Resemblance
The Sheriff of Nottingham’s in town and he’s in town very early. Friar Tuck, Little John and Alan-a-Dale aren’t in attendance as yet and neither is a large percentage of the East Midlands public, with only three and a half supporters, twelve players and two officials adorning the plush green upholstery of the luxury sixty two seater coach that sneaks through the big green gates at precisely 9.27am.
The Chef’s astride the John Dory, in this case the little yellow mower rather than the fish of the same name as the monster pulls in and due to the arrival of a possible kitchen sale, is replaced on the cutting seat by Young Sam, who with a name like that could easily pass as one of the legendary Merry Men of Sherwood Forest. In the absence of The Groundsman (interior and exterior ailments in the aftermath of his recent ‘reversal’) and half an hour after decamping to the sanctuary of the pavilion, Merry Sam complains of a severe ache in his Gluteus Medius and announces he’s struggling to stand, let alone serve the expected multitudes at the refreshment hatch. ‘Ought to try a bull elephant,’ sneers Coach Wilson, who’s nursing a dodgy GM himself this morning, but is too proud to tell anyone.
Young Myatt, another potential Sherwood-Forester is first to arrive, buys a programme, sees his picture, checks his player profile and promptly becomes the first player in GPSFA history to try to scribble out an answer he apparently made when returning his original pro-forma. Another record notched in this season of accumulating milestones.
‘Can’t believe he doesn’t want to be a roofer,’ laments Father Myatt, who’s arrived still wearing his get-up from last Saturday’s end-of-the-month Retro Evening at the Red Lion. It was supposedly a great night, but one that once again ended in acute disappointment at Riverview as February’s lamb shank winged its way back to Mandalay Drive after Captain Scott Daniels scooped the first prize thanks to a last-minute decision to take along a giant Norwegian flag and pose as the Scandinavian skier who won in 1912 and comes out on top once again exactly 107 years and 133 days later. ‘But Tony Hickey said I was Amundsen,’ complains Father Myatt, but by now the patio has an assemblage of one, meaning the sobs would fall on deaf ears if indeed there were any ears within fifty metres in the first place.
Mother Caple arrives in full black & yellow regalia, meaning both Mother Daniels and Vespula Vulgaris are instantly relegated to equal second place in this month’s GPSFA Wear-Me-Now Colour Contest. ‘I bleed black & yellow,’ offers ‘I might be some time’ Jones in a last-ditch, but ultimately futile attempt to upstage everyone in the B & Y stakes. ‘But not after breakfast,’ counters a lone wolf, who cannot be named for legal reasons.
Father Hundred Per Cent Burgess and Father Thirty Five Shades of Grey Ted have invented a new way of distributing the pitchside advertising hoardings in semi darkness and are anxious to share their new-found apparatus with The Mayor. Both she and her consort however cast little more than a single glance in their direction before continuing their non-participative discussion with The Chairman, who is enthusiastically regaling both with lurid tales of spying missions behind the Iron Curtain during the Cold War of the 60s and 70s.
Kirk Douglas May rolls up in a pair of trainers that went out of fashion around the same time as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped writing his great detective novels and is immediately relegated to the subs’ bench. ‘There’s a strange smell in here,’ offers The Mayor as she enters the inner sanctum to carry out her pre-match inspection, at which point May (trainers), Myatt (socks) and Obieri (after shave) frantically attempt to conceal what they each feel might be the offending objects.
There’s a profound lack of kit-kats in the pre-match energy box so Lettuce chews his tongue instead, while Iron Man, Jones and Kirk down the banana ration without waiting to discover whether they’re Fair Trade at £1.39 a bunch or Tesco’s finest at 69p a time. Not content, Caple, Jones and Vulgaris attack and decapitate the loitering packet of jelly babies with a ferocity that should make anyone still in the adjacent changing room quiver in their nicely polished-for-the-occasion, jet black boots.
Coach Stalley is absent today due to playing in a Pro-Am golf tournament, where he’s most definitely the ‘Am’. HD is thrilled and Mother Brown distraught in equal measure at the absence of the Head Coach and therefore the pre-match knees-up, but far more worryingly, no-one else seems to notice.
Eager to please, The Mayor enters the fray, perfectly executes a single keepy-uppy - much to the amusement of the assembled throng, then executes a perfect penalty kick through the legs of a Hundred Doughnuts, who immediately sinks to the lowest-ever ebb of his fledgling career to date.
Nottingham were big winners when we visited the City of Caves back in late September, a morning when High Definition was thankfully just that and an afternoon at Twycross Zoo which saw Burgess’s navigational skills brought into question on more than one occasion, someone challenge the giant Galapagos turtles to ten metre shuttle runs and lose every time and several members of the GPSFA rearguard emerging from the aviary with birds on their arms. Enough said.
