Keep It on The Island
Behind the Scenes at Jersey 2019
Author's Note
What follows is a behind the scenes look at some of the personalities, events, accusations & revelations that were Jersey 2019. This review is a memoir from an A Team perspective as that’s where the editor largely was, so B Squad players are mentioned only fleetingly in comparison. The balance is restored in the B Team blog however, where the reverse will no doubt happen.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this piece are those of the editor and should not be mistaken for those of GPSFA, any other member of the association or indeed anyone residing in the civilised world. This is (mostly) a work of non-fiction and as such, any resemblance to actual persons living or otherwise, events or locales, is entirely intentional.
Dramatis Personae
Players
Woody Burgess (Various): Captain Marvel. Simple as. Horrendous navigator.
Herbie Daniels (High Definition): Great hands. Nearly perfect. Except at customs.
Charlie Caple (Iron Man): Indomitable. Mostly. Nice. Always.
Stanly Freeman (Wasp; Vespula Vulgaris): Veers to the left. Veers to the right. Keeps on buzzing. Throughout the night. And day. But it doesn’t rhyme.
Sopuruchukwu Obieri (Beamer): Great left foot. Great maths. Great manners.
Todd Fieldhouse (Lettuce): Unflustered. Unflappable. Undaunted. And completely unfazed. By anything.
Archie Myatt (WC): Extremely tidy. Extremely funny. Extremes of memory. Norton’s finest. Well, equal finest.
Lewis Vye (Slider): Loves fish. Loves black boots. Particularly the soles. Of both. Loves fruit. Particularly melons. Soul food. So healthy.
Archie Millward (Mother Brown): Loves a tackle. Sometimes takes ball. Loves a header. Sometimes heads ball. Loves a pass. Sometimes passes ball. Loves a knees-up. Always.
Douglas May (the Force be With You): Pound shop; best eating buy. Specialises in close-range goals. From an inch. No more than an inch.
Matthew Jones (Full English): Character. Read on.
Others
The Chef (Andrew Foran). Cook. Driver. Conversationalist. Bruce Forsyth lookalike. Gloucester man desperately seeking friendship.
Romeo (himself). Eats. Sleeps. Eats. Chef’s carer.
Coach Wilson. Director of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors. Diary Marker. Attitude Hunter. Sudoku solver.
Coach Wixey. Good manager. Good motivator. Good man. And definitely Good Cop.
Coach Harris. Creative. Innovative. Disciple of Archimedes. And definitely Bad Cop.
Coach Stalley. Tactical. Technical. Trustworthy. Tweeter. And laundryman.
Coach Delaney. Very thoughtful. Very careful. Very considered. And a very slow driver.
The Editor. Old. Grey. Lame. And they’re the good bits.
King Pat of Jersey. Festival organiser. 45 years. Legend.
Lord Downs of Tilehurst. Jersey Festival Child Welfare Officer. Reading FC historian.
Day 1 – Saturday
‘The sun is shining, the sky is blue, Jersey’s waiting, just for you,’ sings Andrew ‘Bruce Forsyth’ Foran to his chaperone and carer, Young Romeo Foran, as we board the fun bus for the relatively short jaunt down the M4 to Southampton Airport. It’s not everyone’s idea of tuneful, or indeed accurate, and most people within a twenty-yard radius have their hands over their ears – but it’s a symbolic gesture that won’t be confined to Longlevens in the hours, days and week that lie ahead a couple of hundred miles from home.
Iron Man, as always, helps hugely with the team kit at the airport, where Werner weighs in with a bag of only 9kg to become 2019’s lightest tourist. Vye wheels his award-winning case, which boasts a picture of both a 1960s Dormobile and a Father Myatt retro outfit up to the check-in counter, gleaning envious stares from the ageing hippy with the long grey beard who’s standing utterly transfixed in the neighbouring, Malaga-bound queue.
Coach Wixey is wandering around the terminal oblivious to the big white label sticking out of the back of his jumper, while The Chef is completely oblivious to the fact that everyone’s watching him accost an extremely pleasant middle-aged couple, squeeze himself down next to them on a seat made for two and begin a one-way chat in which ‘sausage and chips’ comes up more times than even Coach Wilson can accurately calculate. These lovely people are the first of several victims in The Chef’s upcoming eight-day search for companionship, friendship and just a little bit of love on a 9x5 island not far from France.
Coach Stalley makes a complaint to security over the fact that Coach Wilson’s metallic implants, prosthetic limbs and duo of iron lungs have all failed to elicit even a single beep from the airport surveillance machine, whereas Vye is immediately accosted and detained by an enthusiastic trainee and ‘wiped down’ with a magic detection stick. In both cases, nothing is found. Well, nothing of any value, anyway.
It’s a quick old flight across the Channel and we’re in the concourse on the Jersey side before you can say ‘Hertfordshire’, where St Albans’ Coach Sanders is having a pre-festival, alphabetically-ordered rant about fixtures, flights, luggage, players, schedules and times. He eventually pauses for breath to consider who he can shout at next when a smiling Chef captures his eye. Thinking better of it, he turns on Nathan, Charlie, Matt and Tom and starts to fulminate all over again.
After a visit to the nearby beach at Havre des pas, where the sand is pleasant but the sea is cold, it’s auction time, with the players being put into three separate eating leagues and, IPL-like, sold to the highest bidder.
Jones (£15), Obieri (£10), Daniels (£8) and Burgess (£6) make up the Premiership League; Caple (£8), Millward (£6), Vye (£5) and Freeman (£3) constitute the Championship, while Fieldhouse (£11.99??), May (£1) and Myatt (1p) are the combatants in the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve League. Team Wilson (WB, SO, SF & AMi) sit at the far end of the table, Team Ade (LV, HD, TF & AMy) in the middle and Team Bob (MJ, CC & DM) at the near end. We’re in for dinner now and the talking’s over – let the eating battle begin….
Vye wipes out Lemon sole fillet & asparagus in Sauce Parisian with all the trimmings in three minutes flat and immediately establishes himself as the initial favourite to win the Championship. Myatt leaves roast lamb, potatoes, peas and most of the Chicken noodle salad starter to immediately render the Pig Farmers’ division a two-horse race. Millward, May and Caple sensibly go for the Spanish omelette, downing it without a hitch; Fieldhouse leaves both lamb and an eating point at the table, while High Definition is also a point down after eighteen peas and seven sweetcorn kernels are found lurking near the left-hand edge of his plate. Burgess, Obieri and Freeman are metronomically LICS-ing (Lift-In-Chew-Swallow), while Jones shows his early mettle by LIS-ing (Lift-In-Swallow), chewing clearly takes too much time for the Premiership bookmakers’ odds-on ‘banker’.
Ice cream’s a clear favourite for dessert, but the traditional meat & two-vegers (Caple, Millward & Jones) wolf down treacle sponge and custard as if there’s no tomorrow. If any of my three investments lets me down at any point this week, there most certainly won’t be.
On the third floor, rooms are allocated and partnerships established. May the Force be With You & Full English are in 352, Mother Brown, Vespula Vulgaris & Slider inhabit 354, while Captain Marvel and his Kree Warrior friends, Lettuce & High Definition are billeted in 356. There are dinner-plate smiles from both Iron Man and Beamer as they learn that they’re sharing with WC – expressions that will quickly wane and completely disappear as the ensuing seconds, rather than minutes, hours or days, pass inexorably by.
Meanwhile, on the ground floor, just around the corner from reception, the pre-festival staff weigh-in with King Pat at the scales and Lord Downs of Tilehurst in attendance, is in full flow. There are no surprises: Orpington are the oldest, Wokingham the youngest and bluest; Plymouth have the most kits, Newbury have a manager who looks the most like Peter Kay, Gloucester are the most immobile and St Albans are the heaviest. Just like last year then.
Day 2 - Sunday
Morning has broken, but there are no blackbirds, only people. Myatt’s in the shower no more than eight hours after his last dousing, desperately trying to remove as much skin as possible from the small of his back before we go down to the eatery. He’s late for the first time this week (if you discount yesterday’s late-for-dinner-minus-a-point-starter-for-ten), though eventually we all convene for breakfast in the very pleasant hotel restaurant.
Jones is about to live up to his nom de plume and ingests two bread rolls, two slices of water melon, two slices of pineapple and a bowl of coco pops which he eats, Noah-like, in twos as well. This is followed by a genuinely Full English (egg, bacon sausage, hash brown, black pudding & tomato), all swilled down with a black coffee (no sugar). Vye gets through his thirty five-a-day (portions of fruit) in a little under three minutes, Iron Man’s pushed to the limit to magic away half a tomato, while Myatt looks as if he’s suffering from a bout of hydrophobia, such is the ferocity of the milk stain that’s currently circumnavigating the perimeter of his mouth.
The FB Fields are again in fine condition and we’re granted first use of pitch one, though it’s Thurrock that apply themselves better and a double strike in each half gives them a comprehensive opening day victory. The Yellows fare more positively against Jersey B and come away with a six-goal win, Zak Jones demonstrating a rare talent in notching the fifth by aiming his back at the ball while staring in completely the opposite direction. He obviously thought Coach Harris was speaking.
In today’s other opening games, Wokingham see off St Albans, Jersey A demolish Barking and Plymouth, playing in green, share no goals with Orpington.
One good bit from today’s outing is that the proportion of Gloucester players wearing black boots has now reached nearly fifty per cent, which considering that ninety per cent of the country’s sports store boot-stock is currently fluorescent something or other, is a very noble effort indeed.
May, Vye and Millward plump for lunchtime macaroni cheese, which famously did for ‘I promise I won’t ever let you down’ Aden Baldwin on the Wednesday of the 2008 Jersey sojourn. How Bristol City were persuaded to sign someone who lies like that is a subject that causes better people than the editor a season and a bit of completely sleepless nights. Back to the present and Vye and May clear their macaroni-infested plates (Vye: three minutes twelve seconds; May: thirty three minutes twelve seconds), while Todd eats cod in an effort to add a bit of poetic licence to proceedings. Only Myatt leaves any chips, but his fish has disappeared (though nobody’s quite sure where) and Jones downs a slice of raw lemon in an effort to quell the hunger pangs, having gone ninety seconds without swallowing anything.
There are three teams of budding Tiger’s at Les Roccos Crazy Golf, a colourful creation of bridges, dominoes and castles, which just goes to show the positive effect that ten metres of astroturf and a lick of magnolia can have. The team leaders report back: Fieldhouse is the best, but Vye isn’t in the Burgess ranks; Millward’s the finest but Myatt isn’t in High Definition’s quorum, while Stan’s the man and Caple’s the boy according to Captain Caple himself. Jones’s effectiveness meanwhile is limited due to a putting style that lends itself more to a forward defensive at Lord’s than a place in the Master’s. ‘I want to play in the IPL when I’m older,’ he reveals. Presumably that’s because there’s a help-yourself buffet and a free bar on offer afterwards.
Next up it’s Les Quennevais; a hidden gem in that no-one else seems to know of its existence. As such, there are only about ten people in the pool before eleven more descend on the mats, tyres and other assorted inflatables that are floating around on the surface. The Yellows meanwhile are living it up at St Ouen, where sand and ice creams are the order of the day. Mr Whippy is hugely excited at the prospect of an unexpected team sell, but thrills turn to spills at the sighting of The Chef at the back of the burgeoning queue. He’s already engaged in an enthusiastic ‘I’m from Glawwwster’ conversation with two contrasting couples – one older and one younger – yet connected at the hip by their fervent desire to move to pastures new as quickly as is humanly possible and four prospective buyers have suddenly been lost forever. The Chef, his social appetite sated for a couple of minutes unexpectedly waits for the last player to lick the chocolate off the top of his Magnum, before moving in for a one-way chat with the unfortunate server, only to find the counter has been boarded shut and the owner’s got away via the rear fire exit a good half minute before ‘Hi, I’m Andy from Gloucester,’ has got anywhere near his ears.
Burgess attempts to direct the mini bus home, though eight of his nine junction choices are incorrect, reminding everyone of that fateful day at Twycross Zoo when he took us to the gorillas instead of the giraffes, though at least he got the initial letter correct.
Jones orders goats cheese tart, explaining to everyone at length the accrued nutritional benefits of the offering, together with how partial he is to this particular dish. ‘It’s not camembert,’ he squeals on his first bite and takes an age thereafter to complete its removal, thus raising genuine concerns regarding his Premiership ‘favourite’ tag. Myatt steals the show with a display of capital city knowledge that would have Miss Bussey coming out in either a cold sweat or a whole-body rash if only she knew about this University Challenge application that’s taking place over two hundred miles from Tivoli Villas as the crow flies.
TRI (The Room Inspector) has been out and about with his little black book; 355 has achieved a 600% increase on its marks in totalling 6, which is pretty remarkable seeing as WC’s living there and Iron Man has failed to flush the loo. 352 has gone up an unbelievable 800% thanks largely to Jones’s unlikely initiative and May’s efforts to do as he’s told; 356 has achieved a Bo Derek (Perfect 10), much to Wasp’s, Slider’s and Mother Brown’s obvious glee, while 354 is just half a point behind due solely to Lettuce’s nice red shoes being slightly askew at the end of a long line of footwear that otherwise forms a perfectly straight line that’s not only parallel to, but also just touching the newly-painted skirting board.
Jones seeks a diary time-out and sneaks off to use the facilities, much to the horror of all those sitting on that side of the room. Ten minutes later he returns, leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar. ‘Camembert?’ inquires Millward. No-one replies.
