Dingbats
‘It never rains, it pours,’ as the saying goes and it’s certainly cats-and-dogging it down as the troops arrive for a roll-call that’s undertaken while Iron Man’s drying the charabanc’s big blue seats with a touch of gusto and a smelly old cloth, while simultaneously applying a protective layer of WD40 to offset the debilitating long term effects of water on metal.
Coach Wilson’s Gluteus Medius has again been causing him some minor early-morning discomfort, which is a pretty lame excuse for arriving three minutes late, but we’re all aboard now and splashing down the A417 with purpose and a bit.
CW is three quarters of the way through The Times’ puzzle page by the time we pass the Daglingworth turn-off, though Coach Stalley’s making little headway with a similar section of the Daily Star, which brings into question the real long-term benefits of a rather privileged Pate’s education.
‘7 D in a W?’ wonders CS, as he attempts the paper’s first Junior Dingbat. ‘Are you serious?’ replies CW, aghast at the paucity of his colleague’s chronological knowledge. ’60 S in a M….’ ponders CS ruefully, as CW turns both the heater and the radio to full blast in a concerted effort to drown out the sound of any further questions.
‘How long to the services?’ asks Myatt. ‘There aren’t any,’ replies Burgess, rolling each eye in turn.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ wails May. ‘Be quiet,’ replies Coach Wilson, or words to that effect.
Gerard Buxton, a well-known Wiltshire philanthropist of yesteryear is the man we really need to thank for the excellent facilities at the Sports Ground that bears his name and we pull into the ‘Coaches only’ parking lane which contains one remaining space and six stationary cars. ‘Maybe it means football coaches; you know, like managers….’ offers someone in the back, but no-one takes any notice for the simple reason that they didn’t think of this pretty clever reasoning first.
Swindon Coach Beale is on ‘meet and greet’ duty and shows eleven players and two staff to the door of the changing room bearing the badge of our great city; Coach Wilson meanwhile is no-where to be seen as he’s already developed withdrawal symptoms and is on the lookout for a vending machine and a fourth straight latte of the, as yet, embryonic day.
Slider’s back, which is good news, and he’s painted two big white ticks on his previously perfect black boots just to emphasise the fact. Iron Man, Lettuce and ‘I’m just going out and might be some time’ Jones are the other wearers of traditional jet, while Vespula Vulgaris buzzes into his kit bag and places his very pleasing black spares on top of the horrendously patterned footwear he’s actually wearing in a vain attempt to curry favour and gain a much-needed ‘Brownie Point’. He fails miserably.
The Gloucestershire deluge has been replaced by Wiltshire sun and Mother Brown’s lapping it up as Coach Stalley’s tablet’s reappeared and FA Warm-Up #60 is in full skipping mode, though this time it’s taking place in an ever-widening circle. High Definition is spending the time sipping enthusiastically from his already empty drinks bottle as he endeavours to avert a pre-match bout of acute dizziness, having replied to Coach Stalley’s ‘join in’ request with a hand to the throat and a finger to the temple (his own throat and temple, that is).
Burgess wins the toss and elects to play up the slope and against the gale in the first half, but though the wind speed is an issue, the surface of the pitch is excellent, despite the recent climatic inclemency. Swindon, with the elements in their favour push for an early breakthrough, but iron Man, Slider, Vespula and latterly Mother Brown provide a formidable back line, limiting the hosts to just a single meaningful effort prior to the interval.
At the other end, Obieri’s cross almost finds Myatt loitering with some intent near the back post, while with eight minutes to go to the interval, Burgess picks out Obieri for a left-foot cushion and right-foot finish that sees the visitors ahead at the break.
With the wind and slope in their favour after the intermission, Slider, who’s enjoying a phased return to work and Myatt, who’s suffering from a self-proclaimed frog in the throat, are deployed to a position twenty five yards behind the goal with strict instructions to field any mis-directed shots and return the ball as quickly as possible to the field of play. After thirty seconds without any personal action the pair completely forget their off-pitch duties and indulge in an impromptu game of 1v1, meaning that the first corner of the half results in Lettuce having to sprint fifty yards to retrieve the ball and ninety potentially precious seconds are wasted. May is thus brought off to replace Myatt, the new Guardian of the Goal Kick turning out to be a far better fielder than the previous two put together as he stops and returns a trio of off-target efforts and in so doing guarantees himself a starting spot behind the goal if the usual Atlantic winds sweep across Jersey’s FB Fields in a few weeks time.
