Delusions
Wednesday evening. This week’s midweek staff session sees the local association’s beleaguered officials attend a bespoke FA Emergency Aid course at Brickhampton GC, a soiree that includes a number of scary images portrayed on both the projector screen and just inside the main entrance. The screen pics include the potential results of placing one’s fingers inside the mouth of a seemingly unconscious patient; the main entrance pics are those of The Photographer, who is attempting to flog each of the participants a one-off memento of their mouth-to-mouth resuscitation endeavours. Everyone buys hook, line and severed digits into the wisdom of the first set of images; nobody buys any of the second ones, frames or no frames, leaving the purveyor of the unsold snapshots momentarily speechless for only the third time this millennium.
Saturday morning. When The Chairman’s on the other end of a borrowed mobile phone shouting, ‘It’s Decision Time!’ the omens aren’t usually great, but on this occasion he’s referring to whether we relocate to Oxstalls or not in an attempt to spare the pitch a battering, as the rain is cats-and-dogging it down outside and the Crack-of-Dawn Club has sought refuge in the eating room for a cuppa and a chat.
A verdict is reached when the news comes through that Oxstalls is fully booked and as if by magic – or maybe it’s due to Father Ted’s divine intervention – the rain suddenly abates and the Field of Dreams rises majestically from the sodden turf that half an hour earlier used to be a school playing field.
The Groundsman is absent due to viewing the short-term weather forecast through the chink in his bedroom curtains, while The Chairman arrives in remarkably chirpy fashion, due, one considers, to the potential culinary opportunities his new role assisting The Chef in the GPSFA kitchen might offer.
There’s a pleasing variety of headwear on show amongst the somewhat scant turnout – only the die-hards have ventured to GL2 this morning and JK’s attendance clicker comes to a juddering halt at 33, Longlevens’ smallest gathering since records began some ten years previously.
The patio display of assorted millinery sees Mother Freeman return to her original ‘living’ black bobble, though this appears to have elongated by several metres since its previous unveiling; Mother Fieldhouse models a hugely impressive doubled-bobbled maroon offering that reminds one of a pair of Siamese twins simultaneously experiencing an electric shock, while Mother Daniels, as it’s the 1st of December, displays the first Christmas chapeau of the fledgling 2018 festive season. She’s also got a festive car and a festive garden; when Frank Sinatra amongst numerous others sang ‘The Road to Mandalay’ back in the day (the rhyme, by the way, is not part of the lyrics), he had little idea of the assorted festoonery and sparkling fluorescence that his monotone rendition would bring to mind. YouTube it if unsure.
First to arrive at The Home of Football is Millward, who’s immediately put to work with a towel and a cloth to dry and clean the touchline ‘grand’ stand. Millward’s closely followed by Myatt Junior, who’s wearing a perfectly arranged, perfectly gelled and perfectly choreographed blonde quiff and Myatt Senior who’s wearing a navy blue tracksuit, the likes of which were last seen in the western world circa 1974. They’re all the rage in modern day Wainlode however, where the last Saturday of every month sees the Red Lion hold its ever-popular retro evenings, a jamboree which is always thoroughly enjoyed by its one and only regular attendee.
The Newbury squad follows closely behind, led pavilion-wards by their Boltonian manager Peter Kay, who marks his arrival by eating a banana and putting on the away changing room’s matchday music which includes a selection of his favourite renditions, ‘Black Bin Bags’ and ‘Is This the Way to Amarillo?’ It most certainly is if you go out of the big green gate and turn first right.
The Real Manager has switched codes and taken the dog to Rugby, so Mother Daniels takes over programme & raffle ticket duties as the teams engage in the rope-lined tunnel, where the queues are considerably longer than those at the food hatch, meaning Bishop Steadman in his rather fetching navy blue GPSFA apron / cassock has limited opportunities to serve the paying public much of this morning’s flapjack selection, resulting in a half-full tin of unsold biscuits. Opportunity well and truly knocks.
