Keep It On The Island – Behind the Scenes at Jersey 2018
Author's Note
What follows is a behind the scenes look at some of the personalities, events, accusations & revelations that were Jersey 2018. 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 happens.
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
Kenny (Jude Franks). Very sensible. Tremendously steadfast. Really strong (hands).
Weatherman (Teddy Peirce). Top meteorologist. Food connoisseur. Fairly popular.
Margaret (Kaylum Pargeter). Eater. Man marker. Fashion guru.
Big Sam (Kelly). So reliable. So together. So nice. So messy.
Moaning Lisa (Harley Mustoe). Scores the odd decent goal. Moans occasionally.
Scarface (Luke Hanlon). Unassuming. Unabashed. Unfazed.
Nureyev (Cameron Walters). Tells jokes. All bad. Supports Bognor Regis.
Billy (Alex Knight). Captain. Warrior. Ballet dancer.
Lacoste (William Knight). Poser. Womaniser. Eleven.
The Colonel (Kyron Mitchell). Hunter. Good laugh when not miserable. So rarely.
Adibayor (Adi Adichareh). World’s nicest person. Apart from Teddy. Dislikes scoring (his words).
Others
The Chef (Andrew Foran). Cook. Driver. Bruce Forsyth lookalike. Gloucester man desperately seeking friendship.
Romeo (himself). Eats. Sleeps. Eats. Chef’s carer.
Coach Wilson. The Room Inspector. Part-time navigator. Full time Sudoku-gator.
Coach Wixey. Good manager. Good motivator. Good man. And definitely Good Cop.
Coach Harris. Creative. Innovative. Heavy.
Coach Stalley. Tactical. Technical. Trustworthy. Tweeter. And laundryman.
Coach Delaney. Tactician. Tormented. Tired. Oh, and driver.
The Editor. Old. Grey. Lame. And they’re the good bits.
King Pat of Jersey. Festival organiser. 44 years. Legend.
Lord Downs of Tilehurst. Child Welfare Officer. Reading FC historian.
The Wall. Gloucester. Almost all of it.
Day One - Saturday
It took him a long time to write, but the dark undertones of The Chairman’s Churchillian message, highlighted in bold and delivered by e-mail in Times New Roman at 10.00 last night, leave little room for misinterpretation. ‘Win (or else)!’ it says.
Check-in, and Scarface pockets the week’s first award by registering the lightest holdall at a miserly 8.2kg, just beating off the challenge of Hayes, whose hamper-like container reads 8.9 on the digital scale. As Scar’s case alone weighs 7.5kg, the chances of there being more than a couple of pairs of boxers, a toothbrush and a pair of nail clippers inside seem pretty remote.
At the other end of the spectrum, Sargeant registers 18.2 on the Richter Scale and receives a call from an airport jobsworth, who’s hiding behind the pillar about four feet away. He’d have been far better sticking to his man bag, whatever the checklist in the handbook says.
Despite having his carer in tow, The Chef’s in his element at the terminal, firstly accosting a lady wearing a bright red ‘look-at-me’ scarf and her bare-necked husband who is shivering, not from coldness, but through a sudden realisation of what’s around the corner. Or standing right in front of him in this case. Next up is his favourite prey – a man in a queue who has nowhere to go and who is subjected to a twelve-and-a-half- minute interview, the majority of which entails long periods of uninterrupted and extremely overt Irish chortling.
Coach Stalley is joined in the ‘frisking line’ by The Weatherman, Adibayor, Smiling Leo Taylor and The Colonel, though how the beeper fails to detect Coach Wilson’s iron lung, brace of aluminium limbs and trio of assorted metallic appendages is anyone’s guess. Lacoste adjusts his random fringe without touching it before imploring, ‘Search me, search me,’ only to discover that the blonde assistant with the winning smile has just been replaced by a hirsute man wearing gloves, the midfielder displaying a nifty turn of pace to escape around the next corner, just in the nick of time.
Next up for The Chef is the Duty Free and a duo of smartly dressed shop assistants are pinned against the counter of Elizabeth Arden, with redemption only arriving in the shape of Lord & Lady Downs of Tilehurst (Jersey Festival Child Protection Officer and wife), who are aiming for the comfy seats in the Departure Lounge, completely unaware of the conversation to come. Only the Daily Mail stands between them and The Bard, with the paper at last, after all these wasted years, finding its very existence of some practical assistance to its readership.
There’s an hour and a half flight delay, meaning ninety minutes of anxiety for the waifs and strays in the departure lounge, but the players are fine and we land in Jersey before anyone realises we’ve left.
King Pat is thrilled that Coach Delaney, our debutant tourist, has taken responsibility for the A Team bus, a big wide grin accompanying the handing over the keys, while the civilian population of Jersey is delighted The Chef is in charge of The Yellows’ main vehicle as it keeps his find-a-friend conversations well and truly off the streets.
First job at The Mayfair is the allocation of rooms. Moaning Lisa is billeted with Positive Adi and Sensible Kenny in 416. Billy and Nureyev are together in the Ballet Room (403). The untidy two thirds of Dinglewell, Big Sam and Scarface, are in 405, while the remaining third, the ever-neat & ordered Weatherman, partners Will I Am Eleven Now (Lacoste) across the way in 404. The Colonel and Margaret have been given the opportunity of redemption following February’s Horror in Hemel Hempstead and will inhabit 406. Coaches Delaney and Stalley are situated centrally amongst the throng, while those of greater Jersey experience locate themselves as close to the corridor’s end as possible.
Eating auctions (think IPL) quickly follow. Margaret, Big Sam, Kenny and Scarface will contest the Premiership, with Nureyev, Billy, The Colonel and Moaning Lisa making up the Championship. The line-up in the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve League features Adibayor, Will I Am Eleven Now and The Weatherman.
For the first time ever and having completed an exhaustive analysis of the eating data from past tours, I harbour a real hope of winning The Premiership this time around, having bought Margaret for a knock-down twelve quid. He’s methodical, thoughtful, driven, and both technically and tactically astute. An owner’s dream and as close to a bolt-on ticket to success as there could possibly be. Team Bob is completed with two Championship contenders in Nureyev and The Colonel, though on second thoughts I’ve got little confidence in Nureyev and even less in The Colonel, who I’ve only bought cos he’s cheap. And ‘contenders’ is a bit of an exaggeration too.
The annual post-evening meal managers’ weigh-in follows and there are few surprises. Newbury are the most educated, Gloucester the most immobile, Orpington the oldest, Wokingham the youngest and bluest and St Albans the heaviest. Weatherman forecasts lots of defeats, so the mood on the fourth floor is upbeat. The chances are, it’s going to be a great week.
Day Two - Sunday
8.15am and Room 403 is awash with slumber, though the Triple Crown in 416 have been sitting silently on their beds, decked out in their morning uniform for at least an hour and a half before their door is finally opened.
Adibayor is meticulous in dividing his beans on toast into four absolutely equal quarters before inserting each into his orifice in truly regal fashion. Margaret eats half the fruit on offer at the buffet, followed by a full English, while Big Sam has cereal, full English (minus black pudding), more cereal and several rounds of toast to finish. Colonel has extra beans, much to everyone’s horror, Lisa performs impressively, while Scar and Kenny plod remorselessly through whatever appears in front of them. Billy and Lacoste are remorseless too - remorselessly slow that is, while The Weatherman just about makes the cut, painstaking though it is. Which is more than Nureyev does.
Coach Delaney’s initiation is marked by the presentation a sketch map to find Victoria College Prep School, whose car park is being used to house the festival transport. The decision to promote the squad’s most inexperienced tourist to Head Driver is vindicated by the composure with which he eases the charabanc around the 140°, 1 in 4 exit bend and heads confidently along Le Breton to the island’s sporting centre.
The FB Fields are in fine condition despite the constant Sunday morning precipitation, The Weatherman’s forecasting of drier weather and sunshine to follow filling everyone with an overriding dread that a Climatic Armageddon is probably just around the corner. The Chef strikes up a conversation of sorts with King Pat and Lord Downs of Tilehurst, both of whom are too wet and cold to run away and are thus subjected to a good ten minutes of what can euphemistically be described as ‘Brucie Banter’.
Coach Stalley leads the team confidently up the pavilion’s rather quirky external spiral staircase, only to find himself (and them) standing in the middle of a puzzled queue of coffee-seekers in the FB cafeteria and five minutes later confuses the entire squad by delivering a tactical pre-match masterclass based around the day’s theme of team direction.
The Yellows let a two-goal lead slip and have to settle for a share of the spoils against both Barking and Dagenham, while Pitch One sees Thurrock hold the upper hand for the first twenty minutes against the BYs, fashioning three opportunities to Gloucester’s one. Another example of most things moving the wrong way.
Half time is reached without any tangible damage however and eight minutes after the break Lisa puts us one up following Billy’s right wing corner. The second half display is decent, but a defensive mix-up presents the Essex side with an equaliser and the points are shared.
Mother Sargeant is showing off her new pair of Le Chameau wellies to anyone who fancies a gander and mighty fine things they are too. Should we need to plug a couple of leaks in the respective defences, they may come in pretty handy.
It’s fish & chips or macaroni cheese for lunch, with The Colonel, Big Sam and Lisa plumping for the latter. Colonel and BS have no problems finishing, though Lisa is some way behind in third. Nureyev is on hunger strike and doesn’t even make the starting line. The lowlight of lunch however is the speed, or lack of it, of Adibayor’s rate of consumption, his main course and ice cream taking so long to disappear, that at least half the team is in danger of being over the age limit by the time our next game kicks off.
The first afternoon stop is La Corbiere, the tide being out far enough for a romp along the causeway to the lighthouse steps and a look westwards in the direction of the next piece of land which is around four thousand miles away.
The ‘Real Jersey’ ice cream van by the WWII bunker picks up twenty quids worth of unexpected trade and before anyone’s even reached their cone, the owner decides things can’t get any better than this, pulls down the shutter, turns the key in the lock and drives swiftly away. Seeing the GPSFA logo on Scar’s waterproof and mentally reliving an out-of-the-blue visit from a man called Bruce two years ago to the day proves to be the final nail in a recurring 730-day nightmare.
Les Quennevais Sports Centre boasts a rarely-used twin pool, a trio of sauna-type bubble tubs and a lifeguard crew so efficient that even Adibayor survives the hour and a quarter frolicking in the wet stuff.