Despite the limited success of the city team’s single tactic, Obieri doubles the advantage, following up to good effect when Burgess’s free kick is only parried by the keeper. Five minutes later it’s milestone time; Fieldhouse plays in the city striker for a dinked finish that not only stretches the lead to three and completes a very well taken treble, but creates a new GPSFA goalscoring record in the process. The Great Kotwica’s amazing 2006/07 66-goal season is overhauled and a new, much longer name sits atop the 62-year old list of top net-finders as another 2018/19 record is set.
‘67 G for SO,’ squeals Coach Stalley triumphantly. ‘I think I’ve got it now!’
Kirk Douglas (May) is denied a spectacular strike from a Wasp cross-field pass for what would have been a perfect ‘Made In King’s’ goal, the spoilsport linesman flagging for offside when there is no more than twelve yards separating the ‘scorer’ from the nearest defender. VAR would not have been required, even if Father Hundred Per Cent Burgess’s video machine had been properly switched on.
Burgess Junior drives in a fourth from fully 25 yards that no goalkeeper – not David De Gea, not Jordan Pickford, not even Herbie Daniels or Gloucester City FC’s seventh – yes, seventh, custodian of the season would have / could have got anywhere near. If the North Koreans really are looking to launch a rocket into outer space to check if there genuinely is a cheese factory on the moon, Burgess’s right foot could just save them the time and expense of building a powerful enough, atmosphere-piercing, projectile launcher. Unfortunately, F100%B’s technology is still displaying a tell-tale red light on the screen and the moment a howitzer entered the field of play and savagely dispensed its ammunition is well and truly lost to posterity.
High Definition produces a fine late save to deny a Swindon team that battles right up to the final whistle a well-earned consolation, while Caple feigns concussion and retires for a ten-minute rest, giving ‘I might be some time’ another central defensive run-out. ‘Should have been side-on,’ laments Coach Stalley, who’s finding it very difficult to extract even a smidgeon of sympathy for the metallic one. With no requirement now for a final five-minute windbreak, May sets a new GPSFA record of his own by returning to the action for a third time, allowing Wasp a leisurely relaxing of the wings before the referee finally calls time. ‘S0 G4,’ proclaims WC, a man who read every page of The Times upside down during our recent half term sojourn in deepest Hertfordshire.
There was an OMG moment at the recent Old Richians’ Quiz Night, when The Chairman walked through the door, stared straight ahead and announced, in no uncertain terms, ‘I’ve just read the blog!’
‘I don’t understand it, I can’t find any football in it and I don’t like it,’ he added, before taking his seat and accepting Mrs Chairman’s soothing ‘relax me’ shoulder pats. ‘Goodbye!’ was the only other communication he shared, before boarding the Supremo-bile and returning to Highnam Villas in a frenzy of extreme revs and a flurry of exhaust fumes. Now he’s marching across the GB Sports Ground with a purpose that’s concerning for a multitude of reasons, though instead of extricating the expected P45 from his trouser pocket, he extracts a smile and a thought that’s been fermenting in his mind ever since that record-breaking dink. ‘I think I need to say a few words.’
And so we gather in the GPSFA enclave of the GBSG for a Neville Chamberlain ‘Peace In Our Time’ instant, just as Swindon Coach Beale rips the city badge off the other side of the door, the sudden rasp causing Wasp’s wings to vibrate and purr at the very same time in a moment of complete and utter synergy.
‘Well done,’ whispers The Chairman as he exits the Inner Sanctum, ‘but I still don’t like the blog,’ the absence of ‘Goodbye’ still ringing in the ears as we move into the Gerard Buxton refectory, where Swindon Coach Beale is disseminating the sausage & chips with something approaching aplomb.
Staff feast on any players’ chips that aren’t accompanied by huge dollops of ketchup; on seeing three of his fries instantly disappear without trace, May promptly squeezes a portion and a half of the red stuff all over his plate and in so doing preserves his ration and satisfies his hunger pangs in a single, definitive moment.
‘I once had pigeon in Leicester,’ offers Iron Man, replying to the query, ‘What’s your oddest food experience?’
‘I ate cornflakes and cucumber when I was young,’ interjects High Definition. ‘Sushi,’ says Obieri; ‘Grass,’ states Fieldhouse. ‘What?’ says everyone else.