The first twenty minutes of the game sees both sides cancel each other out, with Burgess, Vye, Jones and Fieldhouse all working hard in midfield, though the endeavours of their Newbury counterparts mean there is little goalmouth action until Obieri works his way to just inside the penalty area and swings his big (orange) boot to emphatic effect - 1-0.
There is surprisingly little else of journalistic note before the break, but after some mid-game jelly baby refuelling, there’s more urgency on display from the home team and eight minutes in, Caple forces a fine save from Wilson following Burgess’s far post corner.
Iron Man, Wasp, Slider, Kirk, Subway and High Definition (or any combination thereof), deal confidently with Newbury’s various attacks and eventually Obieri’s marauding diagonal run is halted, only for Lettuce to drive in the loose ball for Gloucester’s second. Both maroon bobbles on Mother Fieldhouse’s impressive woollen top wobble wildly in spookily synchronised Siamese fashion.
Pathfinder and the excellent Jones continue their midfield prompting and WC, Slider and Kirk almost fashion a third before Rodger reduces the arrears in the game’s dying moments. The hosts see out the last hundred and twenty seconds without further alarm though and a narrow, but nevertheless very welcome tenth consecutive victory is in the big blue Ikea bag. Or at least the kit is. Big credit however goes to the tangerines of Newbury who, for the second time this season have pushed us all the way and have again increased late-game perspiration levels in the black & yellow ranks with a two-minutes-to-go finish.
The Big Red Machine in the corner of the eating room is oddly quiet as the eight Newbury supporters have sought to hit the A417 rather than invest in a replica of the team photo they originally bought on the 13th of October, meaning The Lens lapses into a twelve-second burst of complete silence for only the fourth time this millennium.
Saturday afternoon. It’s nearly quarter to two before everything’s cleared away, the floors swept and mopped and the remaining flapjacks placed in a bag camouflaged as a filing system, but eventually The Chairman takes the register of his hastily convened committee meeting down at HQ. Coach Wixey isn’t available as, despite being unable to take advantage of Father Freeman’s early-morning complimentary ticket offer, is still off to see Gloucester beat Worcester at Kingsholm with a contented look on his face, safe in the knowledge that the monstrous improvement in the Yellows’ playing style over the past eight days is all down to Coach Harris being absent last week and Wixey himself being able to solely influence the city team’s newly-discovered tiki-taka playing style all on his own. Lee who?
Coach Harris has turned down the opportunity to visit Kingsholm in order to attend the committee meeting instead, a contented look on his face, safe in the knowledge that his return to the fray this morning has resulted in three additional goals and a very welcome clean sheet. Paul who?
Myatt Junior has returned to Riverview safe in the knowledge that someone else will Lemon Fresh the items he’s left at Longlevens this week and Myatt Senior has returned to Riverview too, safe in the knowledge that fashion is indeed a cyclical thing and that every outfit ‘has its day’ – even if that day isn’t now.
Mother Daniels has returned to Mandalay safe in the knowledge that the dulcet tones of Ol’ Blue Eyes are just what the neighbours are desperate to feast on at this time of year, while Mother Fieldhouse returns to Oxstalls Drive, takes out her knitting needles and maroon wool, safe in the knowledge that a third synchronised bobble at the St Albans match next Saturday will be all the rage, no question.
The Chairman sits contentedly at the committee table, safe in the knowledge that not only has his latest flapjack scam gone completely undetected, but that the assembled throng will be enthused beyond belief with the pages and pages of administrative recommendations he has spent the past three days compiling in his War & Peace-sized bestselling notebook.
And the twelve season ticket supporters of Gloucester City Football Club that have decided against making the 290-mile round trip to Chelmsford City this afternoon, rest safe in the knowledge that now that our latest Teflon-sponsored goalkeeper has had his loan spell prematurely terminated and returned persona non grata to his parent club, the team’s fortunes must surely take a turn for the better later this afternoon.