Back at the ranch it’s roast beef with all the trimmings and Nureyev is back on song with a clean sweep of all the relevant bits and pieces. There’s nothing like a top quality bit of faith healing to turn things round and Calpol fits the bill perfectly; suck in the strawberry and savour the flavour. The Colonel does his best impression of a Jersey cow by indulging in a spot of long-term rumination, though The Weatherman doesn’t place enough in his mouth to ruminate at all. Kenny, meanwhile, educates all around him by correctly using his flat-bladed knife to dissect his Thai fish cake and attempting to hide the obligatory slice of tomato on an adjacent side plate - both at the same time.
There’s a half-naked tiger wearing a Leo Taylor-like smile in the corridor, but it writes instead of bites and everyone survives, for now at any rate. Adibayor writes like he eats, slowly, with lots of movement but limited end product; he’d have been a shoe-in for top tourist in the years before time was invented.
Coach Stalley recovers a tweet from 39 year old Jody Bevan who was in the GPSFA squad for our first-ever visit to Jersey, way back in the last century. It says, quite simply, ‘Good luck boys and hurry up Adibayor.’ How fast news travels in these technologically-inspired times.
Day Three - Monday
Coach Delaney’s offer to do the morning launderette run is put on hold as the rat-tatting on 415 eventually reveals the Emperor’s New Clothes have clearly not arrived, a bath towel round the midriff suggesting he has little intention of making an 8am jog through St Helier a daily feature of his debut Jersey experience. Quick switch to Stalley Nav sees most of the town’s thoroughfares explored before Roseville Street washing centre is stumbled upon, thanks to luck overtaking judgement at the key moment of this completely guideless tour.
Hopes that washing the kit in ECO-friendly green water will aid our attempt to beat Wokingham prove rather unfounded as we gift the Berkshire side a brace of goals towards the end of each half and despite hitting the woodwork on a couple of occasions and forcing the keeper into two fine saves, there are no marks on the ‘goals for’ tally chart. The victors’ management team it seems, consists entirely of bearded men wearing blue; one wields the linesman’s flag like a medieval axe in battle, the second displays impressive ambidextrous qualities never before seen at the FB, by using both arms to point in two different directions at two different people, both at the same time. The third prowls the touchline in concentrated fashion, water buffalo-like in his movements, a clap here, a gesticulation there, a frown or a smile depending on the state of play at any given moment.
The Yellows eke out a goalless draw against perennial rivals St Albans, with Limbrick and Ansermoz impressing at the back and Hayes making it a trio of Gloucester woodwork strikes with a deflected effort that comes back off the bar.
Time to go and Lacoste is appalled when the three female groupies hovering outside the pavilion players’ entrance make a bee line for The Weatherman, before beating a hasty retreat as he immediately begins regaling them with his entire repertoire of weather forecasting ideas. It doesn’t take long.
Coach Stalley’s innovative pre-match warm up (FA drill No 97) and the detailed tactical (what, when, why) instructions to The Colonel have proved about as useful as the environmentally friendly launderette in positively affecting today’s result and Coach Delaney puts his new-found confidence levels to good effect and punishes both by leaving them behind in the car park.
Lunch completed, we’re back on the road east to visit Mont Orgueil Castle, a thirteenth century monolith that towers above the picture postcard village of Gorey. With the weather set fair (compared to yesterday), spirits are high despite the morning’s statistical blip, but there are mutterings in both back and front which question why the change in mini bus driver wasn’t made at the beginning of September, rather than wait until near the season’s end. Even King Pat is noticeably happy, the first time in twenty eight years that he’s been overtly content and safe in the knowledge that at last Gloucester’s transport will be returned unblemished and unscathed at the end of the eight-day event. Over a quarter of a century of sleepless nights and ever deepening worry lines, and at last things have taken a turn for the better.
Ed’s crashed the bus! Well, not crashed exactly, but there’s a graze on the inside wing caused by a moving wall that was itself trying to avoid a pretty large tractor. There’s a bit of a door scratch as well and the rear wheel trim’s loose. And the orange left hand indicator casing isn’t there any more. And the bulb, which has survived the ordeal, doesn’t flash. Neither does the driver, who’s both shocked and mystified as to why everyone in the bus is laughing.
There’s hide & seek in the castle chapel and a frown or three in the medieval latrines, but a search for the key to the punishment stocks can’t be found and Mustoe returns to the free world, much to everyone’s obvious disappointment. There’s further liberation on Gorey beach as ten scantily clad people plus a fully coated Colonel throw a football in the sea, but the tide has boomerang-like properties and the object of our desires keeps coming back, rather than float over to France as was probably the original intention.
Ten people dry off before changing back into their civvies; one person changes out of his anorak and into next to nothing. Coach Delaney spends the time practising leaning against the front, middle and rear parts of the bus in silent contemplation as to how he can achieve all three positions at the same time if King Pat carries out a vehicular inspection at any point in the next four days. There’s also the small matter of now being unable to indicate left and the resulting and obvious need to spend the remainder of the week travelling round the island in an anti-clockwise direction.
Day Four - Tuesday
Stalley Nav is switched on and perfectly primed this morning and the kit’s back at The Mayfair for distribution by 8.15. Room 403 is not for the faint hearted as Warrior and Walters’ emergence from their respective pits is enough to make Scarface’s early morning appearance just about acceptable to the National Director of Channel Islands Censorship.
The flip flops in 405 are playing cards in absolute silence, while Kenny dobs The Colonel in it for playing the Commonwealth Games’ brand new sport, Sock Volleyball, with the net between the beds. Attitude point lost. Adibayor meanwhile, and not for the first time, is eleventh to arrive at the meeting point.
At the breakfast table Big Sam and Adibayor sit opposite each other – one eats a lot and talks little, while one talks a lot. The Colonel is looking for seconds barely a minute after receiving his firsts, though it’s Big Sam who finds almost immediate success by persuading Billy to part with his second sausage. Walters eats a rice krispy in a single go and appears very proud of himself. Margaret reflects on the secrets of a simple life well lived and hugely enjoyed – Eat, Play Football, Sleep.
Coach Wilson is deep in thought as kick-off versus Newbury draws ever nearer, moving the pieces round The Times’ Sudoku tactics board with something approaching aplomb. The Chef fidgets in his breakfast chair, his peepers systematically roaming the restaurant for a potential victim or ten, but unsurprisingly no-one moves while steadfastly avoiding eye contact – peripheral or otherwise. Coach Delaney began googling ‘garages’ at 4.55am and is now in his fifth hour of attempting to locate someone who can flog and fit him a mini bus indicator. Being a left-sided flasher makes the search altogether harder.
The City of Gloucester has relocated to the FB Fields and the Dortmund Wall is replicated along the entire touchline of Pitch Four. Yesterday’s innovative, yet failed FA warm-up is replaced by another innovation straight out of the Owen-Wilson manual (‘Ruses for the Over-60s’), which involves players running longingly to their open-armed mothers, some of whom assumed this very position immediately after their early-morning shower (and skipping breakfast for obvious mobility reasons), then sprinting away in search of another attitude point. The dads in the background think it’s hilarious, but are old enough and wise enough to get straight into a furrowed brow and head shaking position the moment they sense their good ladies are turning round to voice their displeasure. We know, we’ve been doing it for years.
Game on and a fine run from Adibayor sets up Walters to drive us into a half time lead which could have been greater had Moaning Lisa’s header not come back off the inside of the right hand post. Midway through the second period Newbury, who are coached by the two Peters, Dove and Kay, level with a fine header of their own following a left wing corner, but barely a hundred seconds later Lisa volleys the keeper’s clearance straight back from near the far touchline, a quite remarkable effort, to restore our advantage.
Colonel wins a penalty that Billy converts and despite a late reply, we run out winners by the odd goal in five. The Yellows are underway almost immediately and take an early lead through Fin ‘Course I meant it’ Williamson’s halfway line cracker, but eventually go down 1-3 to a decent St Paul’s side. The main talking point of the second half sees the Gloucester linesman hurl his flag, javelin-like into the ground on the concession of goal number three and so provoke a rather sad shake of the head from the omnipresent King Pat of Jersey.
Coach Delaney returns from Goodwin’s Garage a changed man – out is the ‘V’ between the eyes and the furrows below the slicked-back fringe; in is the beaming cheese-like grin and sparkling dinner-plate eyes; on is the new indicator cover and a bulb that actually works – at the moment, anyway.
Unperturbed by their defeat and within three minutes of the final whistle, The Yellows initiate a thirty-four-a-side, Under-7 to Under-47 game between two teams that seem pretty familiar with each other, judging by the grappling, tripping and pouncing that’s going on. There are clearly several people hugging on the quiet, but having assumed a very clever blind side position, no-one can quite make out who they are. The eventual score is 7-6, but nobody’s quite sure which lot scored seven.
The eight minutes of blue morning sky have long since disappeared as we pull up at La Corbiere for the second time in forty eight hours, but this time the tide’s in. The waves crashing into the rocks that just two days ago we walked between on the low-water causeway to the foot of the lighthouse are a sight to behold, while all eleven players do passable impressions of Canute the Elder on the sliver of sand that remains at the foot of the ramp. He got wet too.
Next up it’s the expanse of yellow stuff at St Brelade that catches the attention and a chance to play fourth official from the sanctity of the conservatory of the Golden Sands hotel, where whistles and watches are replaced by a cafetiere of coffee and a bowl of Bombay mix. Like a few hours previously, no-one really knows the score and in many ways that’s just how it should be - run, play, compete for the simple reason that you want to run, play and compete and not just to pacify a posse of strange looking men bearing notebooks and pens.
Meanwhile, the Bs are at Aquasplash and The Chef has accosted a six foot four lifeguard and a five foot two mother of three, but they’ve both got ears and are located near a corner, so any other differences are completely immaterial when there’s a conversation in the offing. The huge wave created by his carer diving into the pool saves both, but not before each has been subjected to an in-depth oration based around the delights of a certain cathedral settlement just down the road from Cheltenham.
Weatherman orders duck for dinner, but no-one quite knows why, and the waterfowl in plum sauce also accounts for two of Lisa’s eating marks. A lettuce leaf is devoured like an audition for Pirates of the Caribbean, but the real identity of the monster in question will not be revealed here. After all, bits of what goes on tour, stays on tour. Adibayor leaves a Jersey Royal, but does it ever so nicely.
