The storms of recent times have relented, but the Wycombe ground has long-since succumbed to the incessant deluges of a few days ago. Good on them, however – they’ve secured a parks’ pitch to ensure today’s game goes ahead, though the exact location, entrance and parking area that we’re aiming for have been left largely to the imagination.

With kick-off brought forward to 10.45, we depart Longlevens at 7.34, with The Lens firmly ensconced in the front seat and ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’ being enthusiastically rendered from the rear pews. By Crickley Hill we’ve moved on to ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’, with ‘Last Christmas’ being belted out as we wander along the A436 in the general vicinity of Seven Springs, one of which is the actual source of the Thames, Britain’s second-longest river.

A strange incantation which, Clifford reliably informs The Lens, is an extract from the ‘Prince of Bel-Air’, whatever that is, breaks out on the Witney by-pass before we circumnavigate the dreaming spires of Oxford in virtual silence (it’s all relative), prior to pulling in at the Welcome Break just this side of the M40.

The Lens, after ascertaining that the adults aren’t eating at this juncture, hares into Starbucks to buy the day’s first round, safe in the knowledge that, if the Basingstoke refreshment routine is anything to go by, the return bill will be £17.98, even if he doesn’t have both mushy peas and gravy with his HR’s fish & chips. The players’ pre-match sustenance, meanwhile, generally falls into the ‘sensible’ category with fruit and doughnuts to the fore, while Folley adds a brownie point and environmentally-friendly, smiley-face emoji to his very short list of such congratulatory things, by picking up a random bottle from the parking space next to the mini bus and consigning it to the nearest rubbish bin.

Clifford and The Model are fast asleep by the time we pass Stokenchurch and even a Bennett/Folley-inspired ‘We Are the Earth’ fails to awaken them from some much-needed shut-eye.

After taking the tourist route up and down High Wycombe’s London Road, we turn into an area between the Busy Bees Nursery and an impressive-looking adventure playground and immediately phone for help from the WHO – Wycombe’s Helpful Official, not the planetary Health Organisation. As if he were hiding in the undergrowth waiting for our call, the WHO materialises beside the bus no more than thirty seconds later, jumps into the passenger seat, declines a ‘One for the Price of Three’ photograph from our very disappointed snapper and guides us to a car park on the opposite side of the A40 that no-one living outside the HP11 post code is ever likely to find.

‘The toilet’s up at the top and there are no changing rooms,’ the WHO informs us, before disappearing as quickly as he first appeared. The toilet, as it turns out, is a single portaloo with blue flush, no water for the sink and an apostrophe in the name (Loo’s) which is wholly inappropriate, whichever way you look at it. The Tardis, so named as it must be far bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside, judging by the number of people that want to enter it before, during and after the contortions required to get your shorts and socks on in an area of no more than a square foot of mini bus, proves to be a place of almost magnetic attraction, despite its horrific grammatical failings and a noticeable lack of any sort of air freshener.

The WHO returns to guide us across the road and to a pitch on the far side of The Rye, an area inhabited by a plethora of footy pitches and countless legions of pigeons, most of which are perched on the various crossbars dotted around the place. With an acreage somewhere between Plock Court and Hackney Marshes, The Rye is a pleasant expanse of green, the northernmost boundary of which is demarcated by the River Wye, which not only contributed to High Wycombe’s current name, but also doubles up as Britain’s fourth-longest waterway.

It’s 10.44 and pitch-side, Tom Manning Senior is undergoing some serious, hi-tec practice with the red & yellow linesman’s flag, eager to make his officiating debut after three-and-a-bit months of non-lining frustration.

10.46. Off the pitch, TM has vacated the flag by mutual consent and been replaced by Coach Stalley in a Coup d’etat so slick, it would have impressed revolutionary brigades the world over. ‘He’s a good coach, but a terrible linesman,’ confirms TM Junior later, so maybe we dodged a bullet there after all.