‘I’ve eaten grass too,’ divulges Wasp, who’s immediately followed by May’s ‘Sand’ and the suggestion that someone else at King’s also eats paper. No wonder the fees are going up in September.
‘Salad doused in vinegar,’ reveals Full English. ‘Oyster,’ expounds Burgess. ‘Mud – and I ate pained grass once as well,’ reveals Vye, though he refuses to expand on the colour of the paint and the medication he was forced to take through an intravenous drip for the three months following his adventures in the Dulux outlet.
Nine people grimace at Slider’s revelation, but Mother Brown stands firm. ‘I ate pig’s intestines in the Eiffel Tower restaurant,’ he affirms, though refuses to say whether the pig was still partially alive at the time. The general feeling is that it was. ‘I was ill on the Eiffel Tower once,’ interposes Swindon Coach Beale, but refuses to say whether it was as a result of Mother Brown’s dietary shenanigans or not. The general feeling is that it was.
It's a jolly ride home, the almost cloudless early afternoon sky contrasting sharply with the black & grey of a few hours earlier. Coach Wilson has the excellent matchday programme upside down in a barely concealed attempt to ascertain the correct answer to the ‘Ask the Ref’ scenario on page 17 before actually reading the question. Coach Stalley reflects on a second half pull-back and ten-yard wide volley, both of which were straight off the previous evening’s training ground coaching session. The Determinator meanwhile gives thanks that he’s got a decent vocabulary and while he might lean on a fence from time to time, he’s got no intention whatsoever of resting on his laurels.
A short while later in Oxstalls Drive, Mother Fieldhouse still can’t work out how a ten-year-old can be presented with a bottle of Chilean Sauvignon Blanc for being the opposition’s boy of the match. And, whether she solves the conundrum correctly or not, she has no intention whatsoever of bringing it to the upcoming Race Night and donating it for a raffle prize.
At 4 o’clock in Highnam Villas, the cuckoo jumps out of the clock to announce that another hour’s passed for ever. But despite the initial shock of realising there’s a bird in the pad, there’s a sense of calm and an aura of self-satisfaction pervading in the higher echelons of Stoney Field. ‘CL 1819,’ smiles The Chairman, who’s not averse to a statistic or ten. ‘Well almost, anyway.’
Gloucester: High Definition; Slider, Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaris; WC, Full English, Howitzer, Issur Danielovitch; The Determinator; Lettuce, Mother Brown.
Coach Wilson’s Gluteus Medius has again been causing him some minor early-morning discomfort, which is a pretty lame excuse for arriving three minutes late, but we’re all aboard now and splashing down the A417 with purpose and a bit.
CW is three quarters of the way through The Times’ puzzle page by the time we pass the Daglingworth turn-off, though Coach Stalley’s making little headway with a similar section of the Daily Star, which brings into question the real long-term benefits of a rather privileged Pate’s education.
‘7 D in a W?’ wonders CS, as he attempts the paper’s first Junior Dingbat. ‘Are you serious?’ replies CW, aghast at the paucity of his colleague’s chronological knowledge. ’60 S in a M….’ ponders CS ruefully, as CW turns both the heater and the radio to full blast in a concerted effort to drown out the sound of any further questions.
‘How long to the services?’ asks Myatt. ‘There aren’t any,’ replies Burgess, rolling each eye in turn.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’ wails May. ‘Be quiet,’ replies Coach Wilson, or words to that effect.
Gerard Buxton, a well-known Wiltshire philanthropist of yesteryear is the man we really need to thank for the excellent facilities at the Sports Ground that bears his name and we pull into the ‘Coaches only’ parking lane which contains one remaining space and six stationary cars. ‘Maybe it means football coaches; you know, like managers….’ offers someone in the back, but no-one takes any notice for the simple reason that they didn’t think of this pretty clever reasoning first.
Swindon Coach Beale is on ‘meet and greet’ duty and shows eleven players and two staff to the door of the changing room bearing the badge of our great city; Coach Wilson meanwhile is no-where to be seen as he’s already developed withdrawal symptoms and is on the lookout for a vending machine and a fourth straight latte of the, as yet, embryonic day.
Slider’s back, which is good news, and he’s painted two big white ticks on his previously perfect black boots just to emphasise the fact. Iron Man, Lettuce and ‘I’m just going out and might be some time’ Jones are the other wearers of traditional jet, while Vespula Vulgaris buzzes into his kit bag and places his very pleasing black spares on top of the horrendously patterned footwear he’s actually wearing in a vain attempt to curry favour and gain a much-needed ‘Brownie Point’. He fails miserably.