The ARIs (Stalley & Delaney) have been given the opportunity of carrying out a full-blown room inspection for themselves and come back visibly appalled by what they’ve encountered, but far more streetwise and definitely more resilient as a result. The flip-flop brigade in 405 have degenerated horribly and accumulate a grand total of one room mark, with each inhabitant insistent that they are perfect and it’s the other incumbent who’s to blame for the nine lost marks. With the ARIs themselves subject to validation by the registered TRI, it appears they’ve missed a bathroom-based mishap and the lodgers lose their final mark amidst a cacophony of claim and counter-claim. While the pair may each boast both looks and girls, what they don’t have is any points.
Innovation, innovation, innovation. In preparation for the morrow’s encounter with Plymouth, the team is subjected to the three minutes and thirty four seconds worth of highlights from Gloucester City’s 3-2 weekend victory over Walters’ favourite team, Bognor Regis Town, on the lap top. There is little to be learned technically and even less tactically, but the motivational element of the viewing is clear. Improve, or this could be you in ten years’ time.
There’s an attitude session based on the aforementioned post-match hugging / non-hugging activities and the success / failure of the escape attempts. People are allowed to inform on but not accuse their team mates with factual evidence relating directly to any or all of the above. As most of the squad are nice and actually like each other, the majority of marks are very good, resulting in each individual beginning to appreciate the value of a carefully planned approach and a sharp turn of pace to complete the manoeuvre. Lifelong learning at its very best.
Day Five - Wednesday
Every day of this amazing thing called life is a great day. But there are some days that are greater than others and this may just be one of them.
It’s an Elkie Brooks morning (‘Sunshine after the rain’) and we have a new waiter today, much to The Chef’s quite obvious glee, as an opportunity for courting the possibility of a little friendship presents itself quite out of the blue. The remainder of the seats on our big long table are empty though as The Yellows take their time plucking up the courage to enter, with Sargeant eventually showing bravery beyond the call of duty by taking the last remaining place.
Coach Delaney still hasn’t worked out how he’s going to remove the graze on the mini bus, save for leaving the passenger door open in an attempt to cover it up, but realises this is unlikely to provide a long term solution as people might fall out, and instead seeks the advice of The Chef. Relishing the opportunity of setting out on a one-way conversation this early in the day, Chef begins reeling off a list of potential polishers, painters and panel beaters, some of which may actually exist, but as none are based on or anywhere near the island, the exercise proves to be rather futile.
Coach Wixey is clearly benefitting from an early night which has doubled his usual slumber period from three hours to six, and as a result is uncharacteristically happy this morning. Blonde in 416 on the other hand has had his usual time in the land of nod and remains as melancholic as ever. Victor Hugo wrote much of his most famous work, Les Miserables, while on exile in Jersey in the mid-nineteenth century, meaning all those people who claimed Lisa is way ahead of his time may just have been right.
As we enter breakfast, Plymouth are departing for the FB Fields to begin their daily two hour warm up. They’re certainly ‘up for it’, or at least they were when they arrived at the green, green grass that feels like home around 8.15, but maybe the session they’ve just completed has sapped their adrenaline levels a little. Let’s hope so. Gloucester rack up at eight minutes to ten with their kit in a designer Ikea holdall and Coach Delaney in a state that can best be described as ‘flux’.
Bringing proper coaches to Jersey has certainly had a detrimental effect on our performances and results thus far so, following last night’s video analysis session, we return to the tried and tested as Billy takes the five minute warm-up and FA drill 98 is temporarily consigned to the back burner. It works like a dream.
From the outset the city side is disciplined and competitive and we take the lead with an absolute rasper from Walters after Billy has ballet-shoed a free kick against the bar.
Walters repeats the trick five minutes after the break with another humdinger before playing in the Flying Colonel who is brought down and Billy dispatches the penalty – ball in one corner, keeper in the other.
The Greens reduce the arrears eight minutes from time, but a potentially difficult ending is avoided when Lisa plays in The Colonel who sidesteps the keeper before sending ‘The Wall’ into raptures.
It’s been as complete a team performance as we’ve produced in the past eight months, Margaret a colossus amongst colossuses, Weatherman and Big Sam solid to a fault and Kenny as assured as ever.
Nureyev and Billy are indefatigable in centre midfield, Scarface, Lisa and Lacoste equally so out wide. Adibayor prompts and probes, Colonel a rash that the Plymouth defence can’t wipe away. Up above, the early-morning blue skies have been replaced by a slaty grey blanket, but the sun’s shining bright on this little bit of our happy island home.
A Hugging Amnesty is immediately initiated, even though this impromptu bonus system isn’t written into any of the players’ contracts. Some of the embraces are small, some considerably up a level and there are some moments of unbridled affection and congratulation that are quite clearly way, way over the top. And that’s just the coaches. Heaven only knows what’s happening with the parents.
Nice Taite Fortey rescues a point for The Yellows in a 2-2 draw with Jersey before Coach Harris uses his wide-angle lens to capture the huge Gloucester following for posterity and to prove to any potential doubters that it really is this big.
Greve de Lecq is another postcard favourite, with its sandy frontage, rocky wings and a café that closes far too early. The main game, in between the obligatory beach footy, seems to be keeping your feet buried while the tide comes in and if that’s what it really is, Lacoste and Margaret seem to do it pretty well.
With Coach Delaney having taken approximately an hour and twenty minutes to get here due to being unable to judge the width of the road with any great conviction, drivers are swapped and we’re back at the billet in twenty five.
Dinner is served and Lisa is trapped by a seafood tart starter. Never one to spurn an opportunity, Big Sam moves in on the blind side to make it two appetisers in one.
Oh no! Margaret’s exploded! In hugely dramatic fashion, he’s deposited his salmon & tuna fish pie cannon-like back across the table and all over the person sitting opposite, spectacularly ending my chances of both success and a moment in the limelight in the eating competition. There’s a trio of salvos at perfectly timed ten second intervals, the sheer magnitude of the discharge leaving even The Chef in a state, albeit temporarily, of stunned silence.
After twenty eight years of hope, hurt and ultimately disappointment – not to mention several hundred pounds of Jersey currency lost - the omens were so positive for 2018, but like Aden ‘I swear I won’t let you down’ Baldwin before him (Jersey 2008; macaroni cheese), the title dream is over. And that was on the Wednesday as well. Thoughts quickly turn to the morrow’s game, however. Margaret was top quality against Plymouth today, but now being at least two and a half stone lighter, he could be absolute dynamite tomorrow. The dinner table eruption that’s just occurred suggests this has every chance of happening.
Coaches Wixey and Harris have decamped to the Merton to share tales round a camp fire, so The Chef is excited at the prospect of a lengthy discussion with eleven prospective Yellow Team victims at his consultative disposal. This is a nice group though and diary time in the corridor sees silence reign and eye contact kept to a bare minimum. Even if it hadn’t been a nice group, the likelihood is that silence would have reigned and eye contact restricted to requests for the loo, as the alternative is enough to turn even the most avid of chatterers into little more than elective mutes.
GPSFA’s 1999/00 B Team goalkeeper Nick Selway (Longlevens), now a player at Jersey RFC and a Wednesday evening visitor to The Merton, recalls days of yore with Coach Wixey before the intrepid duo return home slightly the worse for wear, having been subjected to a bout of Jaegar-bombing by the gang of usual suspects.
Back at the ranch Scarface loses attitude points for using ‘like’ for the hundredth time today, an affliction that puts him in pole position to win the Daniel Roddis Cup, a trophy sponsored by GPSFA’s most prolifically incorrect user of this annoyingly widespread preposition and a title that no-one ever wants to receive.
The ARIs meanwhile continue to progress in the art of room inspection and both Coach Delaney and Coach Stalley pay public tribute to their valued mentor, the DRIRI (Director of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors) for his help, support, nurturing and guidance. At this rate the pair have every chance of attaining the coveted Level One qualification by the end of the week and thus become fully fledged members of the RIRI by attaining FRIRI (Fellow of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors) status.
Day Six - Thursday
It’s the morning after the night before and three slices of melon, a brace of croissants, bacon, egg, sausage, hash brown and beans suggest Vesuvius has set out on the road to at least a partial recovery. Weatherman is picking up too, with five hash browns and two slices of toast on his plate being as much this particular item of hotel crockery have seen in the previous five days put together.
It’s time for the distribution of the black & yellow, but Walters’ socks won’t fit him, so either they’ve shrunk at the launderette or his legs have grown overnight. Everyone else’s kit is fine, so we board the fun bus fully clothed and full of hope. Coach Delaney’s at the wheel so we leave in plenty of time, the bus crawling along (Un)Pleasant Street and La Route du Fort, followed by a procession of angry-looking people who are about to be late for work.
It’s Chloe Knight’s twenty fifth birthday so she’s the mascot for our game with Barking, thus improving the looks in the memento-swapping pre-match photo. Colonel says he doesn’t want to start but does and soon scores four, all the goals coming in an eleven-minute spell in the first half. Each are well finished with Adibayor (2), Nureyev and Scar providing the assists. The ESFA Chairman has arrived and watches our game with interest, but leaves at 4-0, taking our defensive discipline with him.
Margaret provides the assist for Billy’s own goal that reduces the arrears and Barking score twice more after the break, with Billy’s twenty sixth goal of the season, this time at the right end, sandwiched in between. By this time the ESFA’s top man has bumped into The Chef having ignored several people’s advice to ‘Be careful and watch your back’ and spends the next twenty minutes praying for salvation from a good Samaritan of any description.
Afternoon shopping in St Helier’s pedestrianised central thoroughfare sees most people buy a yellow carrier bag from JD Sports and Adibayor’s bank balance rise in a direct correlation to the amount he spends. The view from Coffee Republic is interesting to a fault, though the man with the bright pink hair, throat and neck tattoos and fluorescent green umbrella takes a bit of getting used to. As does the sight of The Chef being led silently by his carer to a seat in the shade, index finger pressed tightly against pursed lips, eyebrows raised in ‘don’t do it’ mode and head shaking decisively from side to side. Unaware of the potential danger, Father Adibayor walks past for the fifteenth time, hoping his guide will turn up soon and take him home for dinner.
Three of the coaches buy gifts for their loved ones back home – one gets perfume, one gets fudge and one gets pearls. The fourth buys nothing, instead stockpiling his cash for an upcoming Saturday morning raid on the duty free shop at the airport. You do the maths.
Both teams are at Aquasplash, where the maths of the high street is replaced by physics at the pool. Coach Harris jumps in to provide a practical and highly visible proof of Archimedes’ Principle and Displacement Theory; in layman’s terms, the bigger the person who jumps in, the larger the volume of water jumps out and the greater the risk of sports centre flooding.
