Capital Gains
London 2018 and three days in the south east in search of some Capital Gains lie ahead.
It’s a balmy morning in more ways than one as displayed by Mother of the Colonel, who’s arrived at the gates of the Real Wembley minus headwear of any kind for the first time this season. On the other hand (or head), Margaret is hiding his new arrangement beneath a tightly knotted hood for pretty obvious reasons, while Adibayor hasn’t got an arrangement at all and is attempting to hide the fact beneath a big grey camper van-like accoutrement; camper van-like in that you travel in it, live in it and no doubt sleep in it as well.
The Lens is on the bus alongside The Navigator; one spends the first part of the trip studying the financial pages of today’s Times; the other has talked so much during the first seventeen point three miles of the journey that almost all the oxygen’s been sucked out of the vehicle, leaving Nureyev needing a five minute stroll around the Compton Abdale lay-by to shake off the early effects of CO2 poisoning.
Beaconsfield Services, the largest such establishment in the United Kingdom is one of our (many) favourites and contains a diverse range of eating outlets, each of which requires at least a cursory inspection before default mode kicks in and everyone goes back to their tried and tested.
The Navigator follows suit, plonking himself down in the middle of Patisserie Valerie, the only breakfast option with waitress service and a sprig of green atop your scrambled eggs on brown wholemeal toast. He completes the experience by giving his adjutant a double tip – firstly the obligatory 10% and secondly a strongly-worded suggestion that she refuses any attempt by The Photographer to flog her a cut-price portfolio, comprising an individual portrait of herself kneeling with one finger atop a Mitre Multiplex and a staff photo where everyone’s wearing a chef’s hat and holding a plate of bangers & mash in onion gravy.
The pitches at Douglas Eyre, named after the kindly benefactor who bequeathed the land to the borough, have been technically assessed as ‘dodgy’ and the game versus Hackney is moved to the all-weather, which is good news as we won’t have to carry out an after dark search of Hemel Hempstead for a service wash launderette. The ref is late so we kick-off with a London cabbie in charge, but there’s no problem as he’s got ‘The Knowledge’.
The first third is awful but goalless, but the second sees a marked improvement in both the momentum of the team and The Navigator’s mid-afternoon mood. Billy curls in a corner via the far post and Lacoste’s excellent run and cross sees Scarface net his third ‘back stick’ goal of the season as the upgrade in performance becomes ever more tangible.
Lacoste’s at it again as Lisa converts another left wing cross just 6.3 seconds after being reintroduced to the fray at the onset of the third third, probably a GPSFA record of recent times. Adibayor does very well to set up Nureyev for number four and even though Grisdale’s very well struck free kick just evades Kenny’s big flying hand, Lisa’s harrying and Billy’s fine finish completes the scoring.
The Colonel removes his football socks and replaces them with a pair of socks with footballs on then loses eating marks along with Lacoste and Nureyev, while The Weatherman’s plate is the cleanest of them all, much to everyone’s astonishment. Big Sam’s, Lisa’s, Billy’s and Margaret’s plates are also spotless throughout the trip, but no-one’s even remotely surprised at this.
Post-match meal over, the charabanc grinds its way through the M25 traffic to Watford’s Hollywood Bowl, a descriptor that almost certainly defies the Trade Descriptions Act despite being very popular with the locals, where Nureyev turns out to be very good at pin-hitting, Lacoste doesn’t and everyone else is somewhere in between. Margaret wins a giant bar of chocolate with his first attempt on ‘The Grabber’; the other bars are evo-stik-ed to the machine, so no amount of cash is ever going to remove those. It doesn’t stop everyone trying however.
Despite The Navigator’s propensity for thinking Satnav is spelt S.U.D.O.K.U, the final leg of the journey contains only two cul-de-sacs and a half mile jaunt back along the dual carriageway in the direction from which we have originally come. With the Holiday Inn eventually reached, check-ins are completed, rooms allocated, unpacking concluded and diaries written. And so endeth the first day.
Friday rising’s a strange affair. Lacoste looks so awful, Scarface seems almost human. Big Sam’s out for the count, which is just as well as the duvet to his right has a floppy grey hat sticking out of the top with (the whole of) Adibayor, like a snail in its shell, curled up somewhere inside. The Pit that is Room 244 is not for the faint hearted, despite The Colonel being up and dressed long before the early morning call, though Margaret is scratching his thatch and reflectively musing that he’s spent all night dreaming he was awake.
The Wembley Tour has many attractions – the changing rooms (everyone’s favourite place), tunnel, press room, Royal Box and dugouts – but most of all the world record for a sporting venue, 2860 toilets, 2859 of which remained unused.
