Fashion
There’s an early-morning fashion parade taking place outside the Home of Football, led by Mother Fieldhouse who’s removed both Siamese bobbles from Hat No 12 and Mother Burgess who has a detachable appendage which, despite this being the technological age, requires manual labour to both attach and detach it. Mother Daniels has relinquished her yellow GPSFA coat for an identical garment in bright red, meaning she only needs a riding hood to join the headwear catwalk. Definitely absent from the show however is Mother May, whose Sherlock is missing for the fifth week running and Mother Caple, who remains in the shadows, so no-one’s quite sure what she’s wearing atop, if anything at all.
The charabanc heads east via Oxford amidst a spate of complaints regarding Jones and his repetitively negative impact on the atmosphere within; a bit like global warming without the strength required to completely melt the polar ice cap. ‘Himalayan chicken,’ suggests Coach Wilson, a self-appointed aficionado on the subject, his less-than-impressed sneer suggesting the interruption to his first fiendish sudoku of the day has not been met with universal acclaim.
The aforementioned Jones, keen to be thought of in a more positive light, boldly reads the list of eateries from the big blue sign proclaiming the entrance to Beaconsfield Services, but stops suddenly on reaching Patisserie Valerie (established 1926) and moves quickly on to KFC, which is much easier to say at 8.52 on a Saturday morning.
Someone asks who’s going to carry the drinks today and the conversation once again turns to Myatt, who is either flying back first class from Mexico tomorrow, being led down the A46 from Prinknash by a silent trio of Benedictine monks, or trotting home from Skegness aback the resort’s one remaining beach pony, depending on who you believe. Whichever, if any, is true, spare a thought for Miss Francesca Bussey, Myatt’s class teacher at Norton C of E (Centre of Excellence, clearly) Primary School, who has spent the whole of the first week back after Christmas quietly contemplating whether to roll out the red carpet or build a Les Miserables-style barricade to finally welcome WC back for the Spring Term. Safe to say, it’s unlikely to be the carpet.
The breakfast bill at PV is over thirty quid (£20 for the table service and extortionately, £10 for the grub), the arrival of which sees Coach Wilson doing a decent impression of The Photographer by coincidentally disappearing in the general direction of ‘Tourist Information’ at the very same moment the chip & pin machine is produced by the twenty-pound waitress. Maybe Jones was right after all and KFC, while probably not being a better bet, would certainly have been a cheaper one. And much easier to say into the bargain (bucket).
Arrival at Kings Langley FC is fifteen minutes before the hosts, which is good news for Coach Stalley who relishes the additional set-up time for FA warm-up number 55, which is well underway before sixty seven per cent of the coaching staff get anywhere near the pitch. Warm-up number 55 is a hugely different beast from warm-ups 1-54, in that the circular skipping of the previous 53 (superstition prevented him using #FA13) is today replaced by firstly straight-line skipping and secondly, right-to-left skipping. High Definition is clearly having none of it and commandeers Wasp, on his welcome return from the mid-season break in Nid de Guepe to warm him up, ‘As far away as humanly possible from those line dancers.’
Obieri, who half an hour ago almost mistook the curtained-off changing room shower for the flushing variety of the WC, has no such problem finding his way to goal, firstly latching on to El Capitano’s neat pass to locate the bottom far corner, then after some excellent build-up play from Lettuce and Issur Danielovitch, audaciously flicking the ball over the centre back’s head before dispatching the sphere into the self-same resting place.
There are six away fans in the not quite sold-out and completely unsegregated crowd of 34 at the Sadiku Stadium (pitch three) – Father Vye in his four shades of royal bonnet, Father Caple in his two shades of grey bobble and Father May who is modelling neither a shade nor a tassle. Father Hundred Per Cent Burgess, who like sailors, girls and ports has a relative in every county, arrives with The Godfather (of WB) and son of The Godfather, though quite what relation that makes Young Oliver to anyone else, no-one really knows.
Back to the action on the pitch and Dacorum are giving as good as they’re getting and Mother Brown, Iron Man and Jones defend with aplomb, while HD saves well from Nicholls to preserve the two-goal interval lead.
Croatia are a good side and there’s plenty more pressure in the second half, but with the redoubtable Iron Man girder-like in every which way apart from rusting and Slider, Burgess, Lawrence, Lettuce, Issur and Wasp all seemingly covering every inch of ground between the two sets of sticks, the pressure is rebuffed until nine minutes from time when the hosts halve the deficit with a very well taken goal.