As the American author and essayist, Edward Paul Abbey once offered, ‘Better a cruel truth than a comfortable delusion.’ And for all these people and more, Abbey’s prophetic maxim makes rather disturbing reading.
Gloucester: High Definition; Mother Brown, Ted, Wasp; Slider, Lawrence, Pathfinder, Lettuce; TGS; WC, Issur Danielovitch.
Saturday morning. When The Chairman’s on the other end of a borrowed mobile phone shouting, ‘It’s Decision Time!’ the omens aren’t usually great, but on this occasion he’s referring to whether we relocate to Oxstalls or not in an attempt to spare the pitch a battering, as the rain is cats-and-dogging it down outside and the Crack-of-Dawn Club has sought refuge in the eating room for a cuppa and a chat.
A verdict is reached when the news comes through that Oxstalls is fully booked and as if by magic – or maybe it’s due to Father Ted’s divine intervention – the rain suddenly abates and the Field of Dreams rises majestically from the sodden turf that half an hour earlier used to be a school playing field.
The Groundsman is absent due to viewing the short-term weather forecast through the chink in his bedroom curtains, while The Chairman arrives in remarkably chirpy fashion, due, one considers, to the potential culinary opportunities his new role assisting The Chef in the GPSFA kitchen might offer.
There’s a pleasing variety of headwear on show amongst the somewhat scant turnout – only the die-hards have ventured to GL2 this morning and JK’s attendance clicker comes to a juddering halt at 33, Longlevens’ smallest gathering since records began some ten years previously.
The patio display of assorted millinery sees Mother Freeman return to her original ‘living’ black bobble, though this appears to have elongated by several metres since its previous unveiling; Mother Fieldhouse models a hugely impressive doubled-bobbled maroon offering that reminds one of a pair of Siamese twins simultaneously experiencing an electric shock, while Mother Daniels, as it’s the 1st of December, displays the first Christmas chapeau of the fledgling 2018 festive season. She’s also got a festive car and a festive garden; when Frank Sinatra amongst numerous others sang ‘The Road to Mandalay’ back in the day (the rhyme, by the way, is not part of the lyrics), he had little idea of the assorted festoonery and sparkling fluorescence that his monotone rendition would bring to mind. YouTube it if unsure.
First to arrive at The Home of Football is Millward, who’s immediately put to work with a towel and a cloth to dry and clean the touchline ‘grand’ stand. Millward’s closely followed by Myatt Junior, who’s wearing a perfectly arranged, perfectly gelled and perfectly choreographed blonde quiff and Myatt Senior who’s wearing a navy blue tracksuit, the likes of which were last seen in the western world circa 1974. They’re all the rage in modern day Wainlode however, where the last Saturday of every month sees the Red Lion hold its ever-popular retro evenings, a jamboree which is always thoroughly enjoyed by its one and only regular attendee.
The Newbury squad follows closely behind, led pavilion-wards by their Boltonian manager Peter Kay, who marks his arrival by eating a banana and putting on the away changing room’s matchday music which includes a selection of his favourite renditions, ‘Black Bin Bags’ and ‘Is This the Way to Amarillo?’ It most certainly is if you go out of the big green gate and turn first right.
The Real Manager has switched codes and taken the dog to Rugby, so Mother Daniels takes over programme & raffle ticket duties as the teams engage in the rope-lined tunnel, where the queues are considerably longer than those at the food hatch, meaning Bishop Steadman in his rather fetching navy blue GPSFA apron / cassock has limited opportunities to serve the paying public much of this morning’s flapjack selection, resulting in a half-full tin of unsold biscuits. Opportunity well and truly knocks.
The first twenty minutes of the game sees both sides cancel each other out, with Burgess, Vye, Jones and Fieldhouse all working hard in midfield, though the endeavours of their Newbury counterparts mean there is little goalmouth action until Obieri works his way to just inside the penalty area and swings his big (orange) boot to emphatic effect - 1-0.