It’s a choice between Chicken Caccietore (hen in tomato sauce) or Roast Lion (of pork), which is quite obviously the evening’s ‘mane’ course. Terrible offering, but miles better than Nureyev’s horrendous ‘Lactose’ joke which he’s reciting once again, having told it en route to every away game since September. Nobody understood it then and nobody makes even the slightest effort to understand it now.
There’s a brief delay in serving, providing an opportunity to glance up and down our table, which is like inspecting a timeline for the Darwinian Theory of Evolution. And we’re at the wrong end.
The Volcano is currently dormant, much to the relief of everyone sitting in the seats opposite but loses what’s left of his ingestion credibility after leaving a third of his vegetable curry, half a potato croquette and an entire broccoli floret. Quitter. Colonel announces he’s my last hope, which is just about the saddest and most worrying thing I’ve heard all season. I only bought him because he was cheap and no-one else had any intention whatsoever of getting him on board. If he really is our last hope, we’re well and truly doomed. Weatherman orders cheeseboard for dessert, without realising you’re meant to eat the cheese.
Diary time, and when someone asks how to spell ‘conceded’, Kenny emits a deep and throaty groan approaching ultimate despair. Billy emits a moan of his own when learning that the ARIs have been in charge of the evening’s room inspection, but his misgivings are unfounded and 403 scores well.
The ARIs themselves do a promising job overall, identifying a hotel sign that’s slid down the side of a bed, an internal phone that’s a Diana Ross (three degrees) from being flush with the rear wall, a comforter that isn’t quite perpendicular to the bedroom carpet and a pair of football boots that are left at an unnatural angle and lose two points for each wayward-pointing foot. Scarface is aghast at the latter pronouncement, adopting a facial expression that would put even Mustoe to the test.
Weatherman has finally extracted the tooth that’s been wobbling about in his lower jaw for the last day and a half. It’s suggested he puts it under his pillow in case the tooth fairy comes, but as the TF and Coach Delaney are one and the same, it’s highly unlikely that anything fiscal will come of it. Because this particular tooth fairy is still working out how he’s going to pay for the bus.
Day Seven – Friday
Coach Delaney is late for breakfast and finds Vesuvius has been moved opposite him as the pensioners amongst us can’t afford another hefty laundry bill. Billy is informed he has to make a short speech, along with Fortey & Hayes, at the evening’s Presentation Dinner. He’s not happy but Kenny is, as the oration won’t include him.
Colonel grabs a lift in the lift but doesn’t get to the FB Fields any faster. Another attitude point deducted. Both sides are on Pitch Two today as what remains of The Wall following yesterday’s early departures has steadfastly refused to move.
Midway through The Yellows’ second game with Jersey B, The Chef scents an unsuspecting couple about 150 metres away, who are loving every second of viewing their grandson’s only appearance of the week on Pitch One. Vulnerability shines bright from any pair or single person standing away from the crowd and fifteen seconds later they’re not, as the predator begins a face to face monologue with his shocked and visibly anxious prey based around the long term nutritional benefits of eating copious amounts of deep-fried food. Salvation arrives in the form of Coach Wixey, who shakes off the disappointment of conceding a last minute equaliser to transport the protagonist to the airport for a 2pm flight home. Wixey’s eventual return comes with good news of a fashion; as the Gloucester & Jersey B match has been played over two legs and the aggregate scores are level, away goals count double and we win 8-4.
Across the way, the Plymouth Brethren wear their seventh different kit in six days and consider becoming Adventists during the second half of their 3-1 defeat to the Bearded Men in Blue, who seal first place at the festival.
Both Orpington and Gloucester A have a spring in their step in an entertaining first half of the week’s final game that features a great run from Adibayor, more excellent midfield play from Billy and Nureyev and yet another top wing back performance from the Weatherman.
A brace of opportunist second half strikes from The Colonel seal our fourth consecutive victory of the week, the association’s 97th Jersey win and the second best results record over the six days of this great event. There’s an adults’ match to follow in which Coaches Harris and Delaney represent Gloucester with pride if not aplomb as walking football comes to the FB. The St Albans brigade are much to the fore, with Coach Peters scoring and Coach Sandiford netting from the spot. Both celebrate in style. They’ll be singing in the valleys (of Hertfordshire) tonight.
It’s both teams to Plemont, a fantastic little beach with golden sand, great climbing rocks, a ravine and a waterfall. Unfortunately, we can’t access any of them as the water’s ignored the tide-table and come in ahead of time. Instead, we content ourselves with wave watching with Wokingham, which is five Ws in a row and not easy to say without a slip-up or two. Definitely slipping up here is Wokingham coach Bevan and our very own Wixey and Delaney, who are each deposited upon by the incoming sea, much to the great delight of the forty one watching souls.
‘Here comes a big ‘un,’ shouts one of the bystanders loitering on the steps, as both a huge wave and Coach Harris show up at precisely the same time.
The clifftop café has reopened after being locked and boarded for a year following The Chef’s last visit. Coach Delaney picks up a parking ticket that’s been surreptitiously slipped beneath the windscreen wiper by Coach Wilson, who denies all knowledge and blames the editor. The misery for Coach Delaney continues by having to negotiate the L’Etacq hairpins before stopping the bus to inspect the bodywork after thinking another wall has suddenly moved in the direction of his vehicle.
Next stop St Ouen where the tour’s final beach football encounter sees A take on B and as no-one from the FA can be seen anywhere on the sand, it’s 11 v 11 with no holds barred. Every goal is celebrated but not one recorded and as the sun sinks over La Rocco Tower, there’s a contentment about the place that money can’t buy.
Coach Harris’s exhortations struggle to round up the merry throng, which is great news as it means we can stay a few moments longer, leaving only twenty minutes to prepare for the Presentation Dinner once we return. There’s time only for Billy to complete a swift run-through of his speech and Coach Stalley to have a swift application of hair gel before filing into the festival’s very own Last Supper.
There’s a brace of decent speeches from a man with a mic and a man with a chain. Kenny meanwhile stresses over the content of the phonetically challenging minestrone, though there’s no real cause for concern and he downs it in one. Adibayor also has no problem finishing his, despite being confused at having nothing to cut, though it’s more like down it in 500 from the world’s most deliberate ingestor.
Lisa has an aversion to mushrooms which is swiftly and uncomplicatedly sorted by Nureyev, Weatherman chews lots but eats little, Big Sam and Scarface chew little but eat lots. Colonel moans, then dips out on half his food. The last great hope is no more. Adibayor cuts. Margaret leaves things for the third day running and sees his already zero credibility score plummet into the red zone. Will I Am Eleven Now and Billy are both slow but sure. Kenny is shocked at the amount of red bits in his steak and to be honest, it’s so rare that a half decent vet could probably resuscitate it.
For the twenty eighth year running, the call for the captains’ speech doesn’t come, but Hayes, Fortey and Knight perform brilliantly for both the players and the @GPSFAteams’ twitter account. Everyone stands still and pretends not to count the seconds or hear the tick-tocks. Time’s moving too fast; it’s nearly over.
Day Eight - Saturday
It’s hustle and bustle time at The Mayfair as mini buses are packed and teams prepare for departure. The breakfast room is mausoleum-like as the rigours of the week take their toll, yet some things remain reassuringly constant. Adibayor cuts. Big Sam eats. Lisa moans.
The hardest bit of the morning is locating the petrol tank on the mini bus, but the airport check-in is quick as there are no security issues, with Sargeant’s bag being noticeably lighter than it was on the journey out.
There’s a slight delay as Lisa’s not on the list but he is on the plane and the ‘Welcome home’ party in the Pike & Musket skittle alley is back on. We’ve got an air hostess called Jeremy which provides a useful midday test in pragmatism, but who stabilises the plane successfully by seating Coach Harris at one end and the remainder of the passengers at the other.
Lord Downs spends the flight football-quizzing anyone who’ll listen with the same dated questions he asked to anyone who’d listen last year. And the ten years before that.
Vesuvius is seated in 11c, but 10c’s vacant, just in case. Lacoste and Weatherman smile sweetly at anyone remotely female and most return the compliment. Jeremy just stares. Nureyev eats copious amounts of Thai Red Chilli crisps that, quite frankly, stink. He’ll have no problem with women either - they won’t come within a hundred metres of him smelling like that.
Coach Harris demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of modal verbs by announcing, not for the first time this week, that someone ‘Might of.’ Peasant. Across the aisle Lacoste adjusts his fringe, again without touching it. Adibayor wishes he could do the same. Scarface tries to lose his bag as an excuse for not buying any presents, but the plot is sabotaged when someone finds and returns it. He squeezes out another ‘Mustoe Look’ before moving on. Nureyev bumps his bonce on the overhead locker. Weatherman tries, but can’t. The Harewood contingent indulge in a spell of synchronised moaning, but no-one listens.
Swift transfer to the coach and Longlevens take over the back seat while the nice ones sit near the front. Colonel claims to have a bad throat, which is no surprise judging by the noise he makes. Williamson is ribbed about his girlfriend. Other revelations come in quick succession. Randall hasn’t got one. Scarface doesn’t want one. Laverton can’t find one.
There’s sandwiches, chips and parents at the Great Western, prizes to present and tales to share. There have been some great diaries, some good diaries and some average ones, but all did their best. Likewise for rooms and definitely for eating. People who hugged too often and didn’t escape fast enough, those who failed to push their chair under the table after dinner, hitched a ride in the lift or accused instead of informed, lost attitude marks. Heinous crimes indeed. All twenty two combatants played a massive part in both teams’ successes on the field. And everyone contributed hugely to an absolutely brilliant week.
The Chairman rings. ‘Did we win?’ he asks, somewhat sternly.
‘Everybody won,’ is the answer, ‘in every way possible.’
‘I never doubted it,’ comes the final reply, followed immediately by a contented sigh and the hum of a disconnected receiver. The call is ended, and with it eight glorious days on a little island near France that worked its unique bit of magic to create the widest of smiles.
Oscar Wilde once said, ‘Memories are special moments that tell our story. Once lived, forever remembered.’ He could have been writing about Jersey 2018. Today. Tomorrow. Always.
(Very) happy days
Acknowledgements
All the Gloucester players and coaches for making Jersey 2018 the fun that it was and particularly Andy (The Chef) 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.
The Great Wall of Jersey. Immovable. Impregnable. And like the other one, visible from outer space.
(King) Pat Cullinane of Jersey for his 44 years of fantastic organisation of this amazing 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. I hope you enjoy this memoir as much as you enjoyed the tales of previous trips. I know we all loved being part of it. Carpe Diem.