The home side throw everyone forward now, but leave gaps at the back and after Obieri has an effort cleared off the line, Burgess aims a right wing corner at the left foot of just about the only defender in the opposition penalty area, who kindly obliges by neatly diverting in our third. Issur seals victory, having made good ground to follow up after Obieri’s effort has been saved, to seal an excellent win against a proper team.
Within fifteen minutes of the final whistle, the first session of the Dubious Goals Panel is convened and Son of The Godfather declares in a scarily Sicilian tone that there’s no way his relative should be credited with the third goal, full stop; a proclamation that would have reduced a lesser man than Burgess to life-threatening floods of tears on the spot. Instead, our captain smiles his normal engaging smile and elicits his usual engaging platitudes, though behind his seriously benevolent façade, he’s busy plotting instant and terminal revenge on SOTG the moment that FB and TG himself as much as glance in the opposite direction.
Nine contented players immediately demolish half a tray of giant hot dogs, while Mother Brown singularly demolishes the other 50%, as West Ham & Arsenal huff and puff to no great effect on the bar corner television. You can currently buy tins of eight Lancaster Hot Dogs in Brine from Tesco at 50p a shot and given there’s a fair mark-up on each, it’s an interesting thought to consider which bits of the original animal (if any), each frankfurter might contain. Mother Brown cares not as the barman returns with seconds, which is about the same amount of time he takes to do a ‘David Copperfield’ and make the extra offerings disappear completely without trace.
Burgess remains in Hertfordshire for the day, vengeance in mind, so the mini bus, initially at any rate, is a much quieter place than it was on the way down. That is until Mother Brown spies something out of the nearside window and exclaims enthusiastically, ‘I sawed it,’ an utterance that stops Coach Wilson’s devouring of a Times article about the tactics used at the Battle of Isandlwana (Anglo-Zulu War; January 1879) in its tracks and incurs a ferocious diatribe about the declining standards in modern day education and a three-pronged attack on Haresfield Primary School in particular. Miss Bussey meanwhile, who’s quietly relaxing in her little house in downtown Cheltenham is not quite sure why, but at this precise moment has an out-of-body feeling that despite the trials and tribulations that Monday morning may yet bring, maybe Norton isn’t such a bad place to be after all.
Back at the ranch, The Chairman has just finished two and a half hours of number crunching, though it’s currently unclear whether the figure of 22 relates to the spectator count at the girls’ victory over both Barking & Dagenham (a little low) or the number of flapjacks he’s managed to cunningly extricate from that big blue tin that sits on the refreshment servery (somewhat high). Also in a slight state of flux is Coach Wixey who, after penning the recent ‘Christmas Carol’ article that appears in the blog section of this website under the nom de plume Charles Wixens, is accused by Coach Harris of taking his eye off the ball having just this week been offered a lucrative book deal by Penguin Modern Classics. It looks like his team took their eye off the ball too, going down 6-3 at Bath.
Oxford Services and Jones, who’s currently assuming pride of place in today’s adventures, looks up the cost of a KFC bucket and big bottle of coke, divides it by four and, having relieved the other hungry parties of the requisite sum, returns to the table with a bucket for five and a knowing smile. The food tastes good, he has no trouble with pronunciation and he’s got a free meal into the bargain. An e-mail to Lord Sugar is no doubt in the offing too.
Despite Burgess still head-hunting in rural Hertfordshire, the mini bus noise levels have returned to their usual red reading on the Decibel Scale and there are several attempts at what can loosely be described as ‘singing’, a pastime which, a bit like dyslexia, can take on many and varied forms. There’s ‘We love you Gloucester, we do’ (repeat), ‘Football’s Coming Home’ (again) and some indecipherable offering to the general ‘tune’ of ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’.
The Fashion Show, minus Mother Burgess’s detachable, has returned to GL2 at exactly the same time as the mini bus chugs to a standstill. Mother Daniels has swapped her bright red coat for an identical jet black number, while Lettuce takes ten minutes to identify Mother Fieldhouse due to her lack of Siamese bobbles. Taking pride of place though is Father Freeman, resplendent in a pair of turquoise shorts and black shoes, the general effect of which is that everyone knows immediately who’s going to win today’s contest and as such departs the scene as quickly as possible, knowing full well that Saturday 12th January 2019 just isn’t going to be their day.
On the way back to Moreton Street, the second sitting of the Dubious Goals Panel is convened. With SOTG Oliver being no more, Sopuruchukwu Obieri assumes the chair and carefully considers the three most important factors relating to whether Burgess should, or shouldn’t be, awarded ‘the goal’. Factor One: If the same thing happened to me, would I want to be credited with the goal? Factor Two: If the same thing happened to me, would I want to be credited with the goal? Factor Three: If the same thing happened to me, would I want to be credited with the goal? And just like the result of the recent Fashion Show, the outcome was never, ever, going to be in any doubt.