Day Three – Monday
Pain au Chocolat is the order of a very pseudo-middle class morning; High Definition, Wasp and May the Force be With You each consume three, but Obieri leads the way with the proverbial foursome. Coco pops seems to be the most popular cereal, with almost fifty per cent indulging, some more than once.
The Melon Monster is down to a nice round dozen this morning, which suggests that yesterday might just have been a flash in the fruit pan, while Full English seems to be taking stock of the situation by only imbibing bacon, sausage and beans after his accumulated array of colourful appetisers.
Myatt’s concentration on breakfast duties is impeccable, as is his focus on ensuring his plasters are attached to the right bits of his body before leaving the confines of his room, though he just misses out on a hat trick of successes by arriving at the mini bus minus his boots, shin pads, kit bag, drink, warm up top and casual clothes for later on. By the time he’s got back to the bus on returning from 355, where he’s scooped up most of the missing items from the flotsam which used to be known as the floor it’s almost afternoon, so he’s slightly unsure whether he should be wearing his casuals or his playing kit. Coach Stalley meanwhile, who’s taken over bus driving duties for the time being, accelerates down St Saviour Road with a vengeance and after a three-minute trip which sees the rev counter fail to drop beneath 2500, we arrive at the FB in time to walk onto pitch four and play.
After yesterday’s setback, it’s a relief when Obieri turns inside to give us the lead and just before half time the striker takes one touch too many, then one touch too many, then one touch too many, then fires in our second from the acutest of angles to prove that you don’t have to do everything right to score great goals. Jon Blackwell did the same in the Southern Counties Cup semi final against Sutton back in March 2005, in the halcyon days when coaches were allowed to run the length of the pitch in unbridled jubilation; now a limp on the spot and a pump of the fists is all that’s permitted by that most bureaucratic of administrative bodies - The Society of Physical Limitations.
Obieri completes his treble with a second half drive into the far corner and a fine finish from Vye completes a reversal of yesterday’s scoreline, but despite the eventual disparity in goals scored, the performances of Millward, Caple and Freeman in the Gloucester back line play a big part in today’s success.
Hot-footing it across to pitch two, the Yellows are taking on Plymouth in a game that captures everyone’s imagination, based on comments that will be made by neutral observers over the course of the next five days. There’s an awful lot of grit and no little skill, backed up by two great saves from Boakes, the second of which almost gets HD to his feet in excitement, which isn’t always easy when he’s ensconced in the reclining position. With nine minutes remaining – pandemonium; Villiers dinks in following Fisher’s assist, an act that almost precipitates a pitch invasion by the Yellow & Black touchline masses.
In the end Plymouth, today playing in their all white kit, score three times in the dying minutes, but it’s been a great effort from all concerned and there’s a feeling that today, in a strictly footballing sense, both teams have really arrived in Jersey.
One person who’s not quite arrived, in a directional sense at any rate, is Captain Burgess, who takes over navigational duties again in an attempt to get us back to The Mayfair in double-slow time by making thirteen incorrect calls out of a possible fourteen decisions. Not good.
Obieri decides to take a post-lunch shower and is absent without leave at the initial post meridian roll-call. There’s no need to worry though – he’s spread out on his bed, festooned in a knee-length navy bathrobe, looking every inch like an eleven-year-old Julius Caesar. Coach Wilson carries out an immediate search to see if he can find a less-young Cleopatra lurking anywhere close. He can’t, much to his obvious disappointment.
Coach Delaney’s arrival on the island has been delayed by a family holiday in Portugal, but he’s on his way now according to the curious world of text messaging. Which bit of on his way however remains pretty unclear as Coach Stalley relays his whereabouts as being in three completely different locations in the space of just five and a half minutes. Eventually he concludes it’s probably unnecessary to shoot off to the airport to collect him just yet as it looks like he’s still waiting to check in at Southampton.
So, we head into St Helier with Burgess, in a selfless attempt at personal redemption, leading the way down four wrong streets, three incorrect lefts, two false rights and a pheasant in a pear tree. It’s a wonder any shops are still open by the time we arrive on the pedestrianised thoroughfare, but after a recce is completed, instructions relayed, finances distributed and a pizzeria fire observed (from a distance), the local shopkeepers can be seen enthusiastically rubbing their grubby mitts in anticipation of an unexpected Monday afternoon windfall.
JD Sports, an outlet that clearly no-one in Gloucester has ever visited before, is the first store to encounter The Swarm, which in terms of both title and content would have made a rather good Hitchcock movie.
There’s a similar, though not quite as big surge at the sight of USC, which is apparently a designer clothing chain boasting some pretty nifty carrier bags. On the individualistic front, Jones visits a jewellery shop and Millward browses the ancient history section at Waterstone’s. Neither buys anything.
Ten minutes later there’s a reflection and review moment, culminating in Obieri and Myatt returning to JD and receiving a refund on their overpriced t-shirts. Emboldened, Burgess and Vye return to USC to do the same with their £35 blue, red & white hoodies, only to find the swap-back system’s not in place here and they’re stuck with their purchases. Most people buy presents for family members, including HD who systematically searches the shelves before choosing a corkscrew for his dad and two people, who shall remain nameless for the time being, splash out on their mothers and buy each of them a 40p Jersey postcard. Don’t worry mum - it’s the thought that counts.
Coach Stalley nips off to the airport as Coach Delaney, eagle-like, has finally landed and soon after the pair turn up at Aqua Splash, where Coach Harris is being simultaneously attacked by eight wide-eyed boys at once.
Archimedes' Principle states that the upward buoyant force that is exerted on a body immersed in a fluid, whether fully or partially submerged, is equal to the weight of the fluid that the body displaces and acts in the upward direction at the centre of mass of the displaced fluid.
So, basically what happens is, Coach Harris, having spent a couple of minutes on the side to give the multitude of scratches on his back and shoulders a moment or two to heal, jumps back in, displaces an equal amount of water to the size of his torso and floods the seating area to a depth of twelve inches. It’s like a one-man wave machine creating a life-threatening tsunami.
Dinner time and it’s hot wings for starters. Caple: ‘The sauce is really spicy on my tongue, which is why I’m only taking small bites.’ Jones: ‘I don’t care how spicy they are, only whether there’s enough of them.’ As such, he glances left before gathering in and demolishing High Definition’s ‘They’re far too hot for me’ appetiser, eventually piling the six remnant bones one on top of the other in a Neanderthal-inspired tableau of leftovers. Having already considered our table to be akin to a Darwinian timeline, the painfully harsh realisation kicks in that we’re almost certainly occupying the original end.
Day Four – Tuesday
This is certainly a healthier generation than in days of yore, as fruit, muesli (and coco pops) are again the order of the day, with most people thankfully eating each item separately. Jose (the waiter not the manager) is struggling this morning and forgets five orders of the cooked part of breakfast, much to the obvious concern of Full English, who has no idea what he’ll do later in the day without his full complement of early-morning beans.
Iron Man has concerns too, but they’re nothing to do with breakfast. His socks have been washed in a hundred-degree machine at the launderette and they’ve shrunk to the point where they barely cover his ankles, with the bottoms of his shin pads in full view. Myatt meanwhile, much to everyone’s relief has remembered his kit, but has to rush back to his room as he’s now forgotten his plasters. Another three-minute, three-thousand rev trip ensues and we arrive at the fields minus any footballs, an oversight that ends with Millward being blamed, probably because he’s got the same initials as Myatt.
The parents clearly enjoyed last night’s Fancy Dress Party in the Merton as no-one’s changed their outfit since. Father Freeman just beat Mother Freeman in the Bobble Hat supporting act, while in the main event there was a third place for Captain Scott Daniels, who was a little disappointed with his final placing as he’d gone to a considerable amount of trouble (and expense), embellishing his ‘retro explorer’ entry with a thirty-minute powerpoint and twenty-picture slideshow detailing his latest solo trek across Antarctic, and second spot for Father Myatt, who swapped his Sunday/Monday early 70s faux-brown-leather jacket for a late 70s bottle green tracksuit, with three stripes on each arm to suggest he’s now an officer as well as a gentleman. In first place however was Mother Daniels who, with her yellow earrings, yellow horns, yellow winkle-pickers, black trousers, yellow patterned shawl and yellow nail varnish assumed a stationary position in the middle of the main stage while a rather shy Portuguese waiter placed a free-standing placard bearing the word ‘Supporter’ at her feet and the entire hotel stood and applauded and whooped and cheered and hollered and waved as the Gloucester crowd sang, ‘Mich-elle Daniels, she’s one of our own,’ until circa three o’clock in the morning.
Orpington are today’s opposition and Burgess curls in his first free kick of the week to put us ahead and with the Kent team playing a pleasingly high line, Obieri overcomes a protracted bout of chronic agoraphobia by exploiting the wide open spaces of south east Jersey to add two more before the interval.
Everyone performs as well after the break as they did before it and a fine strike from Vye and a spot kick from Burgess tie up a 5-1 win. In today’s other games, the Bs go down to Hackney by a single goal, Wokingham beat Jersey A 1-0 and Plymouth, today playing in Seville Orange, edge out St Albans by the odd goal in five.
Vye has taken a stud to the foot and a bag of ice from the hotel bar before being heard to claim, ‘I’m not the only one with a limp,’ an assertion that proves extremely hurtful to anyone within hearing distance.
There’s a delay leaving for the afternoon trip to Gorey due to Myatt forgetting his swimming kit and Fieldhouse play-fighting with Obieri. ‘Pick on someone your own size,’ says Obieri, before hiding in the back seat of the mini bus with his hands over his eyes.
The fashion stakes have been upped today, with Burgess and Vye modelling their brand new USC hoodies, though you can see why they were so desperate to return them yesterday as ‘Levi’s’ is written the wrong way around. May the Force be With You is resplendent in a pair of starry shorts that make his lower half resemble a cross between the American and Australian flags, while Myatt and Jones have each donned a pair of sliders in order to try to look cool and keep their feet cool in equal measure.
Mont Orgueil Castle, a thirteenth century edifice is as imposing in real life as it is on virtually every Jersey postcard, including the two that the aforementioned mums will soon receive, and the Wounded Man sculpture, prisoners’ tower, emergency well, stocks, pillory and impressive keep all hold the attention of some of the tourists, though the medieval latrine holds the attention of everyone, with one team member in particular being enthralled by the six-hundred year old scenario that’s unfolding in his somewhat warped imagination.
Coach Stalley’s photographing everything that moves and all those that don’t and his all-seeing eye picks out HD and Mother Brown looking completely miserable during the pre-castle history lesson, while Wasp has his hands over his face suggesting he can barely bring himself to watch. Or listen. Or even buzz.
There’s an ice cream break and a peek at a huge black dog that’s refusing to move out of the water before an hour on Gorey Beach is spent practising cartwheels, playing tag rugby, paddling in the sea, burying Myatt in the sand and waiting for the tide to come in. Or maybe it’s the coach asleep ten yards further along the front that induces the Canute-like incantations for the water to rise and engulf all that lies within its path.
It’s duck or salmon in hollandaise sauce for dinner, but Iron Man’s rivets are playing him up, so he beats a begrudging retreat to the sanctity of the Obieri/Myatt-less Room 355 with a couple of Calpol for company. His last words, ‘Will I lose any eating marks?’ are a poignant reminder to everyone, that there is no place for sympathy in the white-hot atmosphere of the Jersey Festival eating competition. Minus two, then.
‘That’s a quacking good meal,’ exhorts The Chef, to those he thinks will listen on our table on eyeing his duck leg in plum sauce; no-one laughs, though Jack from Wokingham looks game from a distance, so he sidles across to the Buckinghamshire lot in search of someone/anyone who’ll chortle along with his newly-contrived joke. ‘That’s a quacking good meal,’ says The Chef once more in his best Bruce Forsyth accent, looking from Jack to Stuart to Alan to Alice and back to Jack in search of a response, positive or otherwise, but none transpire. ‘Not sure about that Wokingham lot,’ opines the returning Chef as he sucks a dollop of sauce off his forefinger, ‘they used to be such fun in the good old days….’
Day Five – Wednesday
The FA has launched an investigation into football-related betting as Coach Delaney has taken over the mini bus driving, for today at any rate. Ladbrokes have suspended any further wagers due to the reporting of unnatural trends at their St Helier office and the odds of 1:40 on CD pranging the bus again are proving too good for punters from both far and wide to turn down. Hopefully the valuable, yet traumatic experience gained during last year’s trip (‘I just wasn’t aware that the Gorey road had a moving wall’) will stand him in better stead this time around.
The faith-healing properties of Calpol have weaved their mysterious powers overnight and Iron Man is fit, well and raring to go on this distinctly sunny Channel Island morning. Also raring to go is Fiona from Orpington, whose bright red top attracted The Chef to the Kentish table a good thirty five minutes ago and it’s a good thirty four minutes since she first said, ‘I’ve just got to check on the boys.’ Usually a very chirpy lady, Fiona’s current jaundiced look of helplessness makes her appear like a Russian dissident who’s just spent the first thirty five minutes of a twenty five year sentence in some Siberian gulag or other.
Surprisingly, we arrive at the FB unscathed if not on time, wearing yesterday’s unwashed kit in the hope that the odour will keep the opposition at bay during any attacking sorties they may launch. It’s a ruse that has little effect on Wokingham however, whose sense of smell has never been one of their stronger attributes and the Blues take the lead from the spot midway through the first half.