The early stages of today’s much-awaited encounter suggest the hosts might make a better fist of things this time around, but when some indecisive defending gifts Nottingham an extremely easy opener, ‘normal’ services looks as if it might have been resumed.
There’s some stout defending from Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaris and Mother Brown however and some combative midfield play from Burgess, Jones, WC – who’s drinks-carrying enthusiasm has seemingly (and thankfully) returned to its former glory, Lettuce and Kirk, while Obieri is only denied a leveller thanks to a great save from the visitors’ custodian. Two minutes before the break though, Gloucester win a free kick and Burgess finds the top corner in some style to send us in level at the break.
Back at the hatch, Young Sam’s Gluteus Medius hasn’t reacted positively to the complete lack of attention or interest, so he’s whisked away for some R & R by Mother Austin and replaced by the Chairman’s Wife, who much to El Supremo’s acute disappointment has arrived minus her big blue flapjack tin.
The second period begins with the hosts well on top and after a prolonged period of pressure, ‘No time at all’ Jones jinks past a defender and arrows a great finish clean off his big toe protector and beyond the keeper’s flailing mitt. The Chairman’s statistical cog whirs worryingly, but his conclusion that Jones’s goal ratio against St Albans is now down to 66.66% recurring is unerringly correct.
Four minutes later another free kick, another Burgess howitzer and another goal. The rampaging skipper is then denied by both keeper and post in the space of ninety all-action seconds before Obieri nets strike number four with a little help from an in-off that nobody else claims to have seen. The ensuing corner flag love-in is disappointingly terminated by the referee about twenty five minutes before it was choreographed to finish and Nottingham soon sneak a free kick beneath the wall to cut the deficit.
Some more uncharacteristically lax defending gifts the visitors a third and only a fine save from High Definition prevents an equaliser. Back up the other end and both Jones and Obieri are denied by the keeper as there is little abatement in the lunchtime drama. In the other half, Iron Man limps through the final few minutes, though no-one’s entirely sure whether the affliction is a delayed reaction to last week’s Escalator Laces affair at Membury or a more recent issue that’s seen some of his rivets come loose. ‘Bull Elephant,’ offers Coach Wilson, but whether he’s referring to his mindset, his discomfort or simply the noises he’s making, no-one has the faintest idea (or interest).
The final whistle blows and there’s a fair degree of elation amongst the home faithful as the players jog over to clap their heroes; Nottingham meanwhile are hugely respectful despite falling to their first defeat of the campaign, but despite the thrill of victory in the home sector there aren’t too many B & Ys who wouldn’t have enjoyed another ten or twenty minutes of this hugely entertaining, highly competitive and sometimes feisty affair between two fine and ultimately well-matched sides.
Not everyone’s happy though. The Chef’s reflecting on an all-time record low refreshment sale and the Real Manager’s rung in from the Solihull agility ring to vent her displeasure at the record low programme & raffle take. The Chairman’s not happy either with the lack of edible calories in the nutrition tin, Kirk’s not overly enamoured that those skinflints at King’s have kidnapped his shoes and are demanding an extortionate ransom figure for their prompt return, while Father Myatt’s still smarting from yet another setback in the ultra-competitive world of 60s tribute nights.
There’s only one inside-out shirt in the big blue bag and unsurprisingly it’s number five, while also unsurprisingly warm-up top #1 and less surprisingly warm-up top #4 are left behind too. There’s a spring in the step of the sweeping-up limp though after yet another realisation that winning never gets any worse, but no spring whatsoever in The Photographer’s not-so-quick quick-step; the desultory away following has resulted in him flogging just a single framed photograph, despite frantic attempts to double his takings by cornering the away team’s coach driver and offering her four prints of The Mayor’s successful penalty and an extra-large breakfast roll for a fiver all-in.
Brushing completed, we’re zooming off to the Hartwell & Spiers for the visit of Wealdstone, only to find our goalkeeper, who’s just extended his loan till the end of the season hasn’t extended his loan till the end of the season due to the paperwork not being returned on time. You couldn’t make this stuff up. Tom King, who retired about forty years ago is wheeled out instead and gives a high definition performance in a goalless draw that ends with the city players celebrating and clapping their spectator heroes with a gusto that bears little resemblance to the quality that’s been on display. Or not, as the case may be. Despite the thrill of a fourth successive scoreless draw at home, there is no-one at all in black & yellow who would want to witness another second of this non-entertaining, highly competitive and sometimes feisty affair between two very limited sides.
Yes, the colours may be the same, but the resemblance, for the time being at any rate, is limited to black & yellow.