What follows is a behind the scenes look at some of the personalities, events, accusations & revelations that were Jersey 2018. 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 happens.
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
Kenny (Jude Franks). Very sensible. Tremendously steadfast. Really strong (hands).
Weatherman (Teddy Peirce). Top meteorologist. Food connoisseur. Fairly popular.
Margaret (Kaylum Pargeter). Eater. Man marker. Fashion guru.
Big Sam (Kelly). So reliable. So together. So nice. So messy.
Moaning Lisa (Harley Mustoe). Scores the odd decent goal. Moans occasionally.
Scarface (Luke Hanlon). Unassuming. Unabashed. Unfazed.
Nureyev (Cameron Walters). Tells jokes. All bad. Supports Bognor Regis.
Billy (Alex Knight). Captain. Warrior. Ballet dancer.
Lacoste (William Knight). Poser. Womaniser. Eleven.
The Colonel (Kyron Mitchell). Hunter. Good laugh when not miserable. So rarely.
Adibayor (Adi Adichareh). World’s nicest person. Apart from Teddy. Dislikes scoring (his words).
Others
The Chef (Andrew Foran). Cook. Driver. Bruce Forsyth lookalike. Gloucester man desperately seeking friendship.
Romeo (himself). Eats. Sleeps. Eats. Chef’s carer.
Coach Wilson. The Room Inspector. Part-time navigator. Full time Sudoku-gator.
Coach Wixey. Good manager. Good motivator. Good man. And definitely Good Cop.
Coach Harris. Creative. Innovative. Heavy.
Coach Stalley. Tactical. Technical. Trustworthy. Tweeter. And laundryman.
Coach Delaney. Tactician. Tormented. Tired. Oh, and driver.
The Editor. Old. Grey. Lame. And they’re the good bits.
King Pat of Jersey. Festival organiser. 44 years. Legend.
Lord Downs of Tilehurst. Child Welfare Officer. Reading FC historian.
The Wall. Gloucester. Almost all of it.
Day One - Saturday
It took him a long time to write, but the dark undertones of The Chairman’s Churchillian message, highlighted in bold and delivered by e-mail in Times New Roman at 10.00 last night, leave little room for misinterpretation. ‘Win (or else)!’ it says.
Check-in, and Scarface pockets the week’s first award by registering the lightest holdall at a miserly 8.2kg, just beating off the challenge of Hayes, whose hamper-like container reads 8.9 on the digital scale. As Scar’s case alone weighs 7.5kg, the chances of there being more than a couple of pairs of boxers, a toothbrush and a pair of nail clippers inside seem pretty remote.
At the other end of the spectrum, Sargeant registers 18.2 on the Richter Scale and receives a call from an airport jobsworth, who’s hiding behind the pillar about four feet away. He’d have been far better sticking to his man bag, whatever the checklist in the handbook says.
Despite having his carer in tow, The Chef’s in his element at the terminal, firstly accosting a lady wearing a bright red ‘look-at-me’ scarf and her bare-necked husband who is shivering, not from coldness, but through a sudden realisation of what’s around the corner. Or standing right in front of him in this case. Next up is his favourite prey – a man in a queue who has nowhere to go and who is subjected to a twelve-and-a-half- minute interview, the majority of which entails long periods of uninterrupted and extremely overt Irish chortling.
Coach Stalley is joined in the ‘frisking line’ by The Weatherman, Adibayor, Smiling Leo Taylor and The Colonel, though how the beeper fails to detect Coach Wilson’s iron lung, brace of aluminium limbs and trio of assorted metallic appendages is anyone’s guess. Lacoste adjusts his random fringe without touching it before imploring, ‘Search me, search me,’ only to discover that the blonde assistant with the winning smile has just been replaced by a hirsute man wearing gloves, the midfielder displaying a nifty turn of pace to escape around the next corner, just in the nick of time.
Next up for The Chef is the Duty Free and a duo of smartly dressed shop assistants are pinned against the counter of Elizabeth Arden, with redemption only arriving in the shape of Lord & Lady Downs of Tilehurst (Jersey Festival Child Protection Officer and wife), who are aiming for the comfy seats in the Departure Lounge, completely unaware of the conversation to come. Only the Daily Mail stands between them and The Bard, with the paper at last, after all these wasted years, finding its very existence of some practical assistance to its readership.
There’s an hour and a half flight delay, meaning ninety minutes of anxiety for the waifs and strays in the departure lounge, but the players are fine and we land in Jersey before anyone realises we’ve left.
King Pat is thrilled that Coach Delaney, our debutant tourist, has taken responsibility for the A Team bus, a big wide grin accompanying the handing over the keys, while the civilian population of Jersey is delighted The Chef is in charge of The Yellows’ main vehicle as it keeps his find-a-friend conversations well and truly off the streets.
First job at The Mayfair is the allocation of rooms. Moaning Lisa is billeted with Positive Adi and Sensible Kenny in 416. Billy and Nureyev are together in the Ballet Room (403). The untidy two thirds of Dinglewell, Big Sam and Scarface, are in 405, while the remaining third, the ever-neat & ordered Weatherman, partners Will I Am Eleven Now (Lacoste) across the way in 404. The Colonel and Margaret have been given the opportunity of redemption following February’s Horror in Hemel Hempstead and will inhabit 406. Coaches Delaney and Stalley are situated centrally amongst the throng, while those of greater Jersey experience locate themselves as close to the corridor’s end as possible.
Eating auctions (think IPL) quickly follow. Margaret, Big Sam, Kenny and Scarface will contest the Premiership, with Nureyev, Billy, The Colonel and Moaning Lisa making up the Championship. The line-up in the Pig Farmers Division Seven Reserve League features Adibayor, Will I Am Eleven Now and The Weatherman.
For the first time ever and having completed an exhaustive analysis of the eating data from past tours, I harbour a real hope of winning The Premiership this time around, having bought Margaret for a knock-down twelve quid. He’s methodical, thoughtful, driven, and both technically and tactically astute. An owner’s dream and as close to a bolt-on ticket to success as there could possibly be. Team Bob is completed with two Championship contenders in Nureyev and The Colonel, though on second thoughts I’ve got little confidence in Nureyev and even less in The Colonel, who I’ve only bought cos he’s cheap. And ‘contenders’ is a bit of an exaggeration too.
The annual post-evening meal managers’ weigh-in follows and there are few surprises. Newbury are the most educated, Gloucester the most immobile, Orpington the oldest, Wokingham the youngest and bluest and St Albans the heaviest. Weatherman forecasts lots of defeats, so the mood on the fourth floor is upbeat. The chances are, it’s going to be a great week.
Day Two - Sunday
8.15am and Room 403 is awash with slumber, though the Triple Crown in 416 have been sitting silently on their beds, decked out in their morning uniform for at least an hour and a half before their door is finally opened.
Adibayor is meticulous in dividing his beans on toast into four absolutely equal quarters before inserting each into his orifice in truly regal fashion. Margaret eats half the fruit on offer at the buffet, followed by a full English, while Big Sam has cereal, full English (minus black pudding), more cereal and several rounds of toast to finish. Colonel has extra beans, much to everyone’s horror, Lisa performs impressively, while Scar and Kenny plod remorselessly through whatever appears in front of them. Billy and Lacoste are remorseless too - remorselessly slow that is, while The Weatherman just about makes the cut, painstaking though it is. Which is more than Nureyev does.
Coach Delaney’s initiation is marked by the presentation a sketch map to find Victoria College Prep School, whose car park is being used to house the festival transport. The decision to promote the squad’s most inexperienced tourist to Head Driver is vindicated by the composure with which he eases the charabanc around the 140°, 1 in 4 exit bend and heads confidently along Le Breton to the island’s sporting centre.
The FB Fields are in fine condition despite the constant Sunday morning precipitation, The Weatherman’s forecasting of drier weather and sunshine to follow filling everyone with an overriding dread that a Climatic Armageddon is probably just around the corner. The Chef strikes up a conversation of sorts with King Pat and Lord Downs of Tilehurst, both of whom are too wet and cold to run away and are thus subjected to a good ten minutes of what can euphemistically be described as ‘Brucie Banter’.
Coach Stalley leads the team confidently up the pavilion’s rather quirky external spiral staircase, only to find himself (and them) standing in the middle of a puzzled queue of coffee-seekers in the FB cafeteria and five minutes later confuses the entire squad by delivering a tactical pre-match masterclass based around the day’s theme of team direction.
The Yellows let a two-goal lead slip and have to settle for a share of the spoils against both Barking and Dagenham, while Pitch One sees Thurrock hold the upper hand for the first twenty minutes against the BYs, fashioning three opportunities to Gloucester’s one. Another example of most things moving the wrong way.
Half time is reached without any tangible damage however and eight minutes after the break Lisa puts us one up following Billy’s right wing corner. The second half display is decent, but a defensive mix-up presents the Essex side with an equaliser and the points are shared.
Mother Sargeant is showing off her new pair of Le Chameau wellies to anyone who fancies a gander and mighty fine things they are too. Should we need to plug a couple of leaks in the respective defences, they may come in pretty handy.
It’s fish & chips or macaroni cheese for lunch, with The Colonel, Big Sam and Lisa plumping for the latter. Colonel and BS have no problems finishing, though Lisa is some way behind in third. Nureyev is on hunger strike and doesn’t even make the starting line. The lowlight of lunch however is the speed, or lack of it, of Adibayor’s rate of consumption, his main course and ice cream taking so long to disappear, that at least half the team is in danger of being over the age limit by the time our next game kicks off.
The first afternoon stop is La Corbiere, the tide being out far enough for a romp along the causeway to the lighthouse steps and a look westwards in the direction of the next piece of land which is around four thousand miles away.
The ‘Real Jersey’ ice cream van by the WWII bunker picks up twenty quids worth of unexpected trade and before anyone’s even reached their cone, the owner decides things can’t get any better than this, pulls down the shutter, turns the key in the lock and drives swiftly away. Seeing the GPSFA logo on Scar’s waterproof and mentally reliving an out-of-the-blue visit from a man called Bruce two years ago to the day proves to be the final nail in a recurring 730-day nightmare.
Les Quennevais Sports Centre boasts a rarely-used twin pool, a trio of sauna-type bubble tubs and a lifeguard crew so efficient that even Adibayor survives the hour and a quarter frolicking in the wet stuff.