Burgess drags us level via a free kick shortly before the interval and with the revitalised Caple in fine form at the back, Vye and Burgess competing well in central midfield and High Definition pulling off an excellent second half save, we hang on in until six minutes from time when Wokingham capitalise on some hesitant defending to net what turns out to be the winner.
There’s some understandable disappointment amongst the troops, but we trek over to Pitch One to see the Yellows overturn Orpington B by a single goal, while on other swards, Orpington A are beating Jersey A, St Albans are losing to Hackney and Plymouth are drawing with Thurrock, having reverted to their opening day, Pilgrim Green kit.
The Chef has been engaging John from Bishop Auckland in some riveting pitchside conversation about the accrued benefits of eating deep-fried food on a five-a-day basis, but when John’s attention’s diverted for a couple of seconds due to a double whistle from the referee, Chef turns back to his northern friend only to find he’s long since disappeared in the general direction of the town centre. When Malcolm from Fulham says, ‘Morning Andy,’ and keeps on walking, Chef, in a fit of unadulterated pique, saunters over to the car park, removes the magnetic Wokingham sign from the front of their mini bus and attaches it to the Orpington vehicle instead. ‘That’s for being less fun than you were in the good old days,’ he tells himself, as no-one’s within earshot, even if he’d thought of using a loudhailer.
Back in 2011, The Chef discovered that Pierre Le Saux, father of the former England footballer Graeme, was one of the groundsmen at the FB Fields and immediately made a beeline for this pleasant, unassuming man who was renowned for having a kind word for everyone. He’d have had a kind word for Brucie too, if only he could have got one in, but for the next six days he was subjected to a monologue so insistent that neither perpetrator nor victim had time to draw but a single breath. ‘See you next year,’ shouted The Chef as he bade Pierre a fond goodbye after the final day matches, only to find that in 2012 and every year thereafter, Pierre has changed his annual leave from August to April and during festival week ever since, has been hiring a one-star croft in the Shetland Islands without, as yet, being brave enough to leave any indication of a forwarding address.
Back in the hotel, Vye and Caple have lost their kit bags and a search & rescue mission is commandeered, but to no avail. Jones treats everyone to post-lunch renditions of ‘Rocket Man’, ‘Uptown Girl’ and ‘Highway to Heaven’, but the general consensus is that he shouldn’t give up the day job. In 354, Vye and Freeman lock Millward in the bathroom and gain an attitude point each for enterprise.
Coach Delaney climbs back into the driver’s seat to transport us at an average of fourteen miles per hour to Greve de Lecq, a lovely little beach near the north west corner of the island. We take so long to get there that the tide’s nearly in, but no-one wants to upset the driver, so we retire to the beachside café instead.
There’s an interesting array of shorts available to onlookers as GPSFA descend the steps to the sandy front, while Fieldhouse models a t-shirt with some golden mythological creature adorning the front as well as the inside. Jones has next to nothing on, much to the horror of the general public, while he and Caple stand underneath the freezing cold waterfall for some unknown reason. A dare, perhaps?
Burgess takes over navigation duties for the return trip and fails to register a single correct call on the entire journey back to the hotel; he later writes on his mum’s postcard that he’s got 40 out of 41 calls wrong so far this week, which is a complete and utter exaggeration as it’s nearer 70 out of 71, but no-one has the heart to tell him.
The Caple and Vye bags eventually turn up and it’s later discovered that The Chef, no less, has hidden them. At least it’s given him something to chat about, but as no-one seems to want to join in, he sidles off to his room for a good old-fashioned sulk instead.
TRI (The Room Inspector) provides everyone with a summation of the new structure for the appraisal and evaluation (A & E) of the players’ bedsits. Basically, he informs them, he holds the title of Director of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors (DRIRI), while Coaches Stalley and Delaney, for the second Jersey running, are attempting to pass their end-of-season exams in order to graduate to the institute as fully fledged RIs. As such, they currently hold the title of Fellows of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors (FRIRIs). The upshot of all this nonsense is that the rooms receive a double inspection and the hovel that is 355 receives the first-ever Jersey Tour zero grading.
For those unwilling to believe that any room can score this poorly, here is the list of the main things that are wrong: The large suitcase is unemptied and as such that person’s clothes are not in the drawers or wardrobe; the suitcase itself is lying in the middle of the floor; a football bag is also lying in the middle of the floor; empty and half-empty drinks bottles are on the floor and in the drawers; clothes are littering the floor and covering the bed; there are half a dozen unwrapped sweets scattered around on the floor, the wardrobe door’s open; the bed is messed up; footwear is strewn everywhere and in the bathroom, the towel is on the floor, there’s sand in the bath, the toilet’s not flushed and there’s a general lack of PPA (Parallel. Perpendicular. Always) overriding everything else. And that’s only Myatt’s bit.
Day Six – Thursday
There are four quiffs on parade at this morning’s corridor roll-call: Caple’s is no more than a ripple on the rocks, Jones’s looks a bit like a wave washing serenely onto the shore on a nice calm day, May’s is the size of a roller crashing into the cliffs on a particularly stormy evening, while Burgess’s creation is so big it resembles in both size and power the torrent unleashed by Coach Harris at Aqua Splash on Monday afternoon. Myatt has a neatly parted and copiously gelled look, Millward an interestingly spiked entity that looks a bit like a harpoon on the front of a whaling vessel, Vye a random fringe of the type made popular by those dreadful boy bands of the late 90s and an arrangement which seems to have taken on a mind and a life all of its own, while HD has goalkeeper’s hair – it’s just there. Freeman, Obieri and Fieldhouse, who are acutely aware of the survey that’s taking place not a million miles from their whereabouts, keep a low profile and appear to talk earnestly between themselves while keeping their backs to the assembled throng.
Freeman’s instigating a discussion based around what he (thinks he) can get away with calling the coaches and after several ‘interesting’ suggestions are met with both threats and promises relating to a slow and painful demise settles on ‘Henry’, after the name on our room cleaner’s slow-moving vacuum cleaner. Twenty years ago he’d have been caught and slaughtered on the spot, but these days only Coach Delaney can run, but he’s still smarting from yesterday’s murmurings about his driving speed and refuses to move, which based on the recent momentum of our vehicle is pretty much par for the course.
Game five sees Gloucester establish a two-goal lead over Newbury inside the first ten minutes; the first comes after a fine move down the left involving ‘Double F’ (Freeman and Fieldhouse), the latter’s cross being neatly headed home by May at the back post. Moments later, May’s anticipation bears more fruit after the keeper blocks Obieri’s initial effort, the energetic midfielder nodding home, again somewhere in the region of the rear stick.
Newbury respond well however, reducing the arrears either side of two fine saves from High Definition and it’s a pretty even contest until Vye curls in a well struck free kick to make it 3-1. Daniels, Fieldhouse and May come out with the highest match marks of the day and bask in the reflected glory while watching the Yellows edge out both Barking & Dagenham by the odd goal in five, even though they don’t know their scores yet.
Pulling the fab three away from their reverie, Coach Stalley organises the eleven black & yellow players into a one with two zeroes to commemorate the occasion of our hundredth Jersey win. It’s been twenty nine years in the making and every player that’s visited the island from 1990 onwards has contributed to the figure, so a massive thanks to one and all. In terms of 2018/19 milestones however, it’s another marker to add to the ever-expanding list which is playing absolute havoc with The Chairman’s statistical records that are stashed in the nuclear bunker that lies a hundred feet beneath Highnam Villas.
In the day’s other games, Hackney have beaten St Albans, Wokingham have seen off Thurrock and Plymouth, playing in their fourth different kit of the week – a rather fetching black number – let a three-goal lead slip to draw with their, eventually at any rate, very happy island hosts.
Iron Man fakes a bad leg and limps past his parents in an attempt to elicit a tad of saliva-based sympathy; he’s completely ignored however by both Mother & Father Ted, so charges off to play football with his mates instead. Thank goodness First Ade wasn’t required, as he’s far too busy uploading the photos onto both the GPSFA’s and his own personal twitter account.
It’s undercooked burger & chips for lunch, but we make a swift getaway afterwards as Coach Stalley’s in the driver’s seat. The results of a hastily convened straw poll of the playing staff, regarding who’s the most effective chauffeur to date this week are as predictable as the winner of the next North Korean general election: First Ade, second Ed, third Henry.
We grind to a halt in the disabled section of the Amaizin Maze car park, which is about the only thing a gammy leg is good for, put the blue sign in the front window and wander over for the annual negotiation with the reception lady that eventually leads to ten per cent being knocked off the final bill.
For those that haven’t had the pleasure of a day at the adventure park, the euphemistically named Amaizin Maze is a collection of slides, sand, water, tractor rides, crazy golf, things to climb in, things to climb on and things to walk past as quickly as possible; basically a load of absolute tat that the kids love from virtually the first minute till the last.
There’s a pleasant café however and Coach Harris has volunteered to wander round in a supervisory role, primarily so he can have a go on as many rides as possible, ‘whoop’ down as many slides as possible and spray water over as many people as possible without any snide references to either Archimedes or the Theory of Relative Displacement.
The Chef, today dressed in a hooped black & amber polo shirt that makes him look more like a wasp than Vespula Vulgaris himself also wanders off, but only to the table occupied by the Barking & Dagenham coaches about twenty yards away. ‘Nice to see you,’ he chortles, using his best Bruce Forsyth impression, an introduction that sees Dave immediately need to go off and oversee the children on the tractor ride, while Martin suddenly feels a desperate need to visit the loo. He’s soon back though as Jones is already in there, so nips off to supervise the completely empty shop instead.
Barking Graeme, whose magnificent auburn beard makes him look like a Dagenham freedom fighter and an appendage on which Coach Delaney is carefully modelling his own ‘five-year plan’, is well and truly trapped, but Captain Oates-like, sacrifices himself by fixing The Chef with an Essex stare while making explicit references to Strictly Come Dancing and The Generation Game, a manoeuvre that gives Barking Pete the opportunity to sneak off the other side of the table and quickly hide behind a strange wooden castle that’s seen much better days, before the 4’ 6” Amaizin security man shouts ‘Time up, all out!’ Barking Graeme, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth takes full advantage of Bruce being distracted for a couple of seconds and legs it, meaning that when The Chef turns back, he’s left chortling at a completely empty space.
It’s ‘Football’s Coming Home’ on the return journey, but with First Ade at the wheel, we’re back before anyone realises we’ve even left. The two people whose initials are AM annoy Obieri in some mysterious way as we clamber off the bus, but stop immediately he threatens to eat them both – one for starters and the other for mains. He looks round considering who he can imbibe for dessert, sees Jones and immediately decides to stick to two courses instead of three.
High Definition chooses ‘Duo of smoked fish’ for the real starter, but after taking one look at the offering, curls up his entire face in complete disgust. Withdrawing both his knife & fork and his wish to continue in a sequence that makes synchronised swimming appear ordinary, means he virtually cements fourth (last) place in The Premiership. Slider and Henry, neither of whom have any principles whatsoever, clear HD’s plate to make him feel better, but it’s minus one nonetheless. Next up it’s roast lion (of pork) and Myatt isn’t the only one whose face lapses into a five-minute frown at the prospect of tonight’s ‘mane’ meal. LOL.
Jones meanwhile has gone for chicken in some fancy Italian sauce and finishes up with half a gallon of deep red, Cacciatore-based make-up on both his lips and his cheeks, making him look like a stone age warrior without the spear. There’s nothing left on his plate though, not even a pattern, which is no surprise to anyone as he’s the only person in the eating room whose oesophagus is the diameter of his entire neck.
Day Seven – Friday
It’s Good Friday, but words are cheap and we’ll see how everything pans out before finalising our adjectives for 19th April.
It’s an 11.15 kick-off on the festival’s final playing day, so we arrive in the restaurant at the latest possible time, just as everyone else is making their way out with a fervour that suggests a fire alarm’s gone off somewhere. As we take our seats however, the reason for the mass exodus becomes abundantly clear; Bruce is standing beside the middle pillar talking ‘with’ Fiona from Orpington for the second time this week and the 157 remaining players, coaches – and by the look of the rather slow service, waiters and other hotel staff too, have made for the exits as a lemming might make for the nearest available precipice.
May has taken up the mantle of Pain au Chocolat man; as he’s only dropped one eating point so far, the Force appears to still be with him as he leads the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve League by five points from Lettuce and around a hundred from Myatt. In all fairness though, the latter is enjoying a late – and one hates to say, impressive – surge in terms of marks, if not league position or relative rankings. Slider meanwhile continues his assault on the world’s melon resources and is in danger of acquiring yet another nom de plume, while Jones is observing today’s religious undertones by devouring as many hot cross buns as is humanly possible.
There’s a competition, led by First Ade, that’s been ongoing for around twenty four hours now, with participants required to name a football team that no-one else has come up with, which begins with a specific letter of the alphabet. For ‘B’, we’ve had Boory (Bury), Bolton and the B Team and we get to ‘O’ before Freeman eventually triumphs with Oldham, though HD isn’t too happy with the adjudicator’s insistence that Leyton comes before Orient and it therefore doesn’t count.
‘Fiona’s going to Thailand instead of coming to Jersey next year,’ laments The Chef, as he takes his seat and sadly spreads a sliver of apricot jam on his lightly buttered toast. ‘That is such a crying shame.’
Despite the late and relaxed start to breakfast, the last part’s a bit of a rush as Ed’s driving today and we need to leave by 10.15 to ensure we get to the game on time. We do, just, thanks largely to all the lights being green and Myatt having remembered his kit, his plasters and himself, all on the same day.