Gloucester: High Definition; Mother Brown, Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaries; WC, I Might Be Some Time, El Capitano, Lettuce; The Determinator; Issur Danielovitch. Physio / Manager: Slider.
The Chef’s astride the John Dory, in this case the little yellow mower rather than the fish of the same name as the monster pulls in and due to the arrival of a possible kitchen sale, is replaced on the cutting seat by Young Sam, who with a name like that could easily pass as one of the legendary Merry Men of Sherwood Forest. In the absence of The Groundsman (interior and exterior ailments in the aftermath of his recent ‘reversal’) and half an hour after decamping to the sanctuary of the pavilion, Merry Sam complains of a severe ache in his Gluteus Medius and announces he’s struggling to stand, let alone serve the expected multitudes at the refreshment hatch. ‘Ought to try a bull elephant,’ sneers Coach Wilson, who’s nursing a dodgy GM himself this morning, but is too proud to tell anyone.
Young Myatt, another potential Sherwood-Forester is first to arrive, buys a programme, sees his picture, checks his player profile and promptly becomes the first player in GPSFA history to try to scribble out an answer he apparently made when returning his original pro-forma. Another record notched in this season of accumulating milestones.
‘Can’t believe he doesn’t want to be a roofer,’ laments Father Myatt, who’s arrived still wearing his get-up from last Saturday’s end-of-the-month Retro Evening at the Red Lion. It was supposedly a great night, but one that once again ended in acute disappointment at Riverview as February’s lamb shank winged its way back to Mandalay Drive after Captain Scott Daniels scooped the first prize thanks to a last-minute decision to take along a giant Norwegian flag and pose as the Scandinavian skier who won in 1912 and comes out on top once again exactly 107 years and 133 days later. ‘But Tony Hickey said I was Amundsen,’ complains Father Myatt, but by now the patio has an assemblage of one, meaning the sobs would fall on deaf ears if indeed there were any ears within fifty metres in the first place.
Mother Caple arrives in full black & yellow regalia, meaning both Mother Daniels and Vespula Vulgaris are instantly relegated to equal second place in this month’s GPSFA Wear-Me-Now Colour Contest. ‘I bleed black & yellow,’ offers ‘I might be some time’ Jones in a last-ditch, but ultimately futile attempt to upstage everyone in the B & Y stakes. ‘But not after breakfast,’ counters a lone wolf, who cannot be named for legal reasons.
Father Hundred Per Cent Burgess and Father Thirty Five Shades of Grey Ted have invented a new way of distributing the pitchside advertising hoardings in semi darkness and are anxious to share their new-found apparatus with The Mayor. Both she and her consort however cast little more than a single glance in their direction before continuing their non-participative discussion with The Chairman, who is enthusiastically regaling both with lurid tales of spying missions behind the Iron Curtain during the Cold War of the 60s and 70s.
Kirk Douglas May rolls up in a pair of trainers that went out of fashion around the same time as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle stopped writing his great detective novels and is immediately relegated to the subs’ bench. ‘There’s a strange smell in here,’ offers The Mayor as she enters the inner sanctum to carry out her pre-match inspection, at which point May (trainers), Myatt (socks) and Obieri (after shave) frantically attempt to conceal what they each feel might be the offending objects.
There’s a profound lack of kit-kats in the pre-match energy box so Lettuce chews his tongue instead, while Iron Man, Jones and Kirk down the banana ration without waiting to discover whether they’re Fair Trade at £1.39 a bunch or Tesco’s finest at 69p a time. Not content, Caple, Jones and Vulgaris attack and decapitate the loitering packet of jelly babies with a ferocity that should make anyone still in the adjacent changing room quiver in their nicely polished-for-the-occasion, jet black boots.
Coach Stalley is absent today due to playing in a Pro-Am golf tournament, where he’s most definitely the ‘Am’. HD is thrilled and Mother Brown distraught in equal measure at the absence of the Head Coach and therefore the pre-match knees-up, but far more worryingly, no-one else seems to notice.
Eager to please, The Mayor enters the fray, perfectly executes a single keepy-uppy - much to the amusement of the assembled throng, then executes a perfect penalty kick through the legs of a Hundred Doughnuts, who immediately sinks to the lowest-ever ebb of his fledgling career to date.
Nottingham were big winners when we visited the City of Caves back in late September, a morning when High Definition was thankfully just that and an afternoon at Twycross Zoo which saw Burgess’s navigational skills brought into question on more than one occasion, someone challenge the giant Galapagos turtles to ten metre shuttle runs and lose every time and several members of the GPSFA rearguard emerging from the aviary with birds on their arms. Enough said.