There is surprisingly little else of journalistic note before the break, but after some mid-game jelly baby refuelling, there’s more urgency on display from the home team and eight minutes in, Caple forces a fine save from Wilson following Burgess’s far post corner.
Iron Man, Wasp, Slider, Kirk, Subway and High Definition (or any combination thereof), deal confidently with Newbury’s various attacks and eventually Obieri’s marauding diagonal run is halted, only for Lettuce to drive in the loose ball for Gloucester’s second. Both maroon bobbles on Mother Fieldhouse’s impressive woollen top wobble wildly in spookily synchronised Siamese fashion.
Pathfinder and the excellent Jones continue their midfield prompting and WC, Slider and Kirk almost fashion a third before Rodger reduces the arrears in the game’s dying moments. The hosts see out the last hundred and twenty seconds without further alarm though and a narrow, but nevertheless very welcome tenth consecutive victory is in the big blue Ikea bag. Or at least the kit is. Big credit however goes to the tangerines of Newbury who, for the second time this season have pushed us all the way and have again increased late-game perspiration levels in the black & yellow ranks with a two-minutes-to-go finish.
The Big Red Machine in the corner of the eating room is oddly quiet as the eight Newbury supporters have sought to hit the A417 rather than invest in a replica of the team photo they originally bought on the 13th of October, meaning The Lens lapses into a twelve-second burst of complete silence for only the fourth time this millennium.
Saturday afternoon. It’s nearly quarter to two before everything’s cleared away, the floors swept and mopped and the remaining flapjacks placed in a bag camouflaged as a filing system, but eventually The Chairman takes the register of his hastily convened committee meeting down at HQ. Coach Wixey isn’t available as, despite being unable to take advantage of Father Freeman’s early-morning complimentary ticket offer, is still off to see Gloucester beat Worcester at Kingsholm with a contented look on his face, safe in the knowledge that the monstrous improvement in the Yellows’ playing style over the past eight days is all down to Coach Harris being absent last week and Wixey himself being able to solely influence the city team’s newly-discovered tiki-taka playing style all on his own. Lee who?
Coach Harris has turned down the opportunity to visit Kingsholm in order to attend the committee meeting instead, a contented look on his face, safe in the knowledge that his return to the fray this morning has resulted in three additional goals and a very welcome clean sheet. Paul who?
Myatt Junior has returned to Riverview safe in the knowledge that someone else will Lemon Fresh the items he’s left at Longlevens this week and Myatt Senior has returned to Riverview too, safe in the knowledge that fashion is indeed a cyclical thing and that every outfit ‘has its day’ – even if that day isn’t now.
Mother Daniels has returned to Mandalay safe in the knowledge that the dulcet tones of Ol’ Blue Eyes are just what the neighbours are desperate to feast on at this time of year, while Mother Fieldhouse returns to Oxstalls Drive, takes out her knitting needles and maroon wool, safe in the knowledge that a third synchronised bobble at the St Albans match next Saturday will be all the rage, no question.
The Chairman sits contentedly at the committee table, safe in the knowledge that not only has his latest flapjack scam gone completely undetected, but that the assembled throng will be enthused beyond belief with the pages and pages of administrative recommendations he has spent the past three days compiling in his War & Peace-sized bestselling notebook.
And the twelve season ticket supporters of Gloucester City Football Club that have decided against making the 290-mile round trip to Chelmsford City this afternoon, rest safe in the knowledge that now that our latest Teflon-sponsored goalkeeper has had his loan spell prematurely terminated and returned persona non grata to his parent club, the team’s fortunes must surely take a turn for the better later this afternoon.
As the American author and essayist, Edward Paul Abbey once offered, ‘Better a cruel truth than a comfortable delusion.’ And for all these people and more, Abbey’s prophetic maxim makes rather disturbing reading.
Gloucester: High Definition; Mother Brown, Ted, Wasp; Slider, Lawrence, Pathfinder, Lettuce; TGS; WC, Issur Danielovitch.