The Gloucestershire deluge has been replaced by Wiltshire sun and Mother Brown’s lapping it up as Coach Stalley’s tablet’s reappeared and FA Warm-Up #60 is in full skipping mode, though this time it’s taking place in an ever-widening circle. High Definition is spending the time sipping enthusiastically from his already empty drinks bottle as he endeavours to avert a pre-match bout of acute dizziness, having replied to Coach Stalley’s ‘join in’ request with a hand to the throat and a finger to the temple (his own throat and temple, that is).
Burgess wins the toss and elects to play up the slope and against the gale in the first half, but though the wind speed is an issue, the surface of the pitch is excellent, despite the recent climatic inclemency. Swindon, with the elements in their favour push for an early breakthrough, but iron Man, Slider, Vespula and latterly Mother Brown provide a formidable back line, limiting the hosts to just a single meaningful effort prior to the interval.
At the other end, Obieri’s cross almost finds Myatt loitering with some intent near the back post, while with eight minutes to go to the interval, Burgess picks out Obieri for a left-foot cushion and right-foot finish that sees the visitors ahead at the break.
With the wind and slope in their favour after the intermission, Slider, who’s enjoying a phased return to work and Myatt, who’s suffering from a self-proclaimed frog in the throat, are deployed to a position twenty five yards behind the goal with strict instructions to field any mis-directed shots and return the ball as quickly as possible to the field of play. After thirty seconds without any personal action the pair completely forget their off-pitch duties and indulge in an impromptu game of 1v1, meaning that the first corner of the half results in Lettuce having to sprint fifty yards to retrieve the ball and ninety potentially precious seconds are wasted. May is thus brought off to replace Myatt, the new Guardian of the Goal Kick turning out to be a far better fielder than the previous two put together as he stops and returns a trio of off-target efforts and in so doing guarantees himself a starting spot behind the goal if the usual Atlantic winds sweep across Jersey’s FB Fields in a few weeks time.
Despite the limited success of the city team’s single tactic, Obieri doubles the advantage, following up to good effect when Burgess’s free kick is only parried by the keeper. Five minutes later it’s milestone time; Fieldhouse plays in the city striker for a dinked finish that not only stretches the lead to three and completes a very well taken treble, but creates a new GPSFA goalscoring record in the process. The Great Kotwica’s amazing 2006/07 66-goal season is overhauled and a new, much longer name sits atop the 62-year old list of top net-finders as another 2018/19 record is set.
‘67 G for SO,’ squeals Coach Stalley triumphantly. ‘I think I’ve got it now!’
Kirk Douglas (May) is denied a spectacular strike from a Wasp cross-field pass for what would have been a perfect ‘Made In King’s’ goal, the spoilsport linesman flagging for offside when there is no more than twelve yards separating the ‘scorer’ from the nearest defender. VAR would not have been required, even if Father Hundred Per Cent Burgess’s video machine had been properly switched on.
Burgess Junior drives in a fourth from fully 25 yards that no goalkeeper – not David De Gea, not Jordan Pickford, not even Herbie Daniels or Gloucester City FC’s seventh – yes, seventh, custodian of the season would have / could have got anywhere near. If the North Koreans really are looking to launch a rocket into outer space to check if there genuinely is a cheese factory on the moon, Burgess’s right foot could just save them the time and expense of building a powerful enough, atmosphere-piercing, projectile launcher. Unfortunately, F100%B’s technology is still displaying a tell-tale red light on the screen and the moment a howitzer entered the field of play and savagely dispensed its ammunition is well and truly lost to posterity.
High Definition produces a fine late save to deny a Swindon team that battles right up to the final whistle a well-earned consolation, while Caple feigns concussion and retires for a ten-minute rest, giving ‘I might be some time’ another central defensive run-out. ‘Should have been side-on,’ laments Coach Stalley, who’s finding it very difficult to extract even a smidgeon of sympathy for the metallic one. With no requirement now for a final five-minute windbreak, May sets a new GPSFA record of his own by returning to the action for a third time, allowing Wasp a leisurely relaxing of the wings before the referee finally calls time. ‘S0 G4,’ proclaims WC, a man who read every page of The Times upside down during our recent half term sojourn in deepest Hertfordshire.