The early stages of today’s much-awaited encounter suggest the hosts might make a better fist of things this time around, but when some indecisive defending gifts Nottingham an extremely easy opener, ‘normal’ services looks as if it might have been resumed.
There’s some stout defending from Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaris and Mother Brown however and some combative midfield play from Burgess, Jones, WC – who’s drinks-carrying enthusiasm has seemingly (and thankfully) returned to its former glory, Lettuce and Kirk, while Obieri is only denied a leveller thanks to a great save from the visitors’ custodian. Two minutes before the break though, Gloucester win a free kick and Burgess finds the top corner in some style to send us in level at the break.
Back at the hatch, Young Sam’s Gluteus Medius hasn’t reacted positively to the complete lack of attention or interest, so he’s whisked away for some R & R by Mother Austin and replaced by the Chairman’s Wife, who much to El Supremo’s acute disappointment has arrived minus her big blue flapjack tin.
The second period begins with the hosts well on top and after a prolonged period of pressure, ‘No time at all’ Jones jinks past a defender and arrows a great finish clean off his big toe protector and beyond the keeper’s flailing mitt. The Chairman’s statistical cog whirs worryingly, but his conclusion that Jones’s goal ratio against St Albans is now down to 66.66% recurring is unerringly correct.
Four minutes later another free kick, another Burgess howitzer and another goal. The rampaging skipper is then denied by both keeper and post in the space of ninety all-action seconds before Obieri nets strike number four with a little help from an in-off that nobody else claims to have seen. The ensuing corner flag love-in is disappointingly terminated by the referee about twenty five minutes before it was choreographed to finish and Nottingham soon sneak a free kick beneath the wall to cut the deficit.
Some more uncharacteristically lax defending gifts the visitors a third and only a fine save from High Definition prevents an equaliser. Back up the other end and both Jones and Obieri are denied by the keeper as there is little abatement in the lunchtime drama. In the other half, Iron Man limps through the final few minutes, though no-one’s entirely sure whether the affliction is a delayed reaction to last week’s Escalator Laces affair at Membury or a more recent issue that’s seen some of his rivets come loose. ‘Bull Elephant,’ offers Coach Wilson, but whether he’s referring to his mindset, his discomfort or simply the noises he’s making, no-one has the faintest idea (or interest).
The final whistle blows and there’s a fair degree of elation amongst the home faithful as the players jog over to clap their heroes; Nottingham meanwhile are hugely respectful despite falling to their first defeat of the campaign, but despite the thrill of victory in the home sector there aren’t too many B & Ys who wouldn’t have enjoyed another ten or twenty minutes of this hugely entertaining, highly competitive and sometimes feisty affair between two fine and ultimately well-matched sides.
Not everyone’s happy though. The Chef’s reflecting on an all-time record low refreshment sale and the Real Manager’s rung in from the Solihull agility ring to vent her displeasure at the record low programme & raffle take. The Chairman’s not happy either with the lack of edible calories in the nutrition tin, Kirk’s not overly enamoured that those skinflints at King’s have kidnapped his shoes and are demanding an extortionate ransom figure for their prompt return, while Father Myatt’s still smarting from yet another setback in the ultra-competitive world of 60s tribute nights.
There’s only one inside-out shirt in the big blue bag and unsurprisingly it’s number five, while also unsurprisingly warm-up top #1 and less surprisingly warm-up top #4 are left behind too. There’s a spring in the step of the sweeping-up limp though after yet another realisation that winning never gets any worse, but no spring whatsoever in The Photographer’s not-so-quick quick-step; the desultory away following has resulted in him flogging just a single framed photograph, despite frantic attempts to double his takings by cornering the away team’s coach driver and offering her four prints of The Mayor’s successful penalty and an extra-large breakfast roll for a fiver all-in.
Brushing completed, we’re zooming off to the Hartwell & Spiers for the visit of Wealdstone, only to find our goalkeeper, who’s just extended his loan till the end of the season hasn’t extended his loan till the end of the season due to the paperwork not being returned on time. You couldn’t make this stuff up. Tom King, who retired about forty years ago is wheeled out instead and gives a high definition performance in a goalless draw that ends with the city players celebrating and clapping their spectator heroes with a gusto that bears little resemblance to the quality that’s been on display. Or not, as the case may be. Despite the thrill of a fourth successive scoreless draw at home, there is no-one at all in black & yellow who would want to witness another second of this non-entertaining, highly competitive and sometimes feisty affair between two very limited sides.
Yes, the colours may be the same, but the resemblance, for the time being at any rate, is limited to black & yellow.
Gloucester: High Definition; Mother Brown, Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaries; WC, I Might Be Some Time, El Capitano, Lettuce; The Determinator; Issur Danielovitch. Physio / Manager: Slider.