Back at the ranch it’s roast beef with all the trimmings and Nureyev is back on song with a clean sweep of all the relevant bits and pieces. There’s nothing like a top quality bit of faith healing to turn things round and Calpol fits the bill perfectly; suck in the strawberry and savour the flavour. The Colonel does his best impression of a Jersey cow by indulging in a spot of long-term rumination, though The Weatherman doesn’t place enough in his mouth to ruminate at all. Kenny, meanwhile, educates all around him by correctly using his flat-bladed knife to dissect his Thai fish cake and attempting to hide the obligatory slice of tomato on an adjacent side plate - both at the same time.
There’s a half-naked tiger wearing a Leo Taylor-like smile in the corridor, but it writes instead of bites and everyone survives, for now at any rate. Adibayor writes like he eats, slowly, with lots of movement but limited end product; he’d have been a shoe-in for top tourist in the years before time was invented.
Coach Stalley recovers a tweet from 39 year old Jody Bevan who was in the GPSFA squad for our first-ever visit to Jersey, way back in the last century. It says, quite simply, ‘Good luck boys and hurry up Adibayor.’ How fast news travels in these technologically-inspired times.
Day Three - Monday
Coach Delaney’s offer to do the morning launderette run is put on hold as the rat-tatting on 415 eventually reveals the Emperor’s New Clothes have clearly not arrived, a bath towel round the midriff suggesting he has little intention of making an 8am jog through St Helier a daily feature of his debut Jersey experience. Quick switch to Stalley Nav sees most of the town’s thoroughfares explored before Roseville Street washing centre is stumbled upon, thanks to luck overtaking judgement at the key moment of this completely guideless tour.
Hopes that washing the kit in ECO-friendly green water will aid our attempt to beat Wokingham prove rather unfounded as we gift the Berkshire side a brace of goals towards the end of each half and despite hitting the woodwork on a couple of occasions and forcing the keeper into two fine saves, there are no marks on the ‘goals for’ tally chart. The victors’ management team it seems, consists entirely of bearded men wearing blue; one wields the linesman’s flag like a medieval axe in battle, the second displays impressive ambidextrous qualities never before seen at the FB, by using both arms to point in two different directions at two different people, both at the same time. The third prowls the touchline in concentrated fashion, water buffalo-like in his movements, a clap here, a gesticulation there, a frown or a smile depending on the state of play at any given moment.
The Yellows eke out a goalless draw against perennial rivals St Albans, with Limbrick and Ansermoz impressing at the back and Hayes making it a trio of Gloucester woodwork strikes with a deflected effort that comes back off the bar.
Time to go and Lacoste is appalled when the three female groupies hovering outside the pavilion players’ entrance make a bee line for The Weatherman, before beating a hasty retreat as he immediately begins regaling them with his entire repertoire of weather forecasting ideas. It doesn’t take long.
Coach Stalley’s innovative pre-match warm up (FA drill No 97) and the detailed tactical (what, when, why) instructions to The Colonel have proved about as useful as the environmentally friendly launderette in positively affecting today’s result and Coach Delaney puts his new-found confidence levels to good effect and punishes both by leaving them behind in the car park.
Lunch completed, we’re back on the road east to visit Mont Orgueil Castle, a thirteenth century monolith that towers above the picture postcard village of Gorey. With the weather set fair (compared to yesterday), spirits are high despite the morning’s statistical blip, but there are mutterings in both back and front which question why the change in mini bus driver wasn’t made at the beginning of September, rather than wait until near the season’s end. Even King Pat is noticeably happy, the first time in twenty eight years that he’s been overtly content and safe in the knowledge that at last Gloucester’s transport will be returned unblemished and unscathed at the end of the eight-day event. Over a quarter of a century of sleepless nights and ever deepening worry lines, and at last things have taken a turn for the better.
Ed’s crashed the bus! Well, not crashed exactly, but there’s a graze on the inside wing caused by a moving wall that was itself trying to avoid a pretty large tractor. There’s a bit of a door scratch as well and the rear wheel trim’s loose. And the orange left hand indicator casing isn’t there any more. And the bulb, which has survived the ordeal, doesn’t flash. Neither does the driver, who’s both shocked and mystified as to why everyone in the bus is laughing.
There’s hide & seek in the castle chapel and a frown or three in the medieval latrines, but a search for the key to the punishment stocks can’t be found and Mustoe returns to the free world, much to everyone’s obvious disappointment. There’s further liberation on Gorey beach as ten scantily clad people plus a fully coated Colonel throw a football in the sea, but the tide has boomerang-like properties and the object of our desires keeps coming back, rather than float over to France as was probably the original intention.
Ten people dry off before changing back into their civvies; one person changes out of his anorak and into next to nothing. Coach Delaney spends the time practising leaning against the front, middle and rear parts of the bus in silent contemplation as to how he can achieve all three positions at the same time if King Pat carries out a vehicular inspection at any point in the next four days. There’s also the small matter of now being unable to indicate left and the resulting and obvious need to spend the remainder of the week travelling round the island in an anti-clockwise direction.
Day Four - Tuesday
Stalley Nav is switched on and perfectly primed this morning and the kit’s back at The Mayfair for distribution by 8.15. Room 403 is not for the faint hearted as Warrior and Walters’ emergence from their respective pits is enough to make Scarface’s early morning appearance just about acceptable to the National Director of Channel Islands Censorship.
The flip flops in 405 are playing cards in absolute silence, while Kenny dobs The Colonel in it for playing the Commonwealth Games’ brand new sport, Sock Volleyball, with the net between the beds. Attitude point lost. Adibayor meanwhile, and not for the first time, is eleventh to arrive at the meeting point.
At the breakfast table Big Sam and Adibayor sit opposite each other – one eats a lot and talks little, while one talks a lot. The Colonel is looking for seconds barely a minute after receiving his firsts, though it’s Big Sam who finds almost immediate success by persuading Billy to part with his second sausage. Walters eats a rice krispy in a single go and appears very proud of himself. Margaret reflects on the secrets of a simple life well lived and hugely enjoyed – Eat, Play Football, Sleep.
Coach Wilson is deep in thought as kick-off versus Newbury draws ever nearer, moving the pieces round The Times’ Sudoku tactics board with something approaching aplomb. The Chef fidgets in his breakfast chair, his peepers systematically roaming the restaurant for a potential victim or ten, but unsurprisingly no-one moves while steadfastly avoiding eye contact – peripheral or otherwise. Coach Delaney began googling ‘garages’ at 4.55am and is now in his fifth hour of attempting to locate someone who can flog and fit him a mini bus indicator. Being a left-sided flasher makes the search altogether harder.
The City of Gloucester has relocated to the FB Fields and the Dortmund Wall is replicated along the entire touchline of Pitch Four. Yesterday’s innovative, yet failed FA warm-up is replaced by another innovation straight out of the Owen-Wilson manual (‘Ruses for the Over-60s’), which involves players running longingly to their open-armed mothers, some of whom assumed this very position immediately after their early-morning shower (and skipping breakfast for obvious mobility reasons), then sprinting away in search of another attitude point. The dads in the background think it’s hilarious, but are old enough and wise enough to get straight into a furrowed brow and head shaking position the moment they sense their good ladies are turning round to voice their displeasure. We know, we’ve been doing it for years.
Game on and a fine run from Adibayor sets up Walters to drive us into a half time lead which could have been greater had Moaning Lisa’s header not come back off the inside of the right hand post. Midway through the second period Newbury, who are coached by the two Peters, Dove and Kay, level with a fine header of their own following a left wing corner, but barely a hundred seconds later Lisa volleys the keeper’s clearance straight back from near the far touchline, a quite remarkable effort, to restore our advantage.
Colonel wins a penalty that Billy converts and despite a late reply, we run out winners by the odd goal in five. The Yellows are underway almost immediately and take an early lead through Fin ‘Course I meant it’ Williamson’s halfway line cracker, but eventually go down 1-3 to a decent St Paul’s side. The main talking point of the second half sees the Gloucester linesman hurl his flag, javelin-like into the ground on the concession of goal number three and so provoke a rather sad shake of the head from the omnipresent King Pat of Jersey.
Coach Delaney returns from Goodwin’s Garage a changed man – out is the ‘V’ between the eyes and the furrows below the slicked-back fringe; in is the beaming cheese-like grin and sparkling dinner-plate eyes; on is the new indicator cover and a bulb that actually works – at the moment, anyway.
Unperturbed by their defeat and within three minutes of the final whistle, The Yellows initiate a thirty-four-a-side, Under-7 to Under-47 game between two teams that seem pretty familiar with each other, judging by the grappling, tripping and pouncing that’s going on. There are clearly several people hugging on the quiet, but having assumed a very clever blind side position, no-one can quite make out who they are. The eventual score is 7-6, but nobody’s quite sure which lot scored seven.
The eight minutes of blue morning sky have long since disappeared as we pull up at La Corbiere for the second time in forty eight hours, but this time the tide’s in. The waves crashing into the rocks that just two days ago we walked between on the low-water causeway to the foot of the lighthouse are a sight to behold, while all eleven players do passable impressions of Canute the Elder on the sliver of sand that remains at the foot of the ramp. He got wet too.
Next up it’s the expanse of yellow stuff at St Brelade that catches the attention and a chance to play fourth official from the sanctity of the conservatory of the Golden Sands hotel, where whistles and watches are replaced by a cafetiere of coffee and a bowl of Bombay mix. Like a few hours previously, no-one really knows the score and in many ways that’s just how it should be - run, play, compete for the simple reason that you want to run, play and compete and not just to pacify a posse of strange looking men bearing notebooks and pens.
Meanwhile, the Bs are at Aquasplash and The Chef has accosted a six foot four lifeguard and a five foot two mother of three, but they’ve both got ears and are located near a corner, so any other differences are completely immaterial when there’s a conversation in the offing. The huge wave created by his carer diving into the pool saves both, but not before each has been subjected to an in-depth oration based around the delights of a certain cathedral settlement just down the road from Cheltenham.
Weatherman orders duck for dinner, but no-one quite knows why, and the waterfowl in plum sauce also accounts for two of Lisa’s eating marks. A lettuce leaf is devoured like an audition for Pirates of the Caribbean, but the real identity of the monster in question will not be revealed here. After all, bits of what goes on tour, stays on tour. Adibayor leaves a Jersey Royal, but does it ever so nicely.
The ARIs (Stalley & Delaney) have been given the opportunity of carrying out a full-blown room inspection for themselves and come back visibly appalled by what they’ve encountered, but far more streetwise and definitely more resilient as a result. The flip-flop brigade in 405 have degenerated horribly and accumulate a grand total of one room mark, with each inhabitant insistent that they are perfect and it’s the other incumbent who’s to blame for the nine lost marks. With the ARIs themselves subject to validation by the registered TRI, it appears they’ve missed a bathroom-based mishap and the lodgers lose their final mark amidst a cacophony of claim and counter-claim. While the pair may each boast both looks and girls, what they don’t have is any points.