Gloucester: High Definition; Mother Brown, Iron Man, Lawrence Titus Jones; Issur Danielovitch, Slider, El Capitano, Lettuce; Beamer; Wasp.
The charabanc heads east via Oxford amidst a spate of complaints regarding Jones and his repetitively negative impact on the atmosphere within; a bit like global warming without the strength required to completely melt the polar ice cap. ‘Himalayan chicken,’ suggests Coach Wilson, a self-appointed aficionado on the subject, his less-than-impressed sneer suggesting the interruption to his first fiendish sudoku of the day has not been met with universal acclaim.
The aforementioned Jones, keen to be thought of in a more positive light, boldly reads the list of eateries from the big blue sign proclaiming the entrance to Beaconsfield Services, but stops suddenly on reaching Patisserie Valerie (established 1926) and moves quickly on to KFC, which is much easier to say at 8.52 on a Saturday morning.
Someone asks who’s going to carry the drinks today and the conversation once again turns to Myatt, who is either flying back first class from Mexico tomorrow, being led down the A46 from Prinknash by a silent trio of Benedictine monks, or trotting home from Skegness aback the resort’s one remaining beach pony, depending on who you believe. Whichever, if any, is true, spare a thought for Miss Francesca Bussey, Myatt’s class teacher at Norton C of E (Centre of Excellence, clearly) Primary School, who has spent the whole of the first week back after Christmas quietly contemplating whether to roll out the red carpet or build a Les Miserables-style barricade to finally welcome WC back for the Spring Term. Safe to say, it’s unlikely to be the carpet.
The breakfast bill at PV is over thirty quid (£20 for the table service and extortionately, £10 for the grub), the arrival of which sees Coach Wilson doing a decent impression of The Photographer by coincidentally disappearing in the general direction of ‘Tourist Information’ at the very same moment the chip & pin machine is produced by the twenty-pound waitress. Maybe Jones was right after all and KFC, while probably not being a better bet, would certainly have been a cheaper one. And much easier to say into the bargain (bucket).
Arrival at Kings Langley FC is fifteen minutes before the hosts, which is good news for Coach Stalley who relishes the additional set-up time for FA warm-up number 55, which is well underway before sixty seven per cent of the coaching staff get anywhere near the pitch. Warm-up number 55 is a hugely different beast from warm-ups 1-54, in that the circular skipping of the previous 53 (superstition prevented him using #FA13) is today replaced by firstly straight-line skipping and secondly, right-to-left skipping. High Definition is clearly having none of it and commandeers Wasp, on his welcome return from the mid-season break in Nid de Guepe to warm him up, ‘As far away as humanly possible from those line dancers.’
Obieri, who half an hour ago almost mistook the curtained-off changing room shower for the flushing variety of the WC, has no such problem finding his way to goal, firstly latching on to El Capitano’s neat pass to locate the bottom far corner, then after some excellent build-up play from Lettuce and Issur Danielovitch, audaciously flicking the ball over the centre back’s head before dispatching the sphere into the self-same resting place.
There are six away fans in the not quite sold-out and completely unsegregated crowd of 34 at the Sadiku Stadium (pitch three) – Father Vye in his four shades of royal bonnet, Father Caple in his two shades of grey bobble and Father May who is modelling neither a shade nor a tassle. Father Hundred Per Cent Burgess, who like sailors, girls and ports has a relative in every county, arrives with The Godfather (of WB) and son of The Godfather, though quite what relation that makes Young Oliver to anyone else, no-one really knows.
Back to the action on the pitch and Dacorum are giving as good as they’re getting and Mother Brown, Iron Man and Jones defend with aplomb, while HD saves well from Nicholls to preserve the two-goal interval lead.
Croatia are a good side and there’s plenty more pressure in the second half, but with the redoubtable Iron Man girder-like in every which way apart from rusting and Slider, Burgess, Lawrence, Lettuce, Issur and Wasp all seemingly covering every inch of ground between the two sets of sticks, the pressure is rebuffed until nine minutes from time when the hosts halve the deficit with a very well taken goal.
The home side throw everyone forward now, but leave gaps at the back and after Obieri has an effort cleared off the line, Burgess aims a right wing corner at the left foot of just about the only defender in the opposition penalty area, who kindly obliges by neatly diverting in our third. Issur seals victory, having made good ground to follow up after Obieri’s effort has been saved, to seal an excellent win against a proper team.