The Yellows have dismantled their St Albans counterparts by the time we arrive at the FB, which is sad news for the three departing St Albans coaches who are retiring at the end of the season, but probably decent news for the springs in the 2020 Festival Scales that are used for the annual weigh-in. Happy retirement men, one hates to admit we might even miss you.
Hackney take a 12th minute lead with a fine strike at the Athletics Track End in a first half that has plenty of Gloucester huff and puff, but few signs of an end result. The second period is better however, Obieri brings us level, a Burgess free kick, sandwiched between woodwork crunchers from both Myatt and Obieri puts us ahead and the same player nets his second spot kick in six days to make it five set piece goals in the week. Danny Wallington, a centre back whose throw-ins propelled a ball further than most people can kick it netted six set pieces in six days in 2002 – three free kicks, two penalties and a corner that swung straight in, so Burgess still has plenty of work to do.
Elsewhere, Thurrock go down 4-0 to Orpington to complete an almost perfect turnaround as the week has gone on, St Albans ‘A’ finally register a victory and Plymouth, reverting to their all-white kit, much to the disappointment of both their players & parents who last night were indulging in a spot of spread betting as to the colour and design of yet another new strip, with a further flutter on whether the shirts would have proper collars or not, sharing no goals with Wokingham, who finish the festival with the best overall record for the third year running.
Caple will score a ‘9’ for his heroic, non-limping performance today, a display that mixes girders, rivets and a can of WD40 into a ‘They shall not pass’ recipe. Myatt and Burgess are today’s other fast-flyers in the match marks, though the same can’t be said for the mini bus as we edge along La Rouge Bouillion, arriving back at The Mayfair just before the fish fingers run out.
It’s the last afternoon, which means a low-tide whole-squad walk along the causeway to La Corbiere lighthouse, a wild promontory on the south west corner of the island, from which the next encounter with land is the east coast of America, some four thousand miles across The Pond. Coach Harris, relieved the watery expanse known as sea is still some distance away and keeping well clear of any tantalising rock pools, leads the 22 over the Corbiere boulders, with Second Ed once again bringing up the rear. No surprise there then.
The sun is beating down, the cloudless sky an azure blue and the temperature well into the 20s, but Mason insists on wearing a showerproof and Obieri a hoody, just in case things take a turn for the worse. Perspiration is a great help to anyone undertaking a post-tour diet, but both Mason and Obieri lose half a stone before we’ve even got off the causeway.
The navigator’s insistence that ‘I’ve been coming here for nearly half my life and we certainly don’t need a Sat Nav,’ proves as far off the mark as his chronological calculations and after two wrong turns we rack up at St Brelade’s beach, much to the annoyance of both Wixey and Harris who are waiting for us over at St Ouen.
Nigel Mansell’s south-facing mansion is close to here, but Second Ed chooses to ignore any references to the former Formula One world champion as we sit on the balcony of the Golden Sands watching the players splash in the sea, build sandcastles and indulge in a spot of mid-April sunbathing as Jersey 2019 draws ever-closer to a conclusion.
May’s sandcastle is the best – according to himself, while Fieldhouse struggles to change out of his beachwear into something more appropriate, successfully using a big white bath towel as a protective shield – again according to himself. And Second Ed is apparently not as slow a driver as everyone tries to make out, to complete a trilogy of ‘According to Yourselves’ as we board the bus and hot-foot it back to The Mayfair with First Ade at the wheel.
It’s the final dinner and for some unknown reason, Burgess, Caple, Jones (Z) and Ball aren’t called to the front to deliver their perfectly crafted speeches to the assembled masses, though they will regale their teammates with their thoughts and recollections from a position on the second step once the evening’s formalities are finally completed.
There’s a spot of controversy at dinner as to whether Vye and Burgess have eaten all their steak, but the jury eventually finds that both parties are innocent of deception, while May is threatened with the deduction of several attitude points if he continues his protestations to the contrary. Obieri and Freeman clear their plates too, despite some of the steak being so rare that that Super Vet bloke off the telly could probably have revived it. ‘I’ve just heard it moo,’ observes Caple, as if to emphasise that vegetarianism is still light years away for anyone in a GPSFA tie and jumper.
There’s a calm and relaxed atmosphere on the other teams’ tables, with staff and children quietly chatting to each other and waiters going about their duties free of the wild-eyed look that has seemingly haunted them for the past seven days. It’s probably coincidence that The Chef and his carer had to catch the 14.30 flight back to Bristol earlier today, but whatever the reason, there’s a new-found tranquillity about The Mayfair restaurant on this balmy mid-April evening.
The DRIRI and FRIRIs have all been hard at work today inspecting the rooms, with 356 netting another 9.5 to move ahead of 354, which only accumulated a hugely disappointing 6 (hair & body gel in the shower area, toiletry case on the shelf in the bathroom, hair brush on the same shelf and a pair of shoes under the clothes dryer thing – all Freeman’s according to Millward and Vye, though the jury’s out on whether either of them could be trusted in a police cell ID parade or anything similar). Second Ed clarifies to everyone, not for the first time this week that it’s PPA – Parallel & Perpendicular Always, not PPS (Parallel & Perpendicular Sometimes); everyone nods, though not necessarily because they understand. 355 achieves a second 600% increase of the week on yesterday’s score, thanks almost entirely to Caple’s 24-hour attempt at a superficial tidy-up followed by a thorough deep clean, though there’s a limit to the success of this sort of thing and visitors to Myatt’s side of the cell can still view very little of the floor.
‘I think,’ opines DRIRI, ‘that given some proper training, the correct mentor, a qualified psychologist and a bottle of Domestos, if he really puts his mind to the job in hand and ‘wants it’ enough, Caple could well become a fully-fledged DRIRI in 10-12 years’ time.’ A rare crack appears on each of Ferrous’s metallic cheekbones and there’s a hint of a tear in the corner of each eye. ‘Oh Thank-you,’ he sniffs. ‘Thank-you so very, very much.’
‘Please don’t cry,’ orders DRIRI, in his typically unempathetic tone. ‘We really haven’t the time to sort out all the rust.’
Day Eight – Saturday
It’s an 8 o’clock rising of sorts. 355 and 356 are still in their pits and display painfully few signs of intending to move any time soon. 354 however are already up, dressed and ready for whatever action the day has in store. On entering 352, Jones walks out of the wardrobe and into the bathroom. No-one bats an eyelid, as if this is a common, everyday occurrence. It probably is.
We said farewell to the FB Fields yesterday and now it’s the FB (final breakfast) at The Mayfair, followed by goodbyes to our hard-working waiters and anyone else who fancies a handshake or three.
Cases are packed and loaded on to the buses, with the only issue being Plymouth’s attempt to run over our kit bag in the parking bay outside. Whether it’s to show their disdain at us for having only a single playing strip to our impoverished name or as retribution for something we did to them about eight years ago, no-one’s quite sure, but with First Ade at the wheel, we zoom off, firstly to the filling station and latterly to the airport.
Despite undergoing an almost full body search due to the metal detector buzzer going off, May still has the Force with him as we congregate outside WHS, but sadly neither HD nor Iron Man have their parents’ presents, as the hirsute security bloke takes exception to both (people and gifts) and unceremoniously chucks them (the gifts) into the rubbish bin. Jones’s present also goes the same way, but as this was an edible offering to himself, sympathy is at a premium and everyone else walks away laughing.
Departure is delayed slightly as Obieri, on reaching the aircraft’s boarding stairs, realises he’s left his hand luggage/case behind and nips back through the departure lounge, down the corridor, out through security, past the hairy bloke with the lazy eye and into WH Smith, where it’s still waiting, stress-free, calm as you like, next to the Toblerone rack.
It’s a forty-minute flight back to Southampton, a twenty-minute wait to claim the luggage off the carousel and a ten-minute grab-a-drink interval before we’re all aboard the bus and bombing up the A34. Vye and Burgess are attempting to work out the relative ages of the coaching staff, much to the chagrin of Wixey, who is perceived to be second only in age to The Chef (who’s apparently 99). As Isaac Newton never tired of telling anyone who’d listen, ‘For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction,’ meaning the remainder of the adult (in age, anyway) population of the coach is enormously thrilled and metaphorically slap both LV and WB heartily on the back, though no-one can quite work out the criteria by which Coach Stalley has been categorised as third youngest.
And none of the twenty-two can work out either why the bus has come to a sudden standstill on Derby Road and the driver plus the Young Guns (Coach Harris & Coach Delaney if you’re wondering) are fervently unloading the under-store and stacking the cases and bags on the pavement outside.
Lin at the Great Western has once again provided a revitalising spread of sandwiches and chips and prizes are presented to the winners of the various DREAM-mark categories. Apart from a Monday faux pas from Jones, the effort with the diaries has been very good across the board; please keep your copy as in ten years’ time you’ll join hundreds of former tourists in reliving this amazing week either quietly in your own little home or probably more raucously when a group of you go out on the town together. Vulgaris is devastated for about thirty five seconds as his beloved Room 354 is beaten into second place by 356, a mere half a point the tiniest of differences. ‘Was it the hair & body gel in the shower area, the toiletry case on the shelf in the bathroom, the hair brush on the very same shelf or the pair of shoes under the clothes dryer thing?’ he ponders ruefully.
For the first time in living memory, DRIRI has split a room’s mark into three on the last day, meaning 355 Caple finishes with 33, 355 Obieri with 31 and 355 Myatt with 27, which as a room score is an all-time Jersey record low and thus another 2018/19 GPSFA milestone is created. As with the hundredth win, it’s been twenty nine years in the making. Mrs Farren and Miss Bussey from Norton Centre of Excellence will be ever so proud when they receive their ‘Guinness Book of (Room) Records’ notification letter early next week.
Burgess, Jones and Obieri lift the Premiership eating silverware while High Definition is relegated to the Championship, where Caple, Freeman and Vye finish atop the table, with Millward going down. No-one’s promoted however as they’ve each dropped a brace of points; May the Force be With You is top Pig Farmer, while Fieldhouse (good effort though) and Myatt aren’t. Myatt however wins a bag of Mini Eggs as MIE (Most Improved Eater).
Daniels, Caple & Burgess are the nicest guys as they top the attitude marks, though at the other end of the scale, Jones finishes twenty eighth out of eleven for a multitude of nefarious deeds, all of which made everyone laugh no end. Thank-you.
Daniels, Obieri, Burgess and Caple come out on top in the match scores, but there are only six marks separating all eleven players, who both individually and as a team performed really well against fine opposition throughout the week.
Everyone’s gone, heading for home, stories to recount, laughs to recall. The empty chip bowl’s still on the pool table next to a single blue packet with ‘Twirl Bites’ embossed across its front. First Ade silently taps his latest – and final - tour tweet into his mobile phone; Second Ed is embroiled in thought and reflection – surely there was a third gear on that mini bus. Surely….
Coach Wixey is reflective too, considering the A Team’s non-arrival at St Ouen yesterday and how he can get them back over the weeks, months and years to come. However long it takes, it’ll be well worth the wait. Coach Harris has had enough of thinking and the moment he considers no-one’s looking, alters the location of the Twirl Bites from pool table to trouser pocket and begins a silent chocolatey feast of around three minutes’ duration.
There were rocks and there was water, sea and pools, Jones and Myatt, fun and laughter. There are no gadgets on beaches and no gizmos in sand. In this day and age where electronic rules and people seem lost for the period of time it takes to recharge their mobile phone, the waves will continue to roll in and roll out; and all the technological advances in the years and decades and centuries to come will never alter the metronomic violence perpetrated by the ocean’s whitecaps. The important things are the simple things, but in a society dictated by so much superficial materialism, it is as easy to lose sight of this notion as it is for someone to forget their kit, or their plasters, or even themselves. But one man hasn’t. Andrew Bruce Forsyth Foran will continue to search high and low, far and wide, for someone to indulge in conversation. There will be peaks to scale and troughs to negotiate, but he will plough on regardless. For somewhere, over the rainbow and far beyond man’s perception of where the horizon might really be, he will discover his nirvana, his idyllic location, his utopia – a place where people just want to sit and talk to him for hours on end, for days and weeks, and ultimately, for evermore. And for all our sakes, please let it be Jersey 2020.
Acknowledgements
All the Gloucester coaches and players for making Jersey 2019 the fun that it was and particularly Andrew (Bruce) Foran for (begrudgingly) continuing to be the persona non grata of the annual Jersey resume. Of all the great signings....
All the Gloucester parents, grandparents, friends & families, for allowing it all to happen and each of our fabulous sponsors and supporters for ensuring that it did.
(King) Pat Cullinane of Jersey for his 45 years of amazing organisation of this fabulous event. A man of high principle and unbridled enthusiasm, rarely seen and seldom heard, but always there. In the (almost) immortal words of Sir Christopher Wren, ‘If you want a memorial to me, look around the FB Fields.’
The managers, coaches and helpers of all the teams involved - the foot soldiers who make it all happen. Lookalikes or not, we love the company, the banter and the proverbial craic. Oh, and Phil & John from the frozen north and Elias of Fulham from a bit closer to home. You probably won’t read this, but thanks anyway.
And finally, to Mrs (Stewart) Ratcliffe. Your husband tells me every year that you liked the previous season’s memoirs so much that, like Victor Kyam, you’d like to buy the company (just like Andy Foran, I guess). I hope the 2019 blog was worth the twelve-month wait.