The pre-match meal is at the M1’s London Gateway services, where the fit and healthy frequent Subway, while Dinglewell & St Mary’s indulge in the delicatessen that is Burger King. Kenny’s choice is somewhere in between the two as he avidly consumes a very large bread roll stuffed with meatballs of some description smothered in a disgusting looking sauce. Sports science it certainly is not.
Like the previous day the match has been switched to 3G, where a tale of two Nicholas’s unfolds. There’s Brakespear, a quiet, unassuming, benevolent man, all calmness and generosity, long gone but always remembered as virtually everything in the area is named after the first and yet only English pope. And then there’s Sanders, manager of The Saints whose naturally quiet, calm and benevolent approach is tested to the limit when, following a goalless first half, Nureyev plays in The Colonel to open the scoring eight minutes after the break.
Lisa makes it two to cap a neat passing move and The Lens captures the celebration in the far right corner to perfection; a big blond dinner-plate smile sticking out of the mass of joyful humanity that surrounds it.
The Saints push forward, but thanks to a resolute back line in which Big Sam, Margaret and The Weatherman all shine and two fine saves from Kenny, Postema’s well struck free kick is all the hosts have to show for their efforts. There is no quarter asked and none expected; Billy cops one on the nose but carries on warrior-like; the Saints supporters are suitably impressed and one suspects a trifle surprised at the city skipper’s unrelenting refusal to exit the arena, but no-one in black & yellow ever doubted that outcome.
The celebration of the year-ago-to-the-minute anniversary of our last single goal win at St Albans moves on to Harpenden swimming pool and ultimately to ‘The Master Fryer’ fish bar where the chips are good, the shark is huge and the owner photographs the merry men of Gloucester and slaps the result on his shop’s Facebook page as the business suddenly returns to a profit-making enterprise.
Day Three begins bright and early – or early at any rate. Adibayor has forsaken his hat for a spot of night-time SAC (Scalp Air Conditioning), while the Shining Armour are both looking reasonably alive and well – or, in the case of Lacoste, just alive. The Colonel holds everyone up as he’s doing his hair; Margaret holds everyone up as he’s attempting to do his laces. Neither result is worth the wait.
Nureyev is under the weather once more; it can’t be lack of oxygen as The Photographer’s filming rather than orating, but it could be Vitamin B12 deficiency, picked up the other week from The Groundsman. Either way, Calpol’s capacity for pretty instant faith healing seems to do the trick.
We pull into Gerard Buxton Sports Ground, so named after another local champion only ten minutes behind time, the Satnav thankfully having had to be employed just the once, and that after all The Times’ number & word puzzles have been well and truly completed, so no issues there.
The kaleidoscope that is the boot room is noticeably less garish than the last time we visited the GBSG, but Adibayor’s fluorescents stand out in particular as they clash horribly with his considerably plainer array of undergarments, none of which he seems to have lost in the past forty eight hours, which is a crying shame in itself.
Coach Beale and Stage Two are directing the home team’s operations once more, but it’s Gloucester that draw first blood, Lisa sidefooting home Billy’s excellent cross at the far post, with Scarface plaintively complaining that the scorer’s ‘in my space.’ Walters fires home number two following some penalty box ping pong and having got wind that The Citizen will get his name wrong a few days later, takes a ten minute time out to get over the disappointment.
The home coaches are encouraged as Swindon pull a goal back, much to Kenny’s disgust, the city goalkeeper venting his considerable frustration by megaphoning a wall of incessant noise for the remaining forty one minutes of the contest, with not a player, official or supporter of either side able to decipher a single coherent instruction.
And then it happens, the moment not even the real Michael Fish could ever have forecast. The Weatherman snakes forward, beats his player, opens up a yard of space and drives the ball over the keeper and into the top of the net.
The wing back is engulfed beneath a sea of black & yellow and three quarters of the crowd are roaring with glee, while Father Ted charges the length of the touchline, arms aloft as if reaching for Nirvana itself, before embracing Mother Ted, having completed 8729 of his daily 10000 steps in a record amount of time (just 6.9 seconds according to the Speaking Clock).
Billy is fourteen seconds behind Lisa’s record against Hackney, scoring one third of a minute after returning to the field to see the city team lead 4-1 at the break, while Adibayor (a beauty from just outside the box) and Lisa (a fine header from a corner) complete the scoring in the second half. The result means a clean sweep, hundred per cent tour record and it’s a happy crowd that samples the staple post-match diet of even more sausage & chips.
