Thursday

Well, Covid has taken its toll and there aren’t many of us, but those that there are, are here bright, early, bushy-tailed and initially ready to sing. ‘We are the Earth’ soon gives way to a Folley-inspired: ‘We wear a mask; it keeps us safe’ melody, but from Nettleton Bottom onwards, there’s simply an excited hubbub as Reading services is reached with ear drums still largely intact.

There’s an air of restraint in most people’s spending during the 30-minute comfort break, though there are still enough cuddly toys accumulated to two-thirds fill a 20p Tesco carrier bag the moment we get back on the bus. Progress from Reading to Woking for our first (and only) tour fixture is slow, the A322 boasting the world’s largest collection of traffic cones and a similarly high number of fluorescently-garbed men standing around discussing who’s going to move first.

The Woking referee cries off shortly before kick-off, so the game is officiated by a man with a padded gillet carrying a mobile phone and a worried look. Maybe the original arbiter had heard that Bring Back Brooks was intending wearing his new matchday attire – an Alice band, red wristlets and black gloves, even though the temperature never threatens to dip below 25 degrees. By the time the second third begins however, two of the three are lying abandoned in the technical area in the general direction of Physio Manning, who remains completely unfazed when McLarney is twice shot by a sniper operating from the roof of the clubhouse. ‘This is the Earth’, hums Manning, completely oblivious to the carnage that’s happening a mere six metres from his medical bag.

The tourists enjoy the majority of possession, but their finishing lacks conviction and the opening third ends goalless. The second third follows much the same pattern until The Model effects ‘a spectacular volley from the halfway line’ (according to himself some hours later) to cue a celebratory love-in that is a pleasure to behold. ‘Yeeeeeeeesssss,’ yells The Model; ‘Amaaaaaaaaaazing,’ extols Bennett; ‘It is our planet,’ hums Manning.

The Famous Five (supporters) in the away end applaud The Model’s up-and-under enthusiastically, while Young Folley waves his arms around like a turbine in a gale. ‘Hey, Jude,’ says Mother Bennett, ‘don’t let me down. Keep waving those limbs and make it better.’ ‘Na, na, na, nana, nana,’ replies Jude before going off to play footy with his cousin.

Apart from a Woking header that strikes the far post, Nice Jacob Hayes and The Model are pretty much in control at the back and with Folley looking solid behind them, there is little to stress The Physio, who is still miles away, having tended to the injured with a melodic riposte. At the other end, Clifford almost adds a second but his effort is cleared off the line, while Bennett’s edge-of-the-area free kick is deflected to safety off the rear of a pirouetting defensive wall.

Victory assured, we quickly eat up the miles on the M3, meaning there’s enough time for a snack break at the Red Funnel terminal before boarding the ‘Fairy’ as not one but two people will write in their diary at circa five past nine this evening. We explore the top deck for ten very windy minutes, before making the same decision as any number of bald men watching their former toupees drifting westwards in a rather hairy Solent and retreat to the relative calm of the passenger lounge.

Arrival at the hotel signals the most anticipated moment of the trip to date when rooms are allocated and people discover who their oppo for the next two nights is going to be. First up it’s Clifford and Manning in Room 8, while H & H are billeted in Number 10. Sandwiched in between is the Jacob-laden Room 9, while well down the corridor for no apparent reason are Folley and The Model, an expression which must under no circumstances be taken out of context and repeated in a public place.

Brooks is Back changes into a Charlton (Athletic) top the moment he enters his room and is immediately christened ‘Bobby’, while Mclarney wants to change his pants, but after a quick search concludes he’s forgotten to bring any (clean ones). Bobby offers to lend him some in the morning, but declines to mention whether this will be a fresh pair or, far more likely, a second-hand version. Mclarney politely (and wisely) turns down the offer and looks forward to tomorrow’s swimming session when he can put something else around his middle for an hour or so.

Evening meal and the seating plan is carefully worked out. Clifford, NJH, Folley and NHMc, being self-confessed non-ketchup eaters are positioned at the four corners of the inner rectangle, with a suspicious-looking Bobby ‘I don’t eat ketchup’ Brooks seated opposite. Bennett and The Model are allowed the disgusting stuff as they’re well away on the left wing, while Nice Tommy Manning and Vice Chairman Adrian occupy the ketchup-less right flank. Even before his meal arrives, Bobby grins inanely and breaks open his first sachet, meaning he’s already lost two attitude marks before he’s even taken his first bite.