There was an OMG moment at the recent Old Richians’ Quiz Night, when The Chairman walked through the door, stared straight ahead and announced, in no uncertain terms, ‘I’ve just read the blog!’
‘I don’t understand it, I can’t find any football in it and I don’t like it,’ he added, before taking his seat and accepting Mrs Chairman’s soothing ‘relax me’ shoulder pats. ‘Goodbye!’ was the only other communication he shared, before boarding the Supremo-bile and returning to Highnam Villas in a frenzy of extreme revs and a flurry of exhaust fumes. Now he’s marching across the GB Sports Ground with a purpose that’s concerning for a multitude of reasons, though instead of extricating the expected P45 from his trouser pocket, he extracts a smile and a thought that’s been fermenting in his mind ever since that record-breaking dink. ‘I think I need to say a few words.’
And so we gather in the GPSFA enclave of the GBSG for a Neville Chamberlain ‘Peace In Our Time’ instant, just as Swindon Coach Beale rips the city badge off the other side of the door, the sudden rasp causing Wasp’s wings to vibrate and purr at the very same time in a moment of complete and utter synergy.
‘Well done,’ whispers The Chairman as he exits the Inner Sanctum, ‘but I still don’t like the blog,’ the absence of ‘Goodbye’ still ringing in the ears as we move into the Gerard Buxton refectory, where Swindon Coach Beale is disseminating the sausage & chips with something approaching aplomb.
Staff feast on any players’ chips that aren’t accompanied by huge dollops of ketchup; on seeing three of his fries instantly disappear without trace, May promptly squeezes a portion and a half of the red stuff all over his plate and in so doing preserves his ration and satisfies his hunger pangs in a single, definitive moment.
‘I once had pigeon in Leicester,’ offers Iron Man, replying to the query, ‘What’s your oddest food experience?’
‘I ate cornflakes and cucumber when I was young,’ interjects High Definition. ‘Sushi,’ says Obieri; ‘Grass,’ states Fieldhouse. ‘What?’ says everyone else.
‘I’ve eaten grass too,’ divulges Wasp, who’s immediately followed by May’s ‘Sand’ and the suggestion that someone else at King’s also eats paper. No wonder the fees are going up in September.
‘Salad doused in vinegar,’ reveals Full English. ‘Oyster,’ expounds Burgess. ‘Mud – and I ate pained grass once as well,’ reveals Vye, though he refuses to expand on the colour of the paint and the medication he was forced to take through an intravenous drip for the three months following his adventures in the Dulux outlet.
Nine people grimace at Slider’s revelation, but Mother Brown stands firm. ‘I ate pig’s intestines in the Eiffel Tower restaurant,’ he affirms, though refuses to say whether the pig was still partially alive at the time. The general feeling is that it was. ‘I was ill on the Eiffel Tower once,’ interposes Swindon Coach Beale, but refuses to say whether it was as a result of Mother Brown’s dietary shenanigans or not. The general feeling is that it was.
It's a jolly ride home, the almost cloudless early afternoon sky contrasting sharply with the black & grey of a few hours earlier. Coach Wilson has the excellent matchday programme upside down in a barely concealed attempt to ascertain the correct answer to the ‘Ask the Ref’ scenario on page 17 before actually reading the question. Coach Stalley reflects on a second half pull-back and ten-yard wide volley, both of which were straight off the previous evening’s training ground coaching session. The Determinator meanwhile gives thanks that he’s got a decent vocabulary and while he might lean on a fence from time to time, he’s got no intention whatsoever of resting on his laurels.
A short while later in Oxstalls Drive, Mother Fieldhouse still can’t work out how a ten-year-old can be presented with a bottle of Chilean Sauvignon Blanc for being the opposition’s boy of the match. And, whether she solves the conundrum correctly or not, she has no intention whatsoever of bringing it to the upcoming Race Night and donating it for a raffle prize.
At 4 o’clock in Highnam Villas, the cuckoo jumps out of the clock to announce that another hour’s passed for ever. But despite the initial shock of realising there’s a bird in the pad, there’s a sense of calm and an aura of self-satisfaction pervading in the higher echelons of Stoney Field. ‘CL 1819,’ smiles The Chairman, who’s not averse to a statistic or ten. ‘Well almost, anyway.’
Gloucester: High Definition; Slider, Iron Man, Vespula Vulgaris; WC, Full English, Howitzer, Issur Danielovitch; The Determinator; Lettuce, Mother Brown.