# (Very) happy days.
#Carpe Diem
Author's Note
What follows is a behind the scenes look at some of the personalities, events, accusations & revelations that were Jersey 2019. This review is a memoir from an A Team perspective as that’s where the editor largely was, so B Squad players are mentioned only fleetingly in comparison. The balance is restored in the B Team blog however, where the reverse will no doubt happen.
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this piece are those of the editor and should not be mistaken for those of GPSFA, any other member of the association or indeed anyone residing in the civilised world. This is (mostly) a work of non-fiction and as such, any resemblance to actual persons living or otherwise, events or locales, is entirely intentional.
Dramatis Personae
Players
Woody Burgess (Various): Captain Marvel. Simple as. Horrendous navigator.
Herbie Daniels (High Definition): Great hands. Nearly perfect. Except at customs.
Charlie Caple (Iron Man): Indomitable. Mostly. Nice. Always.
Stanly Freeman (Wasp; Vespula Vulgaris): Veers to the left. Veers to the right. Keeps on buzzing. Throughout the night. And day. But it doesn’t rhyme.
Sopuruchukwu Obieri (Beamer): Great left foot. Great maths. Great manners.
Todd Fieldhouse (Lettuce): Unflustered. Unflappable. Undaunted. And completely unfazed. By anything.
Archie Myatt (WC): Extremely tidy. Extremely funny. Extremes of memory. Norton’s finest. Well, equal finest.
Lewis Vye (Slider): Loves fish. Loves black boots. Particularly the soles. Of both. Loves fruit. Particularly melons. Soul food. So healthy.
Archie Millward (Mother Brown): Loves a tackle. Sometimes takes ball. Loves a header. Sometimes heads ball. Loves a pass. Sometimes passes ball. Loves a knees-up. Always.
Douglas May (the Force be With You): Pound shop; best eating buy. Specialises in close-range goals. From an inch. No more than an inch.
Matthew Jones (Full English): Character. Read on.
Others
The Chef (Andrew Foran). Cook. Driver. Conversationalist. Bruce Forsyth lookalike. Gloucester man desperately seeking friendship.
Romeo (himself). Eats. Sleeps. Eats. Chef’s carer.
Coach Wilson. Director of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors. Diary Marker. Attitude Hunter. Sudoku solver.
Coach Wixey. Good manager. Good motivator. Good man. And definitely Good Cop.
Coach Harris. Creative. Innovative. Disciple of Archimedes. And definitely Bad Cop.
Coach Stalley. Tactical. Technical. Trustworthy. Tweeter. And laundryman.
Coach Delaney. Very thoughtful. Very careful. Very considered. And a very slow driver.
The Editor. Old. Grey. Lame. And they’re the good bits.
King Pat of Jersey. Festival organiser. 45 years. Legend.
Lord Downs of Tilehurst. Jersey Festival Child Welfare Officer. Reading FC historian.
Day 1 – Saturday
‘The sun is shining, the sky is blue, Jersey’s waiting, just for you,’ sings Andrew ‘Bruce Forsyth’ Foran to his chaperone and carer, Young Romeo Foran, as we board the fun bus for the relatively short jaunt down the M4 to Southampton Airport. It’s not everyone’s idea of tuneful, or indeed accurate, and most people within a twenty-yard radius have their hands over their ears – but it’s a symbolic gesture that won’t be confined to Longlevens in the hours, days and week that lie ahead a couple of hundred miles from home.
Iron Man, as always, helps hugely with the team kit at the airport, where Werner weighs in with a bag of only 9kg to become 2019’s lightest tourist. Vye wheels his award-winning case, which boasts a picture of both a 1960s Dormobile and a Father Myatt retro outfit up to the check-in counter, gleaning envious stares from the ageing hippy with the long grey beard who’s standing utterly transfixed in the neighbouring, Malaga-bound queue.
Coach Wixey is wandering around the terminal oblivious to the big white label sticking out of the back of his jumper, while The Chef is completely oblivious to the fact that everyone’s watching him accost an extremely pleasant middle-aged couple, squeeze himself down next to them on a seat made for two and begin a one-way chat in which ‘sausage and chips’ comes up more times than even Coach Wilson can accurately calculate. These lovely people are the first of several victims in The Chef’s upcoming eight-day search for companionship, friendship and just a little bit of love on a 9x5 island not far from France.
Coach Stalley makes a complaint to security over the fact that Coach Wilson’s metallic implants, prosthetic limbs and duo of iron lungs have all failed to elicit even a single beep from the airport surveillance machine, whereas Vye is immediately accosted and detained by an enthusiastic trainee and ‘wiped down’ with a magic detection stick. In both cases, nothing is found. Well, nothing of any value, anyway.
It’s a quick old flight across the Channel and we’re in the concourse on the Jersey side before you can say ‘Hertfordshire’, where St Albans’ Coach Sanders is having a pre-festival, alphabetically-ordered rant about fixtures, flights, luggage, players, schedules and times. He eventually pauses for breath to consider who he can shout at next when a smiling Chef captures his eye. Thinking better of it, he turns on Nathan, Charlie, Matt and Tom and starts to fulminate all over again.
After a visit to the nearby beach at Havre des pas, where the sand is pleasant but the sea is cold, it’s auction time, with the players being put into three separate eating leagues and, IPL-like, sold to the highest bidder.
Jones (£15), Obieri (£10), Daniels (£8) and Burgess (£6) make up the Premiership League; Caple (£8), Millward (£6), Vye (£5) and Freeman (£3) constitute the Championship, while Fieldhouse (£11.99??), May (£1) and Myatt (1p) are the combatants in the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve League. Team Wilson (WB, SO, SF & AMi) sit at the far end of the table, Team Ade (LV, HD, TF & AMy) in the middle and Team Bob (MJ, CC & DM) at the near end. We’re in for dinner now and the talking’s over – let the eating battle begin….
Vye wipes out Lemon sole fillet & asparagus in Sauce Parisian with all the trimmings in three minutes flat and immediately establishes himself as the initial favourite to win the Championship. Myatt leaves roast lamb, potatoes, peas and most of the Chicken noodle salad starter to immediately render the Pig Farmers’ division a two-horse race. Millward, May and Caple sensibly go for the Spanish omelette, downing it without a hitch; Fieldhouse leaves both lamb and an eating point at the table, while High Definition is also a point down after eighteen peas and seven sweetcorn kernels are found lurking near the left-hand edge of his plate. Burgess, Obieri and Freeman are metronomically LICS-ing (Lift-In-Chew-Swallow), while Jones shows his early mettle by LIS-ing (Lift-In-Swallow), chewing clearly takes too much time for the Premiership bookmakers’ odds-on ‘banker’.
Ice cream’s a clear favourite for dessert, but the traditional meat & two-vegers (Caple, Millward & Jones) wolf down treacle sponge and custard as if there’s no tomorrow. If any of my three investments lets me down at any point this week, there most certainly won’t be.
On the third floor, rooms are allocated and partnerships established. May the Force be With You & Full English are in 352, Mother Brown, Vespula Vulgaris & Slider inhabit 354, while Captain Marvel and his Kree Warrior friends, Lettuce & High Definition are billeted in 356. There are dinner-plate smiles from both Iron Man and Beamer as they learn that they’re sharing with WC – expressions that will quickly wane and completely disappear as the ensuing seconds, rather than minutes, hours or days, pass inexorably by.
Meanwhile, on the ground floor, just around the corner from reception, the pre-festival staff weigh-in with King Pat at the scales and Lord Downs of Tilehurst in attendance, is in full flow. There are no surprises: Orpington are the oldest, Wokingham the youngest and bluest; Plymouth have the most kits, Newbury have a manager who looks the most like Peter Kay, Gloucester are the most immobile and St Albans are the heaviest. Just like last year then.
Day 2 - Sunday
Morning has broken, but there are no blackbirds, only people. Myatt’s in the shower no more than eight hours after his last dousing, desperately trying to remove as much skin as possible from the small of his back before we go down to the eatery. He’s late for the first time this week (if you discount yesterday’s late-for-dinner-minus-a-point-starter-for-ten), though eventually we all convene for breakfast in the very pleasant hotel restaurant.
Jones is about to live up to his nom de plume and ingests two bread rolls, two slices of water melon, two slices of pineapple and a bowl of coco pops which he eats, Noah-like, in twos as well. This is followed by a genuinely Full English (egg, bacon sausage, hash brown, black pudding & tomato), all swilled down with a black coffee (no sugar). Vye gets through his thirty five-a-day (portions of fruit) in a little under three minutes, Iron Man’s pushed to the limit to magic away half a tomato, while Myatt looks as if he’s suffering from a bout of hydrophobia, such is the ferocity of the milk stain that’s currently circumnavigating the perimeter of his mouth.
The FB Fields are again in fine condition and we’re granted first use of pitch one, though it’s Thurrock that apply themselves better and a double strike in each half gives them a comprehensive opening day victory. The Yellows fare more positively against Jersey B and come away with a six-goal win, Zak Jones demonstrating a rare talent in notching the fifth by aiming his back at the ball while staring in completely the opposite direction. He obviously thought Coach Harris was speaking.
In today’s other opening games, Wokingham see off St Albans, Jersey A demolish Barking and Plymouth, playing in green, share no goals with Orpington.
One good bit from today’s outing is that the proportion of Gloucester players wearing black boots has now reached nearly fifty per cent, which considering that ninety per cent of the country’s sports store boot-stock is currently fluorescent something or other, is a very noble effort indeed.
May, Vye and Millward plump for lunchtime macaroni cheese, which famously did for ‘I promise I won’t ever let you down’ Aden Baldwin on the Wednesday of the 2008 Jersey sojourn. How Bristol City were persuaded to sign someone who lies like that is a subject that causes better people than the editor a season and a bit of completely sleepless nights. Back to the present and Vye and May clear their macaroni-infested plates (Vye: three minutes twelve seconds; May: thirty three minutes twelve seconds), while Todd eats cod in an effort to add a bit of poetic licence to proceedings. Only Myatt leaves any chips, but his fish has disappeared (though nobody’s quite sure where) and Jones downs a slice of raw lemon in an effort to quell the hunger pangs, having gone ninety seconds without swallowing anything.
There are three teams of budding Tiger’s at Les Roccos Crazy Golf, a colourful creation of bridges, dominoes and castles, which just goes to show the positive effect that ten metres of astroturf and a lick of magnolia can have. The team leaders report back: Fieldhouse is the best, but Vye isn’t in the Burgess ranks; Millward’s the finest but Myatt isn’t in High Definition’s quorum, while Stan’s the man and Caple’s the boy according to Captain Caple himself. Jones’s effectiveness meanwhile is limited due to a putting style that lends itself more to a forward defensive at Lord’s than a place in the Master’s. ‘I want to play in the IPL when I’m older,’ he reveals. Presumably that’s because there’s a help-yourself buffet and a free bar on offer afterwards.
Next up it’s Les Quennevais; a hidden gem in that no-one else seems to know of its existence. As such, there are only about ten people in the pool before eleven more descend on the mats, tyres and other assorted inflatables that are floating around on the surface. The Yellows meanwhile are living it up at St Ouen, where sand and ice creams are the order of the day. Mr Whippy is hugely excited at the prospect of an unexpected team sell, but thrills turn to spills at the sighting of The Chef at the back of the burgeoning queue. He’s already engaged in an enthusiastic ‘I’m from Glawwwster’ conversation with two contrasting couples – one older and one younger – yet connected at the hip by their fervent desire to move to pastures new as quickly as is humanly possible and four prospective buyers have suddenly been lost forever. The Chef, his social appetite sated for a couple of minutes unexpectedly waits for the last player to lick the chocolate off the top of his Magnum, before moving in for a one-way chat with the unfortunate server, only to find the counter has been boarded shut and the owner’s got away via the rear fire exit a good half minute before ‘Hi, I’m Andy from Gloucester,’ has got anywhere near his ears.
Burgess attempts to direct the mini bus home, though eight of his nine junction choices are incorrect, reminding everyone of that fateful day at Twycross Zoo when he took us to the gorillas instead of the giraffes, though at least he got the initial letter correct.
Jones orders goats cheese tart, explaining to everyone at length the accrued nutritional benefits of the offering, together with how partial he is to this particular dish. ‘It’s not camembert,’ he squeals on his first bite and takes an age thereafter to complete its removal, thus raising genuine concerns regarding his Premiership ‘favourite’ tag. Myatt steals the show with a display of capital city knowledge that would have Miss Bussey coming out in either a cold sweat or a whole-body rash if only she knew about this University Challenge application that’s taking place over two hundred miles from Tivoli Villas as the crow flies.
TRI (The Room Inspector) has been out and about with his little black book; 355 has achieved a 600% increase on its marks in totalling 6, which is pretty remarkable seeing as WC’s living there and Iron Man has failed to flush the loo. 352 has gone up an unbelievable 800% thanks largely to Jones’s unlikely initiative and May’s efforts to do as he’s told; 356 has achieved a Bo Derek (Perfect 10), much to Wasp’s, Slider’s and Mother Brown’s obvious glee, while 354 is just half a point behind due solely to Lettuce’s nice red shoes being slightly askew at the end of a long line of footwear that otherwise forms a perfectly straight line that’s not only parallel to, but also just touching the newly-painted skirting board.
Jones seeks a diary time-out and sneaks off to use the facilities, much to the horror of all those sitting on that side of the room. Ten minutes later he returns, leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar. ‘Camembert?’ inquires Millward. No-one replies.