And while it’s the wins that the record books will detail, it’s been about far more than that. There’s a togetherness about the group that’s difficult to match; an excitement about success gained together, a willingness to share and a growing understanding of the need to diversify. We’ve walked in the footsteps of legends, the philanthropists without whose deeds we’d probably have no pitches to play on, often without realising the significance of the ground on which we tread and the people who made it all possible.
Resilience, self-confidence, independence, self-sufficiency. Humility, appreciation, understanding. Looking after your mates; friendships cemented. Whatever the results on the pitch, these are the real Capital Gains.
Gloucester: Kenny; The Weatherman, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Big Sam; Scarface, Nureyev, Warrior, No-Moaning Lisa, Lacoste; Dr Seuss, The Colonel.
It’s a balmy morning in more ways than one as displayed by Mother of the Colonel, who’s arrived at the gates of the Real Wembley minus headwear of any kind for the first time this season. On the other hand (or head), Margaret is hiding his new arrangement beneath a tightly knotted hood for pretty obvious reasons, while Adibayor hasn’t got an arrangement at all and is attempting to hide the fact beneath a big grey camper van-like accoutrement; camper van-like in that you travel in it, live in it and no doubt sleep in it as well.
The Lens is on the bus alongside The Navigator; one spends the first part of the trip studying the financial pages of today’s Times; the other has talked so much during the first seventeen point three miles of the journey that almost all the oxygen’s been sucked out of the vehicle, leaving Nureyev needing a five minute stroll around the Compton Abdale lay-by to shake off the early effects of CO2 poisoning.
Beaconsfield Services, the largest such establishment in the United Kingdom is one of our (many) favourites and contains a diverse range of eating outlets, each of which requires at least a cursory inspection before default mode kicks in and everyone goes back to their tried and tested.
The Navigator follows suit, plonking himself down in the middle of Patisserie Valerie, the only breakfast option with waitress service and a sprig of green atop your scrambled eggs on brown wholemeal toast. He completes the experience by giving his adjutant a double tip – firstly the obligatory 10% and secondly a strongly-worded suggestion that she refuses any attempt by The Photographer to flog her a cut-price portfolio, comprising an individual portrait of herself kneeling with one finger atop a Mitre Multiplex and a staff photo where everyone’s wearing a chef’s hat and holding a plate of bangers & mash in onion gravy.
The pitches at Douglas Eyre, named after the kindly benefactor who bequeathed the land to the borough, have been technically assessed as ‘dodgy’ and the game versus Hackney is moved to the all-weather, which is good news as we won’t have to carry out an after dark search of Hemel Hempstead for a service wash launderette. The ref is late so we kick-off with a London cabbie in charge, but there’s no problem as he’s got ‘The Knowledge’.
The first third is awful but goalless, but the second sees a marked improvement in both the momentum of the team and The Navigator’s mid-afternoon mood. Billy curls in a corner via the far post and Lacoste’s excellent run and cross sees Scarface net his third ‘back stick’ goal of the season as the upgrade in performance becomes ever more tangible.
Lacoste’s at it again as Lisa converts another left wing cross just 6.3 seconds after being reintroduced to the fray at the onset of the third third, probably a GPSFA record of recent times. Adibayor does very well to set up Nureyev for number four and even though Grisdale’s very well struck free kick just evades Kenny’s big flying hand, Lisa’s harrying and Billy’s fine finish completes the scoring.
The Colonel removes his football socks and replaces them with a pair of socks with footballs on then loses eating marks along with Lacoste and Nureyev, while The Weatherman’s plate is the cleanest of them all, much to everyone’s astonishment. Big Sam’s, Lisa’s, Billy’s and Margaret’s plates are also spotless throughout the trip, but no-one’s even remotely surprised at this.
Post-match meal over, the charabanc grinds its way through the M25 traffic to Watford’s Hollywood Bowl, a descriptor that almost certainly defies the Trade Descriptions Act despite being very popular with the locals, where Nureyev turns out to be very good at pin-hitting, Lacoste doesn’t and everyone else is somewhere in between. Margaret wins a giant bar of chocolate with his first attempt on ‘The Grabber’; the other bars are evo-stik-ed to the machine, so no amount of cash is ever going to remove those. It doesn’t stop everyone trying however.
Despite The Navigator’s propensity for thinking Satnav is spelt S.U.D.O.K.U, the final leg of the journey contains only two cul-de-sacs and a half mile jaunt back along the dual carriageway in the direction from which we have originally come. With the Holiday Inn eventually reached, check-ins are completed, rooms allocated, unpacking concluded and diaries written. And so endeth the first day.