10.47. On the pitch, Buckland, Manning Junior, Bennett and Clifford are working hard to take control of the midfield and midway through the half, Clifford’s fine cross-field pass finds Buckland, who rolls in Bobby Brooks to finish well. ‘Oh, I do like to play against the Wycombe,’ sings BB in celebration, in a tune reminiscent of ‘We do like to be beside the Seaside,’ as every outfield player joins in the conviviality, if not the melody.

Folley has just a single save to make before the interval as Mclarney, notably, together with Hayes and The Model, restrict the hosts to very little, but after the break, it’s Wycombe that are in the ascendancy. Ten minutes in they are awarded a penalty for a JH pat-down, but the spot kick is scuffed wide, much to the pleasure of Clifford, who’s taking a well-earned rest in the non-existent dugout.

With twelve minutes remaining, the homesters level with an effort from the edge of the box and then push hard for a winner. Vaile, however, who has returned to the fray following a spell out with Long Covid, does well on the left side of the city back three, while Folley is twice called into action to deny the Wycombe forwards. At the other end, White drives into the side netting and The Model’s effort flies over as the visitors themselves harbour thoughts of grabbing the decisive goal.

As it is, neither side can make a final breakthrough, the spoils are shared and both sides seem reasonably happy with the 1-1 scoreline. The players go over to give the six City ‘Ultras’ who found the pitch despite inputting a post code that led most of them to the vicinity of the cricket ground about half a mile away, a ‘thanks for coming’ clap. It doesn’t last long though, as they’ve spotted the adventure playground on the far side of The Rye and all thoughts of the past hour’s football are rightly consigned to the short-term memory bin.

The Lens, having realised there’s a ‘Commercial Opportunity’ in the offing if he can snap players with parents before everyone leaves, rushes over to the wooden towers and rope bridges and shepherds Brooks, Hayes, Hanlon, Manning and Bennett back over to the pitch to do the business. He ends with a self-satisfied grin, happy with the way he’s gone about another money-making initiative, his pound-sign mind now racing ahead to both next Saturday’s photo table and the free meal to follow at Oxford Services.

Back in the car park, Brooks and Vaile have been in situ in The Tardis, meaning Folley declines the offer to visit and says he’ll ‘hang on’ as the Welcome Break isn’t too far away. Indeed, the drive up to the very posh service station (it’s got fountains outside) is celebrated by an emotive rendition of the ‘Three Lions’, though what the actual connection is, no-one can really say.

The eating choices that follow seem to rank the squad into three very distinct hierarchical groups: Buckland and Folley, following a visit to Waitrose (or maybe WHS) for a sandwich and a side can be loosely identified as posh (though it’s probably fair to say, the exception proves the rule). The Middle-of-the-Roaders (Bennett, White, Meatball Marinara Hayes, TM Junior, ‘You don’t want to know what’s in it’ Brooks and The Model) join the never-ending queue at Subway, while the riff-raff (Clifford, Vaile and McLarney) spend ten indecisive minutes tapping orders into the KFC keypad, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we need to get back to GL2 this side of Monday morning. The Lens, meanwhile, is in the Harry Ramsden’s line, salivating enthusiastically not over the soon-to-arrive triple-cooked chips and sustainable Atlantic cod, but more so that once again, he’s close to twelve quid to the good on this particular Saturday’s ‘Meal Deal’.

Folley, for some incomprehensible reason, decides to sing the opening lines of the National Anthem as we pull out on to the A40 and head towards Oxford, though apart from Bennett returning to ‘We Are the Earth’ as we cross the Burford roundabout and starting off ‘Last Christmas’ as we approach the King Teddy at the end of our journey, there are precious few songs in the final hour of the Wycombe return trip.

Five o’clock and, despite taking a 48th-minute lead, Gloucester City have to be content with a 1-1 draw at Alfreton’s Town’s traditional-to-a-fault Impact Arena stadium. It sounds very much that how the afternoon game in Derbyshire went largely mirrors the morning’s happenings at The Rye, where we took a first-half lead, only to be pegged back a bit further down the line. It’s been a day of ‘Nearly, but not Quite’, in more ways than one. Just ask Tommy Manning Senior.

Gloucester A: Folley; McLarney, Hayes, The Model; Buckland, Clifford, Bennett, Manning; Brooks; Vaile, White.