Folley finishes his meal in a little under four minutes, then somehow persuades VC Adrian to part with one of his burgers in a bid to assuage an appetite that knows few bounds. Bennett is overtly keen when it comes to the trip’s first maths quiz; Manning, in contrast, is quietly clinical. The Model, meanwhile, loses a wobbling pre-molar, but can’t quite work out whether it’s the Tooth Ferry or Fairy he needs to contact.

How long can you make a fiver last is the theme for the Sandown Pier visit, though Bennett and Folley’s hypothesis that throwing netballs into a hoop at 50p a minute will get them through is proved to be a bit of a dodgy idea. Clifford doesn’t realise that the bingo machine will always win and thinks getting a free game is tantamount to success; Mclarney, Manning and Brooks attempt to defy the laws of physics and make more than four 2p pieces drop into the tray at any one time; The Model flits from one thing to another before realising that flitting loses you just as much dosh as sticking with a single machine, while NJH weighs everything up, loses a little, makes a bit and probably leaves with slightly more than he started with.

We return to the hotel and it’s diaries in Room 8. Bennett, Clifford and NJH set the early pace, with The Model and The Physio not far behind. Folley shows promise, but needs to write more, Mclarney’s first target is sentences and Brooks’s is to just write. Day One ends.

Friday

It lashed down last night, but the forecast is for the weather to clear and the skies are already starting to brighten as breakfast is consumed. Bobby has been banished to the left flank so he can add as much ketchup as he wants to whatever he’s eating, while McLarney engages in an interesting method of seeing off a bacon sandwich by dismembering it from the inside out, finishing off with an impressive display in which each of the crusts disappears in turn. Folley’s done before anyone else has started, while Manning’s still going after everyone else has finished. Dry toast doesn’t lend itself to speed eating, but The Physio isn’t a man inclined to worry about too much and carries on regardless. Minus one for slowness.

First up it’s Blackgang Chine and because the weather’s fine, Water Force is open and forty-five minutes of running up the steps and shooting down the slides amidst a fair bit of hooping and hollering ensues. Newton’s Fourth Law of Motion (heavier objects fall faster) dictates that the Folley/Hayes, Folley/Clifford, Folley/Hanlon rafts descend marginally faster than the various Bennett/Brooks/Manning/McLarney combinations, so the goalkeeper isn’t too short of admiring suitors on this occasion.

We move on via a Dino Café drinks’ break to Dinosaur Kingdom, The Crooked House, Pirate Cove, Underwater Kingdom and Cowboy Town, where Bennett eventually realises he’s mislaid his wallet somewhere along the way and there are twenty five smackeroos inside. It doesn’t prevent him playing a full part in the Blackgang shop visit though, where difficult decisions are made, fiscal priorities weighed up and presents bought before, in some cases, being eaten.

Somebody asks if we’re going into the Hall of Mirrors, but the consensus is that, if we do, it may be difficult to extricate The Model and we’ll be late for our next destination. Nine votes to one against sees us back on the bus, turning right at Chale and, thanks to Adrian Nav and a bit of applied logic, we rack up at Robin Hill in pretty quick time. Nice Jacob Hayes tries to claim two lots of sandwiches but everyone else appears hungry so he has to make do with simply ham, while Nice Harry Mclarney surreptitiously donates his crusts to the nearby rubbish bin. The Physio, meanwhile, has adopted a position that’s best described as ‘beyond one’s peripheral vision’, so he could be eating everything or nothing or most likely, something in between. Bobby quietly bemoans a lack of the red stuff; Folley doesn’t care whether it’s red or green, yellow or blue; ham or cheese, meat or vegetable, alive or dead – he just eats.

And so, it begins. First up is the Wooden Maze race, where the team that wins at a canter in the first leg always finishes second in the next run. No-one has ever really understood why, as it’s the same course in reverse. Next is The Jungle Adventure Playground, followed by the Toboggan Run, an attraction which sees Clifford beside himself with an excitement only previously seen when ‘winning’ a free game on a fixed-odds bingo machine. Bennett and The Physio are the Lewis Hamilton’s of the big silver slide, while Nice Harry McLarney isn’t. Everyone else is somewhere in between in the GPSFA speed stakes.