Day Three – Monday
Pain au Chocolat is the order of a very pseudo-middle class morning; High Definition, Wasp and May the Force be With You each consume three, but Obieri leads the way with the proverbial foursome. Coco pops seems to be the most popular cereal, with almost fifty per cent indulging, some more than once.
The Melon Monster is down to a nice round dozen this morning, which suggests that yesterday might just have been a flash in the fruit pan, while Full English seems to be taking stock of the situation by only imbibing bacon, sausage and beans after his accumulated array of colourful appetisers.
Myatt’s concentration on breakfast duties is impeccable, as is his focus on ensuring his plasters are attached to the right bits of his body before leaving the confines of his room, though he just misses out on a hat trick of successes by arriving at the mini bus minus his boots, shin pads, kit bag, drink, warm up top and casual clothes for later on. By the time he’s got back to the bus on returning from 355, where he’s scooped up most of the missing items from the flotsam which used to be known as the floor it’s almost afternoon, so he’s slightly unsure whether he should be wearing his casuals or his playing kit. Coach Stalley meanwhile, who’s taken over bus driving duties for the time being, accelerates down St Saviour Road with a vengeance and after a three-minute trip which sees the rev counter fail to drop beneath 2500, we arrive at the FB in time to walk onto pitch four and play.
After yesterday’s setback, it’s a relief when Obieri turns inside to give us the lead and just before half time the striker takes one touch too many, then one touch too many, then one touch too many, then fires in our second from the acutest of angles to prove that you don’t have to do everything right to score great goals. Jon Blackwell did the same in the Southern Counties Cup semi final against Sutton back in March 2005, in the halcyon days when coaches were allowed to run the length of the pitch in unbridled jubilation; now a limp on the spot and a pump of the fists is all that’s permitted by that most bureaucratic of administrative bodies - The Society of Physical Limitations.
Obieri completes his treble with a second half drive into the far corner and a fine finish from Vye completes a reversal of yesterday’s scoreline, but despite the eventual disparity in goals scored, the performances of Millward, Caple and Freeman in the Gloucester back line play a big part in today’s success.
Hot-footing it across to pitch two, the Yellows are taking on Plymouth in a game that captures everyone’s imagination, based on comments that will be made by neutral observers over the course of the next five days. There’s an awful lot of grit and no little skill, backed up by two great saves from Boakes, the second of which almost gets HD to his feet in excitement, which isn’t always easy when he’s ensconced in the reclining position. With nine minutes remaining – pandemonium; Villiers dinks in following Fisher’s assist, an act that almost precipitates a pitch invasion by the Yellow & Black touchline masses.
In the end Plymouth, today playing in their all white kit, score three times in the dying minutes, but it’s been a great effort from all concerned and there’s a feeling that today, in a strictly footballing sense, both teams have really arrived in Jersey.
One person who’s not quite arrived, in a directional sense at any rate, is Captain Burgess, who takes over navigational duties again in an attempt to get us back to The Mayfair in double-slow time by making thirteen incorrect calls out of a possible fourteen decisions. Not good.
Obieri decides to take a post-lunch shower and is absent without leave at the initial post meridian roll-call. There’s no need to worry though – he’s spread out on his bed, festooned in a knee-length navy bathrobe, looking every inch like an eleven-year-old Julius Caesar. Coach Wilson carries out an immediate search to see if he can find a less-young Cleopatra lurking anywhere close. He can’t, much to his obvious disappointment.
Coach Delaney’s arrival on the island has been delayed by a family holiday in Portugal, but he’s on his way now according to the curious world of text messaging. Which bit of on his way however remains pretty unclear as Coach Stalley relays his whereabouts as being in three completely different locations in the space of just five and a half minutes. Eventually he concludes it’s probably unnecessary to shoot off to the airport to collect him just yet as it looks like he’s still waiting to check in at Southampton.
So, we head into St Helier with Burgess, in a selfless attempt at personal redemption, leading the way down four wrong streets, three incorrect lefts, two false rights and a pheasant in a pear tree. It’s a wonder any shops are still open by the time we arrive on the pedestrianised thoroughfare, but after a recce is completed, instructions relayed, finances distributed and a pizzeria fire observed (from a distance), the local shopkeepers can be seen enthusiastically rubbing their grubby mitts in anticipation of an unexpected Monday afternoon windfall.
JD Sports, an outlet that clearly no-one in Gloucester has ever visited before, is the first store to encounter The Swarm, which in terms of both title and content would have made a rather good Hitchcock movie.
There’s a similar, though not quite as big surge at the sight of USC, which is apparently a designer clothing chain boasting some pretty nifty carrier bags. On the individualistic front, Jones visits a jewellery shop and Millward browses the ancient history section at Waterstone’s. Neither buys anything.
Ten minutes later there’s a reflection and review moment, culminating in Obieri and Myatt returning to JD and receiving a refund on their overpriced t-shirts. Emboldened, Burgess and Vye return to USC to do the same with their £35 blue, red & white hoodies, only to find the swap-back system’s not in place here and they’re stuck with their purchases. Most people buy presents for family members, including HD who systematically searches the shelves before choosing a corkscrew for his dad and two people, who shall remain nameless for the time being, splash out on their mothers and buy each of them a 40p Jersey postcard. Don’t worry mum - it’s the thought that counts.
Coach Stalley nips off to the airport as Coach Delaney, eagle-like, has finally landed and soon after the pair turn up at Aqua Splash, where Coach Harris is being simultaneously attacked by eight wide-eyed boys at once.
Archimedes' Principle states that the upward buoyant force that is exerted on a body immersed in a fluid, whether fully or partially submerged, is equal to the weight of the fluid that the body displaces and acts in the upward direction at the centre of mass of the displaced fluid.
So, basically what happens is, Coach Harris, having spent a couple of minutes on the side to give the multitude of scratches on his back and shoulders a moment or two to heal, jumps back in, displaces an equal amount of water to the size of his torso and floods the seating area to a depth of twelve inches. It’s like a one-man wave machine creating a life-threatening tsunami.
Dinner time and it’s hot wings for starters. Caple: ‘The sauce is really spicy on my tongue, which is why I’m only taking small bites.’ Jones: ‘I don’t care how spicy they are, only whether there’s enough of them.’ As such, he glances left before gathering in and demolishing High Definition’s ‘They’re far too hot for me’ appetiser, eventually piling the six remnant bones one on top of the other in a Neanderthal-inspired tableau of leftovers. Having already considered our table to be akin to a Darwinian timeline, the painfully harsh realisation kicks in that we’re almost certainly occupying the original end.
Day Four – Tuesday
This is certainly a healthier generation than in days of yore, as fruit, muesli (and coco pops) are again the order of the day, with most people thankfully eating each item separately. Jose (the waiter not the manager) is struggling this morning and forgets five orders of the cooked part of breakfast, much to the obvious concern of Full English, who has no idea what he’ll do later in the day without his full complement of early-morning beans.
Iron Man has concerns too, but they’re nothing to do with breakfast. His socks have been washed in a hundred-degree machine at the launderette and they’ve shrunk to the point where they barely cover his ankles, with the bottoms of his shin pads in full view. Myatt meanwhile, much to everyone’s relief has remembered his kit, but has to rush back to his room as he’s now forgotten his plasters. Another three-minute, three-thousand rev trip ensues and we arrive at the fields minus any footballs, an oversight that ends with Millward being blamed, probably because he’s got the same initials as Myatt.
The parents clearly enjoyed last night’s Fancy Dress Party in the Merton as no-one’s changed their outfit since. Father Freeman just beat Mother Freeman in the Bobble Hat supporting act, while in the main event there was a third place for Captain Scott Daniels, who was a little disappointed with his final placing as he’d gone to a considerable amount of trouble (and expense), embellishing his ‘retro explorer’ entry with a thirty-minute powerpoint and twenty-picture slideshow detailing his latest solo trek across Antarctic, and second spot for Father Myatt, who swapped his Sunday/Monday early 70s faux-brown-leather jacket for a late 70s bottle green tracksuit, with three stripes on each arm to suggest he’s now an officer as well as a gentleman. In first place however was Mother Daniels who, with her yellow earrings, yellow horns, yellow winkle-pickers, black trousers, yellow patterned shawl and yellow nail varnish assumed a stationary position in the middle of the main stage while a rather shy Portuguese waiter placed a free-standing placard bearing the word ‘Supporter’ at her feet and the entire hotel stood and applauded and whooped and cheered and hollered and waved as the Gloucester crowd sang, ‘Mich-elle Daniels, she’s one of our own,’ until circa three o’clock in the morning.
Orpington are today’s opposition and Burgess curls in his first free kick of the week to put us ahead and with the Kent team playing a pleasingly high line, Obieri overcomes a protracted bout of chronic agoraphobia by exploiting the wide open spaces of south east Jersey to add two more before the interval.
Everyone performs as well after the break as they did before it and a fine strike from Vye and a spot kick from Burgess tie up a 5-1 win. In today’s other games, the Bs go down to Hackney by a single goal, Wokingham beat Jersey A 1-0 and Plymouth, today playing in Seville Orange, edge out St Albans by the odd goal in five.
Vye has taken a stud to the foot and a bag of ice from the hotel bar before being heard to claim, ‘I’m not the only one with a limp,’ an assertion that proves extremely hurtful to anyone within hearing distance.
There’s a delay leaving for the afternoon trip to Gorey due to Myatt forgetting his swimming kit and Fieldhouse play-fighting with Obieri. ‘Pick on someone your own size,’ says Obieri, before hiding in the back seat of the mini bus with his hands over his eyes.
The fashion stakes have been upped today, with Burgess and Vye modelling their brand new USC hoodies, though you can see why they were so desperate to return them yesterday as ‘Levi’s’ is written the wrong way around. May the Force be With You is resplendent in a pair of starry shorts that make his lower half resemble a cross between the American and Australian flags, while Myatt and Jones have each donned a pair of sliders in order to try to look cool and keep their feet cool in equal measure.
Mont Orgueil Castle, a thirteenth century edifice is as imposing in real life as it is on virtually every Jersey postcard, including the two that the aforementioned mums will soon receive, and the Wounded Man sculpture, prisoners’ tower, emergency well, stocks, pillory and impressive keep all hold the attention of some of the tourists, though the medieval latrine holds the attention of everyone, with one team member in particular being enthralled by the six-hundred year old scenario that’s unfolding in his somewhat warped imagination.
Coach Stalley’s photographing everything that moves and all those that don’t and his all-seeing eye picks out HD and Mother Brown looking completely miserable during the pre-castle history lesson, while Wasp has his hands over his face suggesting he can barely bring himself to watch. Or listen. Or even buzz.
There’s an ice cream break and a peek at a huge black dog that’s refusing to move out of the water before an hour on Gorey Beach is spent practising cartwheels, playing tag rugby, paddling in the sea, burying Myatt in the sand and waiting for the tide to come in. Or maybe it’s the coach asleep ten yards further along the front that induces the Canute-like incantations for the water to rise and engulf all that lies within its path.
It’s duck or salmon in hollandaise sauce for dinner, but Iron Man’s rivets are playing him up, so he beats a begrudging retreat to the sanctity of the Obieri/Myatt-less Room 355 with a couple of Calpol for company. His last words, ‘Will I lose any eating marks?’ are a poignant reminder to everyone, that there is no place for sympathy in the white-hot atmosphere of the Jersey Festival eating competition. Minus two, then.
‘That’s a quacking good meal,’ exhorts The Chef, to those he thinks will listen on our table on eyeing his duck leg in plum sauce; no-one laughs, though Jack from Wokingham looks game from a distance, so he sidles across to the Buckinghamshire lot in search of someone/anyone who’ll chortle along with his newly-contrived joke. ‘That’s a quacking good meal,’ says The Chef once more in his best Bruce Forsyth accent, looking from Jack to Stuart to Alan to Alice and back to Jack in search of a response, positive or otherwise, but none transpire. ‘Not sure about that Wokingham lot,’ opines the returning Chef as he sucks a dollop of sauce off his forefinger, ‘they used to be such fun in the good old days….’
Day Five – Wednesday
The FA has launched an investigation into football-related betting as Coach Delaney has taken over the mini bus driving, for today at any rate. Ladbrokes have suspended any further wagers due to the reporting of unnatural trends at their St Helier office and the odds of 1:40 on CD pranging the bus again are proving too good for punters from both far and wide to turn down. Hopefully the valuable, yet traumatic experience gained during last year’s trip (‘I just wasn’t aware that the Gorey road had a moving wall’) will stand him in better stead this time around.
The faith-healing properties of Calpol have weaved their mysterious powers overnight and Iron Man is fit, well and raring to go on this distinctly sunny Channel Island morning. Also raring to go is Fiona from Orpington, whose bright red top attracted The Chef to the Kentish table a good thirty five minutes ago and it’s a good thirty four minutes since she first said, ‘I’ve just got to check on the boys.’ Usually a very chirpy lady, Fiona’s current jaundiced look of helplessness makes her appear like a Russian dissident who’s just spent the first thirty five minutes of a twenty five year sentence in some Siberian gulag or other.
Surprisingly, we arrive at the FB unscathed if not on time, wearing yesterday’s unwashed kit in the hope that the odour will keep the opposition at bay during any attacking sorties they may launch. It’s a ruse that has little effect on Wokingham however, whose sense of smell has never been one of their stronger attributes and the Blues take the lead from the spot midway through the first half.
