the majority making their way to Fairmile Gardens for the annual curtain-raiser to Cheltenham Gold Cup week. It’s raining heavily again now and once again the Real Weathermen have been spot on with their correct-to-the-minute forecast.
Coach Harris is in full flow on the mic, while Mother Sargeant is resplendent in her stunning pink Saint Laurent top which perfectly matches her stunning pink Christian Louboubin wellies, though thankfully she’s not wearing them both at the same time. Microphone-less Father Fortey is also in full flow, having finally backed a winner, while Father Arrowsmith from last year bets a bundle and doubles his money as number four wins Race Eight by a furlong and a bit. Both have proved that a good forecast can be a profitable forecast, the thought of which sees The Photographer making copious notes throughout the evening before leaving prematurely to rethink his sales pitch and give his big red machine a pre-nap polish.
Monday morning and the queue at Nat West on The Prom is reminiscent of the lines at the tote desk thirty six hours previously, but the thoroughfare outside is virtually deserted. A lone busker launches enthusiastically into yet another Billy Joel number but nobody’s about to applaud, while the Flower Man huddles beneath a swathe of layers of which even Adibayor would be proud. Traffic wardens are also in short supply, so forty minutes parking across two disabled spaces fails to attract even a sniff of a big yellow ticket.
The radio is on and another seven days of rain is (probably correctly) prophesied. It’s been a weekend when all the forecasts have been correct and it looks as if the next few days may well follow a similar pattern. The Real Weathermen have dotted their Isobars and crossed their Temperatures to perfection, but it’s not the same and we don’t want any more raining when it’s supposed to be.
The Met Office has got some of the best forecasters in the business, but we’ve had enough of their frost and snow, their wind and shine. We’ve got our very own Nostradamus, and like his ancient namesake, he gets just about everything wrong. But while he may not be a Real Weatherman, he’s without doubt the BEST Weatherman. And we want him back. Get well soon, Michael Fish.
Gloucester: Kenny; Scarface, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Big Sam; Lisa, Nureyev, Zola Budd, Lacoste; Adibayor; The Colonel. Advisor: MF.
The deluges that had blighted everyone’s favourite weekday are, temporarily at any rate, a thing of the past and the only rumble in the jungle is a surprisingly sprightly groundsman who, apart from an aching back, a dodgy leg, a squeaking hip and a bilious gall bladder, is feeling remarkably fit and healthy this morning.
All things considered, the pitch is in a remarkably healthy condition too, its natural drainage system rendering it more than fit to play, despite the ongoing portents of doom delivered at ten-minute intervals by Gloucester’s very own version of The English Patient.
Because not so fit and healthy is our very own Weatherman, who’s lying in a hospital bed at Red Arrow General, wishing he was as bright eyed and bushy tailed as The Groundsman purports to be, but everything in this world’s relative and he dismisses the thought immediately before eagerly turning to chapter thirteen of his brand new book about climate change.
The Lens has a work experience assistant this morning, which gets him out of ninety per cent of his early morning duties and when he suggests she helps carry out the goals, the proportion reaches a nice round hundred. The rest of the time Evie’s given a step-by-step guide to maximising profits by advertising mathematically dubious ‘Buy two for the price of three’ offers and ‘Buy one, get none’ free’ campaigns. Being a young lady of high moral fibre though, she steadfastly refuses to make a run for it, but instead stands with her back to the fire exit for the second part of the day.
Our numbers are increased by twenty per cent as Big Sam and Billy Elliott Knight jog in without breaking stride, direct from the County Cross Country Competition, an event which features a very big hill, a shedload of mud and four Cs in its title. This year it also features a red-clad, Zola Budd-like figure, who completes the course shoeless in a desperate and ultimately successful attempt to make the shire’s top ten and in so doing inserts yet another ‘R’ into his ever-expanding intermediate pseudonym.
As per the pre-match forecast, Sutton Coldfield are a fine side, but there’s nothing between the teams in the first half as Muzzie, Nureyev, Billy and Lacoste ensure the midfield area is evenly contested, while the highly versatile Scarface, Margaret Albert Pargeter and Big Sam from The Oaks remain steadfast at the back.
Indeed, it’s Gloucester that go closest to breaking the deadlock, Billy’s well struck free kick being tipped over and a second such effort being turned behind at the back stick.
The visitors up the tempo after the break however and after Kenny pulls out those big strong hands to perform one for the cameras, Sutton claim the lead with a very well taken effort into the top left corner from twelve yards.
The hosts work hard to try to get back on terms, but despite The Colonel’s determined running, some decent forays down the flanks and the hard graft of the city midfield, there is no way past a very resolute and frankly impressive defence.
With seven minutes remaining another excellent goal involving a third man run, whatever that is, and a clinical finish wraps up the tie and puts the West Midlanders into the Shires Cup final for the first time ever (though this is only the second time they’ve entered).
There’s a clutch of warm up tops and a pair of black gloves designed to fit very small hands (so they’re clearly not Kenny’s) left in the changing room and a fully laden kit bag left outside the loos. The crowd has dissipated too, with the majority making their way to Fairmile Gardens for the annual curtain-raiser to Cheltenham Gold Cup week. It’s raining heavily again now and once again the Real Weathermen have been spot on with their correct-to-the-minute forecast.
Coach Harris is in full flow on the mic, while Mother Sargeant is resplendent in her stunning pink Saint Laurent top which perfectly matches her stunning pink Christian Louboubin wellies, though thankfully she’s not wearing them both at the same time. Microphone-less Father Fortey is also in full flow, having finally backed a winner, while Father Arrowsmith from last year bets a bundle and doubles his money as number four wins Race Eight by a furlong and a bit. Both have proved that a good forecast can be a profitable forecast, the thought of which sees The Photographer making copious notes throughout the evening before leaving prematurely to rethink his sales pitch and give his big red machine a pre-nap polish.
Monday morning and the queue at Nat West on The Prom is reminiscent of the lines at the tote desk thirty six hours previously, but the thoroughfare outside is virtually deserted. A lone busker launches enthusiastically into yet another Billy Joel number but nobody’s about to applaud, while the Flower Man huddles beneath a swathe of layers of which even Adibayor would be proud. Traffic wardens are also in short supply, so forty minutes parking across two disabled spaces fails to attract even a sniff of a big yellow ticket.
The radio is on and another seven days of rain is (probably correctly) prophesied. It’s been a weekend when all the forecasts have been correct and it looks as if the next few days may well follow a similar pattern. The Real Weathermen have dotted their Isobars and crossed their Temperatures to perfection, but it’s not the same and we don’t want any more raining when it’s supposed to be.
The Met Office has got some of the best forecasters in the business, but we’ve had enough of their frost and snow, their wind and shine. We’ve got our very own Nostradamus, and like his ancient namesake, he gets just about everything wrong. But while he may not be a Real Weatherman, he’s without doubt the BEST Weatherman. And we want him back. Get well soon, Michael Fish.
Gloucester: Kenny; Scarface, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Big Sam; Lisa, Nureyev, Zola Budd, Lacoste; Adibayor; The Colonel. Advisor: MF.