Within fifteen minutes of the final whistle, the first session of the Dubious Goals Panel is convened and Son of The Godfather declares in a scarily Sicilian tone that there’s no way his relative should be credited with the third goal, full stop; a proclamation that would have reduced a lesser man than Burgess to life-threatening floods of tears on the spot. Instead, our captain smiles his normal engaging smile and elicits his usual engaging platitudes, though behind his seriously benevolent façade, he’s busy plotting instant and terminal revenge on SOTG the moment that FB and TG himself as much as glance in the opposite direction.
Nine contented players immediately demolish half a tray of giant hot dogs, while Mother Brown singularly demolishes the other 50%, as West Ham & Arsenal huff and puff to no great effect on the bar corner television. You can currently buy tins of eight Lancaster Hot Dogs in Brine from Tesco at 50p a shot and given there’s a fair mark-up on each, it’s an interesting thought to consider which bits of the original animal (if any), each frankfurter might contain. Mother Brown cares not as the barman returns with seconds, which is about the same amount of time he takes to do a ‘David Copperfield’ and make the extra offerings disappear completely without trace.
Burgess remains in Hertfordshire for the day, vengeance in mind, so the mini bus, initially at any rate, is a much quieter place than it was on the way down. That is until Mother Brown spies something out of the nearside window and exclaims enthusiastically, ‘I sawed it,’ an utterance that stops Coach Wilson’s devouring of a Times article about the tactics used at the Battle of Isandlwana (Anglo-Zulu War; January 1879) in its tracks and incurs a ferocious diatribe about the declining standards in modern day education and a three-pronged attack on Haresfield Primary School in particular. Miss Bussey meanwhile, who’s quietly relaxing in her little house in downtown Cheltenham is not quite sure why, but at this precise moment has an out-of-body feeling that despite the trials and tribulations that Monday morning may yet bring, maybe Norton isn’t such a bad place to be after all.
Back at the ranch, The Chairman has just finished two and a half hours of number crunching, though it’s currently unclear whether the figure of 22 relates to the spectator count at the girls’ victory over both Barking & Dagenham (a little low) or the number of flapjacks he’s managed to cunningly extricate from that big blue tin that sits on the refreshment servery (somewhat high). Also in a slight state of flux is Coach Wixey who, after penning the recent ‘Christmas Carol’ article that appears in the blog section of this website under the nom de plume Charles Wixens, is accused by Coach Harris of taking his eye off the ball having just this week been offered a lucrative book deal by Penguin Modern Classics. It looks like his team took their eye off the ball too, going down 6-3 at Bath.
Oxford Services and Jones, who’s currently assuming pride of place in today’s adventures, looks up the cost of a KFC bucket and big bottle of coke, divides it by four and, having relieved the other hungry parties of the requisite sum, returns to the table with a bucket for five and a knowing smile. The food tastes good, he has no trouble with pronunciation and he’s got a free meal into the bargain. An e-mail to Lord Sugar is no doubt in the offing too.
Despite Burgess still head-hunting in rural Hertfordshire, the mini bus noise levels have returned to their usual red reading on the Decibel Scale and there are several attempts at what can loosely be described as ‘singing’, a pastime which, a bit like dyslexia, can take on many and varied forms. There’s ‘We love you Gloucester, we do’ (repeat), ‘Football’s Coming Home’ (again) and some indecipherable offering to the general ‘tune’ of ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’.
The Fashion Show, minus Mother Burgess’s detachable, has returned to GL2 at exactly the same time as the mini bus chugs to a standstill. Mother Daniels has swapped her bright red coat for an identical jet black number, while Lettuce takes ten minutes to identify Mother Fieldhouse due to her lack of Siamese bobbles. Taking pride of place though is Father Freeman, resplendent in a pair of turquoise shorts and black shoes, the general effect of which is that everyone knows immediately who’s going to win today’s contest and as such departs the scene as quickly as possible, knowing full well that Saturday 12th January 2019 just isn’t going to be their day.
On the way back to Moreton Street, the second sitting of the Dubious Goals Panel is convened. With SOTG Oliver being no more, Sopuruchukwu Obieri assumes the chair and carefully considers the three most important factors relating to whether Burgess should, or shouldn’t be, awarded ‘the goal’. Factor One: If the same thing happened to me, would I want to be credited with the goal? Factor Two: If the same thing happened to me, would I want to be credited with the goal? Factor Three: If the same thing happened to me, would I want to be credited with the goal? And just like the result of the recent Fashion Show, the outcome was never, ever, going to be in any doubt.
Gloucester: High Definition; Mother Brown, Iron Man, Lawrence Titus Jones; Issur Danielovitch, Slider, El Capitano, Lettuce; Beamer; Wasp.