Friday rising’s a strange affair. Lacoste looks so awful, Scarface seems almost human. Big Sam’s out for the count, which is just as well as the duvet to his right has a floppy grey hat sticking out of the top with (the whole of) Adibayor, like a snail in its shell, curled up somewhere inside. The Pit that is Room 244 is not for the faint hearted, despite The Colonel being up and dressed long before the early morning call, though Margaret is scratching his thatch and reflectively musing that he’s spent all night dreaming he was awake.
The Wembley Tour has many attractions – the changing rooms (everyone’s favourite place), tunnel, press room, Royal Box and dugouts – but most of all the world record for a sporting venue, 2860 toilets, 2859 of which remained unused.
The pre-match meal is at the M1’s London Gateway services, where the fit and healthy frequent Subway, while Dinglewell & St Mary’s indulge in the delicatessen that is Burger King. Kenny’s choice is somewhere in between the two as he avidly consumes a very large bread roll stuffed with meatballs of some description smothered in a disgusting looking sauce. Sports science it certainly is not.
Like the previous day the match has been switched to 3G, where a tale of two Nicholas’s unfolds. There’s Brakespear, a quiet, unassuming, benevolent man, all calmness and generosity, long gone but always remembered as virtually everything in the area is named after the first and yet only English pope. And then there’s Sanders, manager of The Saints whose naturally quiet, calm and benevolent approach is tested to the limit when, following a goalless first half, Nureyev plays in The Colonel to open the scoring eight minutes after the break.
Lisa makes it two to cap a neat passing move and The Lens captures the celebration in the far right corner to perfection; a big blond dinner-plate smile sticking out of the mass of joyful humanity that surrounds it.
The Saints push forward, but thanks to a resolute back line in which Big Sam, Margaret and The Weatherman all shine and two fine saves from Kenny, Postema’s well struck free kick is all the hosts have to show for their efforts. There is no quarter asked and none expected; Billy cops one on the nose but carries on warrior-like; the Saints supporters are suitably impressed and one suspects a trifle surprised at the city skipper’s unrelenting refusal to exit the arena, but no-one in black & yellow ever doubted that outcome.
The celebration of the year-ago-to-the-minute anniversary of our last single goal win at St Albans moves on to Harpenden swimming pool and ultimately to ‘The Master Fryer’ fish bar where the chips are good, the shark is huge and the owner photographs the merry men of Gloucester and slaps the result on his shop’s Facebook page as the business suddenly returns to a profit-making enterprise.
Day Three begins bright and early – or early at any rate. Adibayor has forsaken his hat for a spot of night-time SAC (Scalp Air Conditioning), while the Shining Armour are both looking reasonably alive and well – or, in the case of Lacoste, just alive. The Colonel holds everyone up as he’s doing his hair; Margaret holds everyone up as he’s attempting to do his laces. Neither result is worth the wait.
Nureyev is under the weather once more; it can’t be lack of oxygen as The Photographer’s filming rather than orating, but it could be Vitamin B12 deficiency, picked up the other week from The Groundsman. Either way, Calpol’s capacity for pretty instant faith healing seems to do the trick.
We pull into Gerard Buxton Sports Ground, so named after another local champion only ten minutes behind time, the Satnav thankfully having had to be employed just the once, and that after all The Times’ number & word puzzles have been well and truly completed, so no issues there.
The kaleidoscope that is the boot room is noticeably less garish than the last time we visited the GBSG, but Adibayor’s fluorescents stand out in particular as they clash horribly with his considerably plainer array of undergarments, none of which he seems to have lost in the past forty eight hours, which is a crying shame in itself.
Coach Beale and Stage Two are directing the home team’s operations once more, but it’s Gloucester that draw first blood, Lisa sidefooting home Billy’s excellent cross at the far post, with Scarface plaintively complaining that the scorer’s ‘in my space.’ Walters fires home number two following some penalty box ping pong and having got wind that The Citizen will get his name wrong a few days later, takes a ten minute time out to get over the disappointment.
The home coaches are encouraged as Swindon pull a goal back, much to Kenny’s disgust, the city goalkeeper venting his considerable frustration by megaphoning a wall of incessant noise for the remaining forty one minutes of the contest, with not a player, official or supporter of either side able to decipher a single coherent instruction.
And then it happens, the moment not even the real Michael Fish could ever have forecast. The Weatherman snakes forward, beats his player, opens up a yard of space and drives the ball over the keeper and into the top of the net.
The wing back is engulfed beneath a sea of black & yellow and three quarters of the crowd are roaring with glee, while Father Ted charges the length of the touchline, arms aloft as if reaching for Nirvana itself, before embracing Mother Ted, having completed 8729 of his daily 10000 steps in a record amount of time (just 6.9 seconds according to the Speaking