Burgess drags us level via a free kick shortly before the interval and with the revitalised Caple in fine form at the back, Vye and Burgess competing well in central midfield and High Definition pulling off an excellent second half save, we hang on in until six minutes from time when Wokingham capitalise on some hesitant defending to net what turns out to be the winner.
There’s some understandable disappointment amongst the troops, but we trek over to Pitch One to see the Yellows overturn Orpington B by a single goal, while on other swards, Orpington A are beating Jersey A, St Albans are losing to Hackney and Plymouth are drawing with Thurrock, having reverted to their opening day, Pilgrim Green kit.
The Chef has been engaging John from Bishop Auckland in some riveting pitchside conversation about the accrued benefits of eating deep-fried food on a five-a-day basis, but when John’s attention’s diverted for a couple of seconds due to a double whistle from the referee, Chef turns back to his northern friend only to find he’s long since disappeared in the general direction of the town centre. When Malcolm from Fulham says, ‘Morning Andy,’ and keeps on walking, Chef, in a fit of unadulterated pique, saunters over to the car park, removes the magnetic Wokingham sign from the front of their mini bus and attaches it to the Orpington vehicle instead. ‘That’s for being less fun than you were in the good old days,’ he tells himself, as no-one’s within earshot, even if he’d thought of using a loudhailer.
Back in 2011, The Chef discovered that Pierre Le Saux, father of the former England footballer Graeme, was one of the groundsmen at the FB Fields and immediately made a beeline for this pleasant, unassuming man who was renowned for having a kind word for everyone. He’d have had a kind word for Brucie too, if only he could have got one in, but for the next six days he was subjected to a monologue so insistent that neither perpetrator nor victim had time to draw but a single breath. ‘See you next year,’ shouted The Chef as he bade Pierre a fond goodbye after the final day matches, only to find that in 2012 and every year thereafter, Pierre has changed his annual leave from August to April and during festival week ever since, has been hiring a one-star croft in the Shetland Islands without, as yet, being brave enough to leave any indication of a forwarding address.
Back in the hotel, Vye and Caple have lost their kit bags and a search & rescue mission is commandeered, but to no avail. Jones treats everyone to post-lunch renditions of ‘Rocket Man’, ‘Uptown Girl’ and ‘Highway to Heaven’, but the general consensus is that he shouldn’t give up the day job. In 354, Vye and Freeman lock Millward in the bathroom and gain an attitude point each for enterprise.
Coach Delaney climbs back into the driver’s seat to transport us at an average of fourteen miles per hour to Greve de Lecq, a lovely little beach near the north west corner of the island. We take so long to get there that the tide’s nearly in, but no-one wants to upset the driver, so we retire to the beachside café instead.
There’s an interesting array of shorts available to onlookers as GPSFA descend the steps to the sandy front, while Fieldhouse models a t-shirt with some golden mythological creature adorning the front as well as the inside. Jones has next to nothing on, much to the horror of the general public, while he and Caple stand underneath the freezing cold waterfall for some unknown reason. A dare, perhaps?
Burgess takes over navigation duties for the return trip and fails to register a single correct call on the entire journey back to the hotel; he later writes on his mum’s postcard that he’s got 40 out of 41 calls wrong so far this week, which is a complete and utter exaggeration as it’s nearer 70 out of 71, but no-one has the heart to tell him.
The Caple and Vye bags eventually turn up and it’s later discovered that The Chef, no less, has hidden them. At least it’s given him something to chat about, but as no-one seems to want to join in, he sidles off to his room for a good old-fashioned sulk instead.
TRI (The Room Inspector) provides everyone with a summation of the new structure for the appraisal and evaluation (A & E) of the players’ bedsits. Basically, he informs them, he holds the title of Director of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors (DRIRI), while Coaches Stalley and Delaney, for the second Jersey running, are attempting to pass their end-of-season exams in order to graduate to the institute as fully fledged RIs. As such, they currently hold the title of Fellows of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors (FRIRIs). The upshot of all this nonsense is that the rooms receive a double inspection and the hovel that is 355 receives the first-ever Jersey Tour zero grading.
For those unwilling to believe that any room can score this poorly, here is the list of the main things that are wrong: The large suitcase is unemptied and as such that person’s clothes are not in the drawers or wardrobe; the suitcase itself is lying in the middle of the floor; a football bag is also lying in the middle of the floor; empty and half-empty drinks bottles are on the floor and in the drawers; clothes are littering the floor and covering the bed; there are half a dozen unwrapped sweets scattered around on the floor, the wardrobe door’s open; the bed is messed up; footwear is strewn everywhere and in the bathroom, the towel is on the floor, there’s sand in the bath, the toilet’s not flushed and there’s a general lack of PPA (Parallel. Perpendicular. Always) overriding everything else. And that’s only Myatt’s bit.
Day Six – Thursday
There are four quiffs on parade at this morning’s corridor roll-call: Caple’s is no more than a ripple on the rocks, Jones’s looks a bit like a wave washing serenely onto the shore on a nice calm day, May’s is the size of a roller crashing into the cliffs on a particularly stormy evening, while Burgess’s creation is so big it resembles in both size and power the torrent unleashed by Coach Harris at Aqua Splash on Monday afternoon. Myatt has a neatly parted and copiously gelled look, Millward an interestingly spiked entity that looks a bit like a harpoon on the front of a whaling vessel, Vye a random fringe of the type made popular by those dreadful boy bands of the late 90s and an arrangement which seems to have taken on a mind and a life all of its own, while HD has goalkeeper’s hair – it’s just there. Freeman, Obieri and Fieldhouse, who are acutely aware of the survey that’s taking place not a million miles from their whereabouts, keep a low profile and appear to talk earnestly between themselves while keeping their backs to the assembled throng.
Freeman’s instigating a discussion based around what he (thinks he) can get away with calling the coaches and after several ‘interesting’ suggestions are met with both threats and promises relating to a slow and painful demise settles on ‘Henry’, after the name on our room cleaner’s slow-moving vacuum cleaner. Twenty years ago he’d have been caught and slaughtered on the spot, but these days only Coach Delaney can run, but he’s still smarting from yesterday’s murmurings about his driving speed and refuses to move, which based on the recent momentum of our vehicle is pretty much par for the course.
Game five sees Gloucester establish a two-goal lead over Newbury inside the first ten minutes; the first comes after a fine move down the left involving ‘Double F’ (Freeman and Fieldhouse), the latter’s cross being neatly headed home by May at the back post. Moments later, May’s anticipation bears more fruit after the keeper blocks Obieri’s initial effort, the energetic midfielder nodding home, again somewhere in the region of the rear stick.
Newbury respond well however, reducing the arrears either side of two fine saves from High Definition and it’s a pretty even contest until Vye curls in a well struck free kick to make it 3-1. Daniels, Fieldhouse and May come out with the highest match marks of the day and bask in the reflected glory while watching the Yellows edge out both Barking & Dagenham by the odd goal in five, even though they don’t know their scores yet.
Pulling the fab three away from their reverie, Coach Stalley organises the eleven black & yellow players into a one with two zeroes to commemorate the occasion of our hundredth Jersey win. It’s been twenty nine years in the making and every player that’s visited the island from 1990 onwards has contributed to the figure, so a massive thanks to one and all. In terms of 2018/19 milestones however, it’s another marker to add to the ever-expanding list which is playing absolute havoc with The Chairman’s statistical records that are stashed in the nuclear bunker that lies a hundred feet beneath Highnam Villas.
In the day’s other games, Hackney have beaten St Albans, Wokingham have seen off Thurrock and Plymouth, playing in their fourth different kit of the week – a rather fetching black number – let a three-goal lead slip to draw with their, eventually at any rate, very happy island hosts.
Iron Man fakes a bad leg and limps past his parents in an attempt to elicit a tad of saliva-based sympathy; he’s completely ignored however by both Mother & Father Ted, so charges off to play football with his mates instead. Thank goodness First Ade wasn’t required, as he’s far too busy uploading the photos onto both the GPSFA’s and his own personal twitter account.
It’s undercooked burger & chips for lunch, but we make a swift getaway afterwards as Coach Stalley’s in the driver’s seat. The results of a hastily convened straw poll of the playing staff, regarding who’s the most effective chauffeur to date this week are as predictable as the winner of the next North Korean general election: First Ade, second Ed, third Henry.
We grind to a halt in the disabled section of the Amaizin Maze car park, which is about the only thing a gammy leg is good for, put the blue sign in the front window and wander over for the annual negotiation with the reception lady that eventually leads to ten per cent being knocked off the final bill.
For those that haven’t had the pleasure of a day at the adventure park, the euphemistically named Amaizin Maze is a collection of slides, sand, water, tractor rides, crazy golf, things to climb in, things to climb on and things to walk past as quickly as possible; basically a load of absolute tat that the kids love from virtually the first minute till the last.
There’s a pleasant café however and Coach Harris has volunteered to wander round in a supervisory role, primarily so he can have a go on as many rides as possible, ‘whoop’ down as many slides as possible and spray water over as many people as possible without any snide references to either Archimedes or the Theory of Relative Displacement.
The Chef, today dressed in a hooped black & amber polo shirt that makes him look more like a wasp than Vespula Vulgaris himself also wanders off, but only to the table occupied by the Barking & Dagenham coaches about twenty yards away. ‘Nice to see you,’ he chortles, using his best Bruce Forsyth impression, an introduction that sees Dave immediately need to go off and oversee the children on the tractor ride, while Martin suddenly feels a desperate need to visit the loo. He’s soon back though as Jones is already in there, so nips off to supervise the completely empty shop instead.
Barking Graeme, whose magnificent auburn beard makes him look like a Dagenham freedom fighter and an appendage on which Coach Delaney is carefully modelling his own ‘five-year plan’, is well and truly trapped, but Captain Oates-like, sacrifices himself by fixing The Chef with an Essex stare while making explicit references to Strictly Come Dancing and The Generation Game, a manoeuvre that gives Barking Pete the opportunity to sneak off the other side of the table and quickly hide behind a strange wooden castle that’s seen much better days, before the 4’ 6” Amaizin security man shouts ‘Time up, all out!’ Barking Graeme, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth takes full advantage of Bruce being distracted for a couple of seconds and legs it, meaning that when The Chef turns back, he’s left chortling at a completely empty space.
It’s ‘Football’s Coming Home’ on the return journey, but with First Ade at the wheel, we’re back before anyone realises we’ve even left. The two people whose initials are AM annoy Obieri in some mysterious way as we clamber off the bus, but stop immediately he threatens to eat them both – one for starters and the other for mains. He looks round considering who he can imbibe for dessert, sees Jones and immediately decides to stick to two courses instead of three.
High Definition chooses ‘Duo of smoked fish’ for the real starter, but after taking one look at the offering, curls up his entire face in complete disgust. Withdrawing both his knife & fork and his wish to continue in a sequence that makes synchronised swimming appear ordinary, means he virtually cements fourth (last) place in The Premiership. Slider and Henry, neither of whom have any principles whatsoever, clear HD’s plate to make him feel better, but it’s minus one nonetheless. Next up it’s roast lion (of pork) and Myatt isn’t the only one whose face lapses into a five-minute frown at the prospect of tonight’s ‘mane’ meal. LOL.
Jones meanwhile has gone for chicken in some fancy Italian sauce and finishes up with half a gallon of deep red, Cacciatore-based make-up on both his lips and his cheeks, making him look like a stone age warrior without the spear. There’s nothing left on his plate though, not even a pattern, which is no surprise to anyone as he’s the only person in the eating room whose oesophagus is the diameter of his entire neck.
Day Seven – Friday
It’s Good Friday, but words are cheap and we’ll see how everything pans out before finalising our adjectives for 19th April.
It’s an 11.15 kick-off on the festival’s final playing day, so we arrive in the restaurant at the latest possible time, just as everyone else is making their way out with a fervour that suggests a fire alarm’s gone off somewhere. As we take our seats however, the reason for the mass exodus becomes abundantly clear; Bruce is standing beside the middle pillar talking ‘with’ Fiona from Orpington for the second time this week and the 157 remaining players, coaches – and by the look of the rather slow service, waiters and other hotel staff too, have made for the exits as a lemming might make for the nearest available precipice.
May has taken up the mantle of Pain au Chocolat man; as he’s only dropped one eating point so far, the Force appears to still be with him as he leads the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve League by five points from Lettuce and around a hundred from Myatt. In all fairness though, the latter is enjoying a late – and one hates to say, impressive – surge in terms of marks, if not league position or relative rankings. Slider meanwhile continues his assault on the world’s melon resources and is in danger of acquiring yet another nom de plume, while Jones is observing today’s religious undertones by devouring as many hot cross buns as is humanly possible.
There’s a competition, led by First Ade, that’s been ongoing for around twenty four hours now, with participants required to name a football team that no-one else has come up with, which begins with a specific letter of the alphabet. For ‘B’, we’ve had Boory (Bury), Bolton and the B Team and we get to ‘O’ before Freeman eventually triumphs with Oldham, though HD isn’t too happy with the adjudicator’s insistence that Leyton comes before Orient and it therefore doesn’t count.
‘Fiona’s going to Thailand instead of coming to Jersey next year,’ laments The Chef, as he takes his seat and sadly spreads a sliver of apricot jam on his lightly buttered toast. ‘That is such a crying shame.’
Despite the late and relaxed start to breakfast, the last part’s a bit of a rush as Ed’s driving today and we need to leave by 10.15 to ensure we get to the game on time. We do, just, thanks largely to all the lights being green and Myatt having remembered his kit, his plasters and himself, all on the same day.