Innovation, innovation, innovation. In preparation for the morrow’s encounter with Plymouth, the team is subjected to the three minutes and thirty four seconds worth of highlights from Gloucester City’s 3-2 weekend victory over Walters’ favourite team, Bognor Regis Town, on the lap top. There is little to be learned technically and even less tactically, but the motivational element of the viewing is clear. Improve, or this could be you in ten years’ time.
There’s an attitude session based on the aforementioned post-match hugging / non-hugging activities and the success / failure of the escape attempts. People are allowed to inform on but not accuse their team mates with factual evidence relating directly to any or all of the above. As most of the squad are nice and actually like each other, the majority of marks are very good, resulting in each individual beginning to appreciate the value of a carefully planned approach and a sharp turn of pace to complete the manoeuvre. Lifelong learning at its very best.
Day Five - Wednesday
Every day of this amazing thing called life is a great day. But there are some days that are greater than others and this may just be one of them.
It’s an Elkie Brooks morning (‘Sunshine after the rain’) and we have a new waiter today, much to The Chef’s quite obvious glee, as an opportunity for courting the possibility of a little friendship presents itself quite out of the blue. The remainder of the seats on our big long table are empty though as The Yellows take their time plucking up the courage to enter, with Sargeant eventually showing bravery beyond the call of duty by taking the last remaining place.
Coach Delaney still hasn’t worked out how he’s going to remove the graze on the mini bus, save for leaving the passenger door open in an attempt to cover it up, but realises this is unlikely to provide a long term solution as people might fall out, and instead seeks the advice of The Chef. Relishing the opportunity of setting out on a one-way conversation this early in the day, Chef begins reeling off a list of potential polishers, painters and panel beaters, some of which may actually exist, but as none are based on or anywhere near the island, the exercise proves to be rather futile.
Coach Wixey is clearly benefitting from an early night which has doubled his usual slumber period from three hours to six, and as a result is uncharacteristically happy this morning. Blonde in 416 on the other hand has had his usual time in the land of nod and remains as melancholic as ever. Victor Hugo wrote much of his most famous work, Les Miserables, while on exile in Jersey in the mid-nineteenth century, meaning all those people who claimed Lisa is way ahead of his time may just have been right.
As we enter breakfast, Plymouth are departing for the FB Fields to begin their daily two hour warm up. They’re certainly ‘up for it’, or at least they were when they arrived at the green, green grass that feels like home around 8.15, but maybe the session they’ve just completed has sapped their adrenaline levels a little. Let’s hope so. Gloucester rack up at eight minutes to ten with their kit in a designer Ikea holdall and Coach Delaney in a state that can best be described as ‘flux’.
Bringing proper coaches to Jersey has certainly had a detrimental effect on our performances and results thus far so, following last night’s video analysis session, we return to the tried and tested as Billy takes the five minute warm-up and FA drill 98 is temporarily consigned to the back burner. It works like a dream.
From the outset the city side is disciplined and competitive and we take the lead with an absolute rasper from Walters after Billy has ballet-shoed a free kick against the bar.
Walters repeats the trick five minutes after the break with another humdinger before playing in the Flying Colonel who is brought down and Billy dispatches the penalty – ball in one corner, keeper in the other.
The Greens reduce the arrears eight minutes from time, but a potentially difficult ending is avoided when Lisa plays in The Colonel who sidesteps the keeper before sending ‘The Wall’ into raptures.
It’s been as complete a team performance as we’ve produced in the past eight months, Margaret a colossus amongst colossuses, Weatherman and Big Sam solid to a fault and Kenny as assured as ever.
Nureyev and Billy are indefatigable in centre midfield, Scarface, Lisa and Lacoste equally so out wide. Adibayor prompts and probes, Colonel a rash that the Plymouth defence can’t wipe away. Up above, the early-morning blue skies have been replaced by a slaty grey blanket, but the sun’s shining bright on this little bit of our happy island home.
A Hugging Amnesty is immediately initiated, even though this impromptu bonus system isn’t written into any of the players’ contracts. Some of the embraces are small, some considerably up a level and there are some moments of unbridled affection and congratulation that are quite clearly way, way over the top. And that’s just the coaches. Heaven only knows what’s happening with the parents.
Nice Taite Fortey rescues a point for The Yellows in a 2-2 draw with Jersey before Coach Harris uses his wide-angle lens to capture the huge Gloucester following for posterity and to prove to any potential doubters that it really is this big.
Greve de Lecq is another postcard favourite, with its sandy frontage, rocky wings and a café that closes far too early. The main game, in between the obligatory beach footy, seems to be keeping your feet buried while the tide comes in and if that’s what it really is, Lacoste and Margaret seem to do it pretty well.
With Coach Delaney having taken approximately an hour and twenty minutes to get here due to being unable to judge the width of the road with any great conviction, drivers are swapped and we’re back at the billet in twenty five.
Dinner is served and Lisa is trapped by a seafood tart starter. Never one to spurn an opportunity, Big Sam moves in on the blind side to make it two appetisers in one.
Oh no! Margaret’s exploded! In hugely dramatic fashion, he’s deposited his salmon & tuna fish pie cannon-like back across the table and all over the person sitting opposite, spectacularly ending my chances of both success and a moment in the limelight in the eating competition. There’s a trio of salvos at perfectly timed ten second intervals, the sheer magnitude of the discharge leaving even The Chef in a state, albeit temporarily, of stunned silence.
After twenty eight years of hope, hurt and ultimately disappointment – not to mention several hundred pounds of Jersey currency lost - the omens were so positive for 2018, but like Aden ‘I swear I won’t let you down’ Baldwin before him (Jersey 2008; macaroni cheese), the title dream is over. And that was on the Wednesday as well. Thoughts quickly turn to the morrow’s game, however. Margaret was top quality against Plymouth today, but now being at least two and a half stone lighter, he could be absolute dynamite tomorrow. The dinner table eruption that’s just occurred suggests this has every chance of happening.
Coaches Wixey and Harris have decamped to the Merton to share tales round a camp fire, so The Chef is excited at the prospect of a lengthy discussion with eleven prospective Yellow Team victims at his consultative disposal. This is a nice group though and diary time in the corridor sees silence reign and eye contact kept to a bare minimum. Even if it hadn’t been a nice group, the likelihood is that silence would have reigned and eye contact restricted to requests for the loo, as the alternative is enough to turn even the most avid of chatterers into little more than elective mutes.
GPSFA’s 1999/00 B Team goalkeeper Nick Selway (Longlevens), now a player at Jersey RFC and a Wednesday evening visitor to The Merton, recalls days of yore with Coach Wixey before the intrepid duo return home slightly the worse for wear, having been subjected to a bout of Jaegar-bombing by the gang of usual suspects.
Back at the ranch Scarface loses attitude points for using ‘like’ for the hundredth time today, an affliction that puts him in pole position to win the Daniel Roddis Cup, a trophy sponsored by GPSFA’s most prolifically incorrect user of this annoyingly widespread preposition and a title that no-one ever wants to receive.
The ARIs meanwhile continue to progress in the art of room inspection and both Coach Delaney and Coach Stalley pay public tribute to their valued mentor, the DRIRI (Director of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors) for his help, support, nurturing and guidance. At this rate the pair have every chance of attaining the coveted Level One qualification by the end of the week and thus become fully fledged members of the RIRI by attaining FRIRI (Fellow of the Royal Institute of Room Inspectors) status.
Day Six - Thursday
It’s the morning after the night before and three slices of melon, a brace of croissants, bacon, egg, sausage, hash brown and beans suggest Vesuvius has set out on the road to at least a partial recovery. Weatherman is picking up too, with five hash browns and two slices of toast on his plate being as much this particular item of hotel crockery have seen in the previous five days put together.
It’s time for the distribution of the black & yellow, but Walters’ socks won’t fit him, so either they’ve shrunk at the launderette or his legs have grown overnight. Everyone else’s kit is fine, so we board the fun bus fully clothed and full of hope. Coach Delaney’s at the wheel so we leave in plenty of time, the bus crawling along (Un)Pleasant Street and La Route du Fort, followed by a procession of angry-looking people who are about to be late for work.
It’s Chloe Knight’s twenty fifth birthday so she’s the mascot for our game with Barking, thus improving the looks in the memento-swapping pre-match photo. Colonel says he doesn’t want to start but does and soon scores four, all the goals coming in an eleven-minute spell in the first half. Each are well finished with Adibayor (2), Nureyev and Scar providing the assists. The ESFA Chairman has arrived and watches our game with interest, but leaves at 4-0, taking our defensive discipline with him.
Margaret provides the assist for Billy’s own goal that reduces the arrears and Barking score twice more after the break, with Billy’s twenty sixth goal of the season, this time at the right end, sandwiched in between. By this time the ESFA’s top man has bumped into The Chef having ignored several people’s advice to ‘Be careful and watch your back’ and spends the next twenty minutes praying for salvation from a good Samaritan of any description.
Afternoon shopping in St Helier’s pedestrianised central thoroughfare sees most people buy a yellow carrier bag from JD Sports and Adibayor’s bank balance rise in a direct correlation to the amount he spends. The view from Coffee Republic is interesting to a fault, though the man with the bright pink hair, throat and neck tattoos and fluorescent green umbrella takes a bit of getting used to. As does the sight of The Chef being led silently by his carer to a seat in the shade, index finger pressed tightly against pursed lips, eyebrows raised in ‘don’t do it’ mode and head shaking decisively from side to side. Unaware of the potential danger, Father Adibayor walks past for the fifteenth time, hoping his guide will turn up soon and take him home for dinner.
Three of the coaches buy gifts for their loved ones back home – one gets perfume, one gets fudge and one gets pearls. The fourth buys nothing, instead stockpiling his cash for an upcoming Saturday morning raid on the duty free shop at the airport. You do the maths.
Both teams are at Aquasplash, where the maths of the high street is replaced by physics at the pool. Coach Harris jumps in to provide a practical and highly visible proof of Archimedes’ Principle and Displacement Theory; in layman’s terms, the bigger the person who jumps in, the larger the volume of water jumps out and the greater the risk of sports centre flooding.