On to the Squirrel Run – climbing a netted walkway up into the trees, then negotiating a series of platforms that lead, oddly, to an ice cream shack and the by now familiar words: ‘Bob, it’s card payment only.’ Reimbursement time: McLarney digs deep, hands over a pile of shrapnel and disappears with a turn of speed not previously seen on either a toboggan run or anywhere else before lying low for ten minutes, assuming for some strange reason that people actually forget about this sort of thing. An as yet unnamed person (or maybe persons) decides not to hand over any shrapnel and just lie low. When our country is under threat and the SAS comes calling, there are people here who will need precious little training in either subterfuge or duplicity to make the grade. Whether they will actually save us, is another matter altogether.

Excitement reaches an all-time high as the Pirate Ship is boarded and ‘We are the Earth’ reverberates around the theme park. ‘What a lovely melody,’ remarks one passer-by. ‘What nice children,’ says a casual observer sitting on a stone. ‘What an absolute din,’ shriek two girls with their hands over their ears and fear in their eyes prior to blaming each other for the joint decision to take the pew in front of the visiting gospel choir. ‘Don’t worry, girls,’ soothes The Model as everyone disembarks, ready to queue for the next rendition, but the pair are already fifty yards away and motoring at a speed our group can only imagine.

There’s still time for a run around yet another Adventure Playground for a ten-minute game of tag that’s only interrupted by a shout of ‘Bobby’s down.’ No-one stops though and Triple B + 1 (Bring Back Bobby Brooks) hobbles away from the fray for barely fifteen seconds prior to charging back up the first platform and across a wooden suspension bridge before being tagged by the very obvious ambush waiting on the other side.

We’re back in the bus and heading westwards to the only pool on the island that’s open 5 till 6. The singers, led by ‘The Longlevens Three’ launch into an ensemble that includes ‘The Three Lions’, ‘The RAF of England’, ‘Sweet Caroline’ and an old favourite that we won’t mention again before disembarking in Freshwater for an hour’s swim at West Wight Leisure Centre. There’s a diving competition which involves a fair amount of belly-flopping, with NJH emerging as the undisputed winner as voted for by VC Adrian, though The Model’s lop-sided take-off followed by a pretty smooth entry deserves a mention too. Folley and Bobby race from one end to the other and are treated to a rare compliment by the lifeguard; neither hears the commendation though as they’re barely halfway through a thirty-second post-race panting session. Across the way, Clifford has made a new friend and spends five minutes under the water throwing a small red torpedo around.

We return along the south coast road, stopping off at Blackgang to pick up Bennett’s wallet after a very nice member of the public handed it in and the very nice lady at the Chine called through to Robin Hill to let us know. A light show called ‘Terror Island’ is in full flow as the wallet is reunited with its owner, but requests to go in are turned down on the basis that if we were to enter, the name of the attraction might become a reality.

Dinner time and NJH is up to his tricks again, eating NHM’s sausage & mash by mistake and as such loses an attitude point, much to the delight of Bring Back Bobby Brooks who’s now only 512 marks behind. The Physio works his way dolefully through a plateful of plain pasta with no trimmings; The Model, Clifford, Bennett and Folley meanwhile demolish every morsel in twelve seconds flat before staring longingly at Mclarney’s plate, the contents of which are going down at a similar pace to his toboggan a few hours previously.

‘Teachers produce the best children,’ pronounces Folley, in a randomly philosophical moment that stops everyone in their tracks apart from Manning, who refuses to be distracted from a period of acute contemplation prior to attempting his ninth sauce-less tube of penne pasta.

‘Teachers produce the best children,’ repeats Folley, followed by: ‘My mum’s a teacher,’ as if to say, the exception proves the rule. ‘He must be right,’ agrees Bennett, ‘because my mum’s a teacher, too.’ ‘And mine,’ affirms The Model, while admiring himself from a distance in the window pane opposite. ‘And mine’s a TA,’ smiles Clifford, ‘which is the same thing.’ ‘And mine,’ ‘And mine,’ ‘And mine,’ continues around the table until everyone falls silent and stares, wide-eyed, at Bobby. ‘Well,’ says Triple B + 1, gathering his thoughts before launching into a remarkably erudite diatribe, detailing the pedagogical lineage of his mother’s side of the family, a historical trail that only ends around the time of Henry VIII because the remains of Mclarney’s Bolognese seem to be rather more interesting to the rest of the throng than how Brooksie’s ancestors taught Anne Boleyn equivalent fractions the day before she lost her head.

‘So that proves it,’ says Folley, barely disguising a self-contented grin that’s only matched by the look of utter bewilderment on the Vice Chairman’s face. ‘Well, I suppose you must be right then,’ stammers the VC before exiting the room in a state of severe shock, twenty years as a primary head teacher having done nothing to prepare him for what he’s just heard.