The Yellows have dismantled their St Albans counterparts by the time we arrive at the FB, which is sad news for the three departing St Albans coaches who are retiring at the end of the season, but probably decent news for the springs in the 2020 Festival Scales that are used for the annual weigh-in. Happy retirement men, one hates to admit we might even miss you.
Hackney take a 12th minute lead with a fine strike at the Athletics Track End in a first half that has plenty of Gloucester huff and puff, but few signs of an end result. The second period is better however, Obieri brings us level, a Burgess free kick, sandwiched between woodwork crunchers from both Myatt and Obieri puts us ahead and the same player nets his second spot kick in six days to make it five set piece goals in the week. Danny Wallington, a centre back whose throw-ins propelled a ball further than most people can kick it netted six set pieces in six days in 2002 – three free kicks, two penalties and a corner that swung straight in, so Burgess still has plenty of work to do.
Elsewhere, Thurrock go down 4-0 to Orpington to complete an almost perfect turnaround as the week has gone on, St Albans ‘A’ finally register a victory and Plymouth, reverting to their all-white kit, much to the disappointment of both their players & parents who last night were indulging in a spot of spread betting as to the colour and design of yet another new strip, with a further flutter on whether the shirts would have proper collars or not, sharing no goals with Wokingham, who finish the festival with the best overall record for the third year running.
Caple will score a ‘9’ for his heroic, non-limping performance today, a display that mixes girders, rivets and a can of WD40 into a ‘They shall not pass’ recipe. Myatt and Burgess are today’s other fast-flyers in the match marks, though the same can’t be said for the mini bus as we edge along La Rouge Bouillion, arriving back at The Mayfair just before the fish fingers run out.
It’s the last afternoon, which means a low-tide whole-squad walk along the causeway to La Corbiere lighthouse, a wild promontory on the south west corner of the island, from which the next encounter with land is the east coast of America, some four thousand miles across The Pond. Coach Harris, relieved the watery expanse known as sea is still some distance away and keeping well clear of any tantalising rock pools, leads the 22 over the Corbiere boulders, with Second Ed once again bringing up the rear. No surprise there then.
The sun is beating down, the cloudless sky an azure blue and the temperature well into the 20s, but Mason insists on wearing a showerproof and Obieri a hoody, just in case things take a turn for the worse. Perspiration is a great help to anyone undertaking a post-tour diet, but both Mason and Obieri lose half a stone before we’ve even got off the causeway.
The navigator’s insistence that ‘I’ve been coming here for nearly half my life and we certainly don’t need a Sat Nav,’ proves as far off the mark as his chronological calculations and after two wrong turns we rack up at St Brelade’s beach, much to the annoyance of both Wixey and Harris who are waiting for us over at St Ouen.
Nigel Mansell’s south-facing mansion is close to here, but Second Ed chooses to ignore any references to the former Formula One world champion as we sit on the balcony of the Golden Sands watching the players splash in the sea, build sandcastles and indulge in a spot of mid-April sunbathing as Jersey 2019 draws ever-closer to a conclusion.
May’s sandcastle is the best – according to himself, while Fieldhouse struggles to change out of his beachwear into something more appropriate, successfully using a big white bath towel as a protective shield – again according to himself. And Second Ed is apparently not as slow a driver as everyone tries to make out, to complete a trilogy of ‘According to Yourselves’ as we board the bus and hot-foot it back to The Mayfair with First Ade at the wheel.
It’s the final dinner and for some unknown reason, Burgess, Caple, Jones (Z) and Ball aren’t called to the front to deliver their perfectly crafted speeches to the assembled masses, though they will regale their teammates with their thoughts and recollections from a position on the second step once the evening’s formalities are finally completed.
There’s a spot of controversy at dinner as to whether Vye and Burgess have eaten all their steak, but the jury eventually finds that both parties are innocent of deception, while May is threatened with the deduction of several attitude points if he continues his protestations to the contrary. Obieri and Freeman clear their plates too, despite some of the steak being so rare that that Super Vet bloke off the telly could probably have revived it. ‘I’ve just heard it moo,’ observes Caple, as if to emphasise that vegetarianism is still light years away for anyone in a GPSFA tie and jumper.
There’s a calm and relaxed atmosphere on the other teams’ tables, with staff and children quietly chatting to each other and waiters going about their duties free of the wild-eyed look that has seemingly haunted them for the past seven days. It’s probably coincidence that The Chef and his carer had to catch the 14.30 flight back to Bristol earlier today, but whatever the reason, there’s a new-found tranquillity about The Mayfair restaurant on this balmy mid-April evening.
The DRIRI and FRIRIs have all been hard at work today inspecting the rooms, with 356 netting another 9.5 to move ahead of 354, which only accumulated a hugely disappointing 6 (hair & body gel in the shower area, toiletry case on the shelf in the bathroom, hair brush on the same shelf and a pair of shoes under the clothes dryer thing – all Freeman’s according to Millward and Vye, though the jury’s out on whether either of them could be trusted in a police cell ID parade or anything similar). Second Ed clarifies to everyone, not for the first time this week that it’s PPA – Parallel & Perpendicular Always, not PPS (Parallel & Perpendicular Sometimes); everyone nods, though not necessarily because they understand. 355 achieves a second 600% increase of the week on yesterday’s score, thanks almost entirely to Caple’s 24-hour attempt at a superficial tidy-up followed by a thorough deep clean, though there’s a limit to the success of this sort of thing and visitors to Myatt’s side of the cell can still view very little of the floor.
‘I think,’ opines DRIRI, ‘that given some proper training, the correct mentor, a qualified psychologist and a bottle of Domestos, if he really puts his mind to the job in hand and ‘wants it’ enough, Caple could well become a fully-fledged DRIRI in 10-12 years’ time.’ A rare crack appears on each of Ferrous’s metallic cheekbones and there’s a hint of a tear in the corner of each eye. ‘Oh Thank-you,’ he sniffs. ‘Thank-you so very, very much.’
‘Please don’t cry,’ orders DRIRI, in his typically unempathetic tone. ‘We really haven’t the time to sort out all the rust.’
Day Eight – Saturday
It’s an 8 o’clock rising of sorts. 355 and 356 are still in their pits and display painfully few signs of intending to move any time soon. 354 however are already up, dressed and ready for whatever action the day has in store. On entering 352, Jones walks out of the wardrobe and into the bathroom. No-one bats an eyelid, as if this is a common, everyday occurrence. It probably is.
We said farewell to the FB Fields yesterday and now it’s the FB (final breakfast) at The Mayfair, followed by goodbyes to our hard-working waiters and anyone else who fancies a handshake or three.
Cases are packed and loaded on to the buses, with the only issue being Plymouth’s attempt to run over our kit bag in the parking bay outside. Whether it’s to show their disdain at us for having only a single playing strip to our impoverished name or as retribution for something we did to them about eight years ago, no-one’s quite sure, but with First Ade at the wheel, we zoom off, firstly to the filling station and latterly to the airport.
Despite undergoing an almost full body search due to the metal detector buzzer going off, May still has the Force with him as we congregate outside WHS, but sadly neither HD nor Iron Man have their parents’ presents, as the hirsute security bloke takes exception to both (people and gifts) and unceremoniously chucks them (the gifts) into the rubbish bin. Jones’s present also goes the same way, but as this was an edible offering to himself, sympathy is at a premium and everyone else walks away laughing.
Departure is delayed slightly as Obieri, on reaching the aircraft’s boarding stairs, realises he’s left his hand luggage/case behind and nips back through the departure lounge, down the corridor, out through security, past the hairy bloke with the lazy eye and into WH Smith, where it’s still waiting, stress-free, calm as you like, next to the Toblerone rack.
It’s a forty-minute flight back to Southampton, a twenty-minute wait to claim the luggage off the carousel and a ten-minute grab-a-drink interval before we’re all aboard the bus and bombing up the A34. Vye and Burgess are attempting to work out the relative ages of the coaching staff, much to the chagrin of Wixey, who is perceived to be second only in age to The Chef (who’s apparently 99). As Isaac Newton never tired of telling anyone who’d listen, ‘For every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction,’ meaning the remainder of the adult (in age, anyway) population of the coach is enormously thrilled and metaphorically slap both LV and WB heartily on the back, though no-one can quite work out the criteria by which Coach Stalley has been categorised as third youngest.
And none of the twenty-two can work out either why the bus has come to a sudden standstill on Derby Road and the driver plus the Young Guns (Coach Harris & Coach Delaney if you’re wondering) are fervently unloading the under-store and stacking the cases and bags on the pavement outside.
Lin at the Great Western has once again provided a revitalising spread of sandwiches and chips and prizes are presented to the winners of the various DREAM-mark categories. Apart from a Monday faux pas from Jones, the effort with the diaries has been very good across the board; please keep your copy as in ten years’ time you’ll join hundreds of former tourists in reliving this amazing week either quietly in your own little home or probably more raucously when a group of you go out on the town together. Vulgaris is devastated for about thirty five seconds as his beloved Room 354 is beaten into second place by 356, a mere half a point the tiniest of differences. ‘Was it the hair & body gel in the shower area, the toiletry case on the shelf in the bathroom, the hair brush on the very same shelf or the pair of shoes under the clothes dryer thing?’ he ponders ruefully.
For the first time in living memory, DRIRI has split a room’s mark into three on the last day, meaning 355 Caple finishes with 33, 355 Obieri with 31 and 355 Myatt with 27, which as a room score is an all-time Jersey record low and thus another 2018/19 GPSFA milestone is created. As with the hundredth win, it’s been twenty nine years in the making. Mrs Farren and Miss Bussey from Norton Centre of Excellence will be ever so proud when they receive their ‘Guinness Book of (Room) Records’ notification letter early next week.
Burgess, Jones and Obieri lift the Premiership eating silverware while High Definition is relegated to the Championship, where Caple, Freeman and Vye finish atop the table, with Millward going down. No-one’s promoted however as they’ve each dropped a brace of points; May the Force be With You is top Pig Farmer, while Fieldhouse (good effort though) and Myatt aren’t. Myatt however wins a bag of Mini Eggs as MIE (Most Improved Eater).
Daniels, Caple & Burgess are the nicest guys as they top the attitude marks, though at the other end of the scale, Jones finishes twenty eighth out of eleven for a multitude of nefarious deeds, all of which made everyone laugh no end. Thank-you.
Daniels, Obieri, Burgess and Caple come out on top in the match scores, but there are only six marks separating all eleven players, who both individually and as a team performed really well against fine opposition throughout the week.
Everyone’s gone, heading for home, stories to recount, laughs to recall. The empty chip bowl’s still on the pool table next to a single blue packet with ‘Twirl Bites’ embossed across its front. First Ade silently taps his latest – and final - tour tweet into his mobile phone; Second Ed is embroiled in thought and reflection – surely there was a third gear on that mini bus. Surely….
Coach Wixey is reflective too, considering the A Team’s non-arrival at St Ouen yesterday and how he can get them back over the weeks, months and years to come. However long it takes, it’ll be well worth the wait. Coach Harris has had enough of thinking and the moment he considers no-one’s looking, alters the location of the Twirl Bites from pool table to trouser pocket and begins a silent chocolatey feast of around three minutes’ duration.
There were rocks and there was water, sea and pools, Jones and Myatt, fun and laughter. There are no gadgets on beaches and no gizmos in sand. In this day and age where electronic rules and people seem lost for the period of time it takes to recharge their mobile phone, the waves will continue to roll in and roll out; and all the technological advances in the years and decades and centuries to come will never alter the metronomic violence perpetrated by the ocean’s whitecaps. The important things are the simple things, but in a society dictated by so much superficial materialism, it is as easy to lose sight of this notion as it is for someone to forget their kit, or their plasters, or even themselves. But one man hasn’t. Andrew Bruce Forsyth Foran will continue to search high and low, far and wide, for someone to indulge in conversation. There will be peaks to scale and troughs to negotiate, but he will plough on regardless. For somewhere, over the rainbow and far beyond man’s perception of where the horizon might really be, he will discover his nirvana, his idyllic location, his utopia – a place where people just want to sit and talk to him for hours on end, for days and weeks, and ultimately, for evermore. And for all our sakes, please let it be Jersey 2020.
Acknowledgements
All the Gloucester coaches and players for making Jersey 2019 the fun that it was and particularly Andrew (Bruce) Foran for (begrudgingly) continuing to be the persona non grata of the annual Jersey resume. Of all the great signings....
All the Gloucester parents, grandparents, friends & families, for allowing it all to happen and each of our fabulous sponsors and supporters for ensuring that it did.
(King) Pat Cullinane of Jersey for his 45 years of amazing organisation of this fabulous event. A man of high principle and unbridled enthusiasm, rarely seen and seldom heard, but always there. In the (almost) immortal words of Sir Christopher Wren, ‘If you want a memorial to me, look around the FB Fields.’
The managers, coaches and helpers of all the teams involved - the foot soldiers who make it all happen. Lookalikes or not, we love the company, the banter and the proverbial craic. Oh, and Phil & John from the frozen north and Elias of Fulham from a bit closer to home. You probably won’t read this, but thanks anyway.
And finally, to Mrs (Stewart) Ratcliffe. Your husband tells me every year that you liked the previous season’s memoirs so much that, like Victor Kyam, you’d like to buy the company (just like Andy Foran, I guess). I hope the 2019 blog was worth the twelve-month wait.
# (Very) happy days.
#Carpe Diem