It’s a choice between Chicken Caccietore (hen in tomato sauce) or Roast Lion (of pork), which is quite obviously the evening’s ‘mane’ course. Terrible offering, but miles better than Nureyev’s horrendous ‘Lactose’ joke which he’s reciting once again, having told it en route to every away game since September. Nobody understood it then and nobody makes even the slightest effort to understand it now.
There’s a brief delay in serving, providing an opportunity to glance up and down our table, which is like inspecting a timeline for the Darwinian Theory of Evolution. And we’re at the wrong end.
The Volcano is currently dormant, much to the relief of everyone sitting in the seats opposite but loses what’s left of his ingestion credibility after leaving a third of his vegetable curry, half a potato croquette and an entire broccoli floret. Quitter. Colonel announces he’s my last hope, which is just about the saddest and most worrying thing I’ve heard all season. I only bought him because he was cheap and no-one else had any intention whatsoever of getting him on board. If he really is our last hope, we’re well and truly doomed. Weatherman orders cheeseboard for dessert, without realising you’re meant to eat the cheese.
Diary time, and when someone asks how to spell ‘conceded’, Kenny emits a deep and throaty groan approaching ultimate despair. Billy emits a moan of his own when learning that the ARIs have been in charge of the evening’s room inspection, but his misgivings are unfounded and 403 scores well.
The ARIs themselves do a promising job overall, identifying a hotel sign that’s slid down the side of a bed, an internal phone that’s a Diana Ross (three degrees) from being flush with the rear wall, a comforter that isn’t quite perpendicular to the bedroom carpet and a pair of football boots that are left at an unnatural angle and lose two points for each wayward-pointing foot. Scarface is aghast at the latter pronouncement, adopting a facial expression that would put even Mustoe to the test.
Weatherman has finally extracted the tooth that’s been wobbling about in his lower jaw for the last day and a half. It’s suggested he puts it under his pillow in case the tooth fairy comes, but as the TF and Coach Delaney are one and the same, it’s highly unlikely that anything fiscal will come of it. Because this particular tooth fairy is still working out how he’s going to pay for the bus.
Day Seven – Friday
Coach Delaney is late for breakfast and finds Vesuvius has been moved opposite him as the pensioners amongst us can’t afford another hefty laundry bill. Billy is informed he has to make a short speech, along with Fortey & Hayes, at the evening’s Presentation Dinner. He’s not happy but Kenny is, as the oration won’t include him.
Colonel grabs a lift in the lift but doesn’t get to the FB Fields any faster. Another attitude point deducted. Both sides are on Pitch Two today as what remains of The Wall following yesterday’s early departures has steadfastly refused to move.
Midway through The Yellows’ second game with Jersey B, The Chef scents an unsuspecting couple about 150 metres away, who are loving every second of viewing their grandson’s only appearance of the week on Pitch One. Vulnerability shines bright from any pair or single person standing away from the crowd and fifteen seconds later they’re not, as the predator begins a face to face monologue with his shocked and visibly anxious prey based around the long term nutritional benefits of eating copious amounts of deep-fried food. Salvation arrives in the form of Coach Wixey, who shakes off the disappointment of conceding a last minute equaliser to transport the protagonist to the airport for a 2pm flight home. Wixey’s eventual return comes with good news of a fashion; as the Gloucester & Jersey B match has been played over two legs and the aggregate scores are level, away goals count double and we win 8-4.
Across the way, the Plymouth Brethren wear their seventh different kit in six days and consider becoming Adventists during the second half of their 3-1 defeat to the Bearded Men in Blue, who seal first place at the festival.
Both Orpington and Gloucester A have a spring in their step in an entertaining first half of the week’s final game that features a great run from Adibayor, more excellent midfield play from Billy and Nureyev and yet another top wing back performance from the Weatherman.
A brace of opportunist second half strikes from The Colonel seal our fourth consecutive victory of the week, the association’s 97th Jersey win and the second best results record over the six days of this great event. There’s an adults’ match to follow in which Coaches Harris and Delaney represent Gloucester with pride if not aplomb as walking football comes to the FB. The St Albans brigade are much to the fore, with Coach Peters scoring and Coach Sandiford netting from the spot. Both celebrate in style. They’ll be singing in the valleys (of Hertfordshire) tonight.
It’s both teams to Plemont, a fantastic little beach with golden sand, great climbing rocks, a ravine and a waterfall. Unfortunately, we can’t access any of them as the water’s ignored the tide-table and come in ahead of time. Instead, we content ourselves with wave watching with Wokingham, which is five Ws in a row and not easy to say without a slip-up or two. Definitely slipping up here is Wokingham coach Bevan and our very own Wixey and Delaney, who are each deposited upon by the incoming sea, much to the great delight of the forty one watching souls.
‘Here comes a big ‘un,’ shouts one of the bystanders loitering on the steps, as both a huge wave and Coach Harris show up at precisely the same time.
The clifftop café has reopened after being locked and boarded for a year following The Chef’s last visit. Coach Delaney picks up a parking ticket that’s been surreptitiously slipped beneath the windscreen wiper by Coach Wilson, who denies all knowledge and blames the editor. The misery for Coach Delaney continues by having to negotiate the L’Etacq hairpins before stopping the bus to inspect the bodywork after thinking another wall has suddenly moved in the direction of his vehicle.
Next stop St Ouen where the tour’s final beach football encounter sees A take on B and as no-one from the FA can be seen anywhere on the sand, it’s 11 v 11 with no holds barred. Every goal is celebrated but not one recorded and as the sun sinks over La Rocco Tower, there’s a contentment about the place that money can’t buy.
Coach Harris’s exhortations struggle to round up the merry throng, which is great news as it means we can stay a few moments longer, leaving only twenty minutes to prepare for the Presentation Dinner once we return. There’s time only for Billy to complete a swift run-through of his speech and Coach Stalley to have a swift application of hair gel before filing into the festival’s very own Last Supper.
There’s a brace of decent speeches from a man with a mic and a man with a chain. Kenny meanwhile stresses over the content of the phonetically challenging minestrone, though there’s no real cause for concern and he downs it in one. Adibayor also has no problem finishing his, despite being confused at having nothing to cut, though it’s more like down it in 500 from the world’s most deliberate ingestor.
Lisa has an aversion to mushrooms which is swiftly and uncomplicatedly sorted by Nureyev, Weatherman chews lots but eats little, Big Sam and Scarface chew little but eat lots. Colonel moans, then dips out on half his food. The last great hope is no more. Adibayor cuts. Margaret leaves things for the third day running and sees his already zero credibility score plummet into the red zone. Will I Am Eleven Now and Billy are both slow but sure. Kenny is shocked at the amount of red bits in his steak and to be honest, it’s so rare that a half decent vet could probably resuscitate it.
For the twenty eighth year running, the call for the captains’ speech doesn’t come, but Hayes, Fortey and Knight perform brilliantly for both the players and the @GPSFAteams’ twitter account. Everyone stands still and pretends not to count the seconds or hear the tick-tocks. Time’s moving too fast; it’s nearly over.
Day Eight - Saturday
It’s hustle and bustle time at The Mayfair as mini buses are packed and teams prepare for departure. The breakfast room is mausoleum-like as the rigours of the week take their toll, yet some things remain reassuringly constant. Adibayor cuts. Big Sam eats. Lisa moans.
The hardest bit of the morning is locating the petrol tank on the mini bus, but the airport check-in is quick as there are no security issues, with Sargeant’s bag being noticeably lighter than it was on the journey out.
There’s a slight delay as Lisa’s not on the list but he is on the plane and the ‘Welcome home’ party in the Pike & Musket skittle alley is back on. We’ve got an air hostess called Jeremy which provides a useful midday test in pragmatism, but who stabilises the plane successfully by seating Coach Harris at one end and the remainder of the passengers at the other.
Lord Downs spends the flight football-quizzing anyone who’ll listen with the same dated questions he asked to anyone who’d listen last year. And the ten years before that.
Vesuvius is seated in 11c, but 10c’s vacant, just in case. Lacoste and Weatherman smile sweetly at anyone remotely female and most return the compliment. Jeremy just stares. Nureyev eats copious amounts of Thai Red Chilli crisps that, quite frankly, stink. He’ll have no problem with women either - they won’t come within a hundred metres of him smelling like that.
Coach Harris demonstrates a complete lack of understanding of modal verbs by announcing, not for the first time this week, that someone ‘Might of.’ Peasant. Across the aisle Lacoste adjusts his fringe, again without touching it. Adibayor wishes he could do the same. Scarface tries to lose his bag as an excuse for not buying any presents, but the plot is sabotaged when someone finds and returns it. He squeezes out another ‘Mustoe Look’ before moving on. Nureyev bumps his bonce on the overhead locker. Weatherman tries, but can’t. The Harewood contingent indulge in a spell of synchronised moaning, but no-one listens.
Swift transfer to the coach and Longlevens take over the back seat while the nice ones sit near the front. Colonel claims to have a bad throat, which is no surprise judging by the noise he makes. Williamson is ribbed about his girlfriend. Other revelations come in quick succession. Randall hasn’t got one. Scarface doesn’t want one. Laverton can’t find one.
There’s sandwiches, chips and parents at the Great Western, prizes to present and tales to share. There have been some great diaries, some good diaries and some average ones, but all did their best. Likewise for rooms and definitely for eating. People who hugged too often and didn’t escape fast enough, those who failed to push their chair under the table after dinner, hitched a ride in the lift or accused instead of informed, lost attitude marks. Heinous crimes indeed. All twenty two combatants played a massive part in both teams’ successes on the field. And everyone contributed hugely to an absolutely brilliant week.
The Chairman rings. ‘Did we win?’ he asks, somewhat sternly.
‘Everybody won,’ is the answer, ‘in every way possible.’
‘I never doubted it,’ comes the final reply, followed immediately by a contented sigh and the hum of a disconnected receiver. The call is ended, and with it eight glorious days on a little island near France that worked its unique bit of magic to create the widest of smiles.
Oscar Wilde once said, ‘Memories are special moments that tell our story. Once lived, forever remembered.’ He could have been writing about Jersey 2018. Today. Tomorrow. Always.
(Very) happy days
Acknowledgements
All the Gloucester players and coaches for making Jersey 2018 the fun that it was and particularly Andy (The Chef) 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.
The Great Wall of Jersey. Immovable. Impregnable. And like the other one, visible from outer space.
(King) Pat Cullinane of Jersey for his 44 years of fantastic organisation of this amazing 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. I hope you enjoy this memoir as much as you enjoyed the tales of previous trips. I know we all loved being part of it. Carpe Diem.
