Nice Harry M and Nice Charlie B are the first to arrive at GL2 this morning and as such are offered the chance to make today’s seat draws. Somehow, though, they manage to pull out Vaile and White one after the other and house them in the same double pew – they won’t be invited to pick the names out ever again. The skipper has changed the Double As in his alarm clock and as such arrives in plenty of time and Brooks is Back, an alliteration that might well catch on, after ten days of spa-like pampering at a secluded resort in Churchdown.

As we motor down the M5 and pass the Stroud turn off, a strange chant begins to emanate from the passenger section of the bus. There are no discernable words to this incantation, just a regular beat with a chilling tone, similar to that which might have been used by a group of 1st Century Druids about to light a funereal pyre. By the time we branch off on to the M4 just north of Bristol, the melody has changed to a tuneless rendition of something that no-one in the world, Druids or otherwise, is in any danger of identifying.

We decamp from the bus to be met with a ground-hugging fog and a pair of trainers on AW’s feet that are so hideously bright, the group of Caerphilly parents on the other side of the car park rush on their sunglasses and pull their offspring close, thinking the sun might have exploded and the end is uncomfortably nigh. If he wears them again, it will be.

Coach Wilson immediately departs in search of the coffee shop, finally finding his way back to the assembled throng once the fog has eventually lifted thirty minutes later. It’s taken him so long the coffee’s now cold, but the second journey’s far quicker now that he can see where he’s going and the emergency compass can stay in the heel of his Wayfinders.

The pre-event walk-through of how we want to play seems to have an impact in Game One, even though Swansea take the lead with their only real effort on goal. Clifford strikes the far post with a good effort, the back three look solid and Bennett levels matters up with a fine free kick that makes him think he’s Ronaldo for three unsettling seconds afterwards. 1-1.

The impact is short-lived however as there is limited cohesion in Game Two v Caerphilly; both sides create a couple of half chances without every really threatening to trouble the scorers, to use an old cricketing term. 0-0.

Is there something about Game Three at BA1-9BJ? Last season on this hill somewhere above Bath, we turned in our worst performance of the entire campaign, before responding in style in Game Four. 2019/20 was the exception that proved the rule, while the year before that a comparable set of contrasting performances unfolded (probably the year before that as well, but no-one can remember that far back) and this time around follows a spookily similar trend. Suffice to say, Game Three ends 0-2.

By now the injury list is mounting, though. Buckland’s been on the side resting his writing hand, trying to way-up the pros & cons of maintaining his claim that his fingers won’t move. If he continues, he’ll miss today’s final game but can justifiably say, on returning to school after the weekend, that he can’t take part in any lessons until Wednesday afternoon at the earliest. He decides two and a half feet-up days at Highnam Primary outweighs 20 minutes of footy and as such continues to employ his ‘pain-face’ to remarkably good effect. Bennett’s hopping is far more plausible however, following a nasty crack on his toe last week and he’s desperate to keep going. JB likes school, but far more importantly, he’s quickly worked out that the only lesson a bruised Bromley Bow will mean he has to sit out is PE, so he doesn’t face the same level of dilemma that CB has been contemplating.

Vaile gives us the lead in Game Four, much to everyone’s glee before the great moment arrives. ‘Brooks is Back’ departs the fray after 63.5 minutes of non-stop running, pressing, harrying and, at one point, blowing in his attempt to conjure a goal. He is replaced by the afforementioned Buckland, who says he can play with a damaged metacarpus as long as he’s not on for more than sixty seconds (and can therefore still claim digital asylum on Monday). But who needs a minute to make an impact? Not Buckland, anyway. Immediately, Vaile cuts into the box, works out the angle, then picks out the point on the inside of the near post that will make the ball rebound perfectly on to CB’s shin / ankle / knee / thigh (delete as applicable) and the game is done. Vaile claims an assist, Buckland has forgotten about the pain and the rest of the on-field players rush over to congratulate them both. ‘Brooks is Back’, meanwhile, grabs a pen and starts dividing the number of goalless seconds he’s been on the pitch for (3,810 + added time) by 23 (the number of goal-laden seconds CB’s been on the pitch for). ‘165.65217 offers Coach Wilson, as BiB is taking far too long to work out the decimal places.

‘It’s a miracle,’ exhorts Buckland, though whether he’s referring to the swiftness and exactness of the mental calculation, the sudden recovery of the end of his arm or scoring one of the quickest goals ever after entering the pitch, nobody’s quite sure.

As we exit the Park & Ride, the Druidian chant of a few hours before is replaced by a much more melodic, if rather repetitive, ‘We love the Earth’ and continues non-stop until we reach the services forty-two minutes later. ‘Who’s Michael Wood?’ asks someone in the crowd, but Folley’s already contemplating the feast that lies ahead and telling everyone what (or who) he might eat, so it can’t have been him.

Neither Manning nor Clifford ask for a loan, Clifford because he didn’t spend all his money on the way down (as we didn’t stop) and Manning because he’s not here, having remained in Lansdown to bolster the B Squad’s Covid-depleted ranks. ‘Brooks is Back’ and Nice Harry M plump for a joint KFC boneless bucket (£17.49). BiB hands over a tenner to pay for his portion of the card-swipe; Nice Harry M hands over a fiver and a five p piece, then wonders why no-one’s moving. Nice Jacob Hayes has a Subway meatball Italian, thankfully declining to enquire as to the, probably rather dubious, source of the contents. The Model has managed to ease his hunger, despite spending too much time wandering around the services looking for a mirror. Folley, meanwhile, has considered eating half the queue to both offset his hunger pangs and quicken-up his Subway, while Bennett is last to pay his dues, deciding to imbibe every morsel of his £8.49 Burger King before handing over a brown one and waiting for every last bit of change. Most of what he gets is Nice Harry M’s shrapnel, which is pretty much what he deserves.

The singing recommences the moment the bus’s doors are closed and we discover, not for the first time today, that the Earth is our planet and it’s also our home; 347 times to be exact, before we lose count shortly after Junction 12. The sound is like a cross between a group of hastily assembled down-and-outs trying to win the sympathy vote in ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ and Whoopie Goldberg’s gospel choir in ‘Nun’s on the Run’. Predictably, neither really caught on.

It’s been a fun day. Brooks is Back and Buckland have amicably shared a double seat, despite the noticeable difference in their goals : time-in-the-striker’s-position ratios, while Folley has enjoyed sitting on his own as much as White and Vaile have enjoyed sitting together. Clifford is thrilled at still having 27p in his pocket for the first time since entering this world eleven years ago and the Model is thrilled too, having realised that the bus windows are reflective as well as transparent, so he’s spent most of the journey home looking through/into them. Nice JH and Nice HM are wondering why they weren’t offered ‘A Tommy Manning Get-out-of-Jail Free card’ and the chance to escape from the dulcet tones of the GPSFA MVC (Male Voyce Choir) when the opportunity arose a couple of hours ago. Finally, Bennett has realised that his mask really isn’t there to protect his chin and surruptitiously ooches everything up a couple of inches while belting out verse 346 with an enthusiasm that knows few bounds.

The day’s final calculation takes place as the last player departs…there are twelve glorious days before the singing starts again and we once more find out what the Earth really is. Roll on a week Thursday.

Gloucester A: Folley; Buckland, Nice Jacob Hayes, Model; White, Clifford, Bennett, Manning; Brooks is Back; Vaile, Nice Harry M.