Bobby’s diary is much better this evening, with the general standard having racked up a level, Clifford leading the way in producing a page that can only be described as an Adjectival Heaven. The two words of the day, ‘squalls’ and ‘fastidiously’ are well used overall, with The Model, prior to retreating to Room 16 for a well-earned kip, agreeing to include both in his next piece of Dinglewell-ian writing to check if Miss Powell actually knows what either of them mean.

Saturday

There haven’t been many occasions in the last two years when we’ve had anything good to say about Covid, but the resulting Portsmouth cancellation means the alarm clock this morning moves seamlessly past the usual IOW Saturday ringing time of 6.10 without going off. A silent thanksgiving service celebrating the fact that breakfast will now be at the much more civilised hour of eight-thirty takes place in the confines of Room 12; it’s a personal moment, but a hugely gratifying one nonetheless.

Folley and The Model are barely awake at the 8.05 knock-up, the former needing to tweak the latter’s toe to bring him back to the land of the living, while neither Brooks nor Mclarney are anywhere near consciousness when the caller reaches Room 10 two minutes later. Jacob & Jacob however, a pairing that sounds very much like the name of a firm of extremely dodgy undertakers are ready and almost waiting, the minty smell of toothpaste emanating from the half-open bathroom door, while Clifford and The Physio are absolutely on the ball, though they really don’t need to be wearing their GPSFA waterproofs for breakfast as the roof of the restaurant area was fixed last week.

The overnight deluge has been replaced by a succession of early-morning squalls, so it’s indoor Adventure Golf on the ‘Lost World’ 11-hole course that begins the day’s entertainment. There’s a prize on offer for the best, room-based pair, with Clifford and Manning’s 77 on the Par 34 course not winning the Smarties on this occasion. For the record, Folley and The Model total 72 and H & H 69, with The Undertakers leading the way with a mightily impressive 57.

There’s twenty more minutes of machine-playing while the next destination is sorted, the aforementioned squalls having now given way to the clearest of clear blue skies.

Along the esplanade to the east is Sandham Gardens’ Go-Karts, where Folley and The Model occupy pole position on their respective first runs, but finish nailed-on last on each of their second attempts. Also occupying notable positions are Clifford and Brooks (both first) and Mclarney and Manning (both last). The Undertakers, as is their forte, finish somewhere in between.

End-of-race ice creams consumed, we’re back in the fun bus for the cross-island jaunt to the terminal at East Cowes, where there’s a(nother) snack opportunity, this time in the middle of Lane 22 while waiting for the Red Falcon to empty and let us on for the 1.30 crossing. The ferry is full and the crossing smooth, with only Membury to go as a destination for the City of Gloucester tourists. Bobby is persuaded to leave his container full of 2p coins in the mini bus as the idea of counting them out in return for a one-off KFC offering doesn’t fit in to our perfectly calculated time schedule. There are a few plaintive, ‘It only takes cards,’ pleas, but with the tour almost over and spending opportunities now ended, we exit the services with a one-off profit of 83p, which goes a little way towards wiping out the thirty quid deficit accrued over the past two days. Those readers of a literary bent will recall wise old Mr Micawber once saying: ‘Be thankful for small mercies, my son,’ before whispering to his best mate, ‘and thou shalt never be rich.’

We’re back at GL2 at five-thirty on the dot and apart from two of Bobby’s coins, three Go-Kart medals and the diaries of NJH and NHM, there is little to pick up from the now-empty mini bus. The Model has his missing tooth safely stored in his GPSFA kit bag and Bennett his missing wallet safely ensconced in his now-zipped-up trouser pocket. Even The Earth, Our Planet, Our Home, is under lock and key in a Big Yellow Box somewhere – and with a bit of luck, it’ll stay there.

It’s been an action-packed fifty-eight hours and if you believe everyone’s claims about their parents’ vocations and Bobby’s description of the first five hundred years of his family tree, maybe Folley is right after all. There have even been a number of very nice compliments from the general public – amazing what some people will say and do when the VC offers them a tax-free tenner and a packet of left-over prawn cocktail crisps. This was the 25th Isle of Wight tour – in wedding terms, that would be a silver, but in this case, we’re going to upgrade it to a nugget of solid gold. Sleep well, everyone.

The GPSFA Eight: The Philosopher; The Model, The Undertaker 1; The Bingo Caller, The Undertaker 2, The Crust; The Genealogist; The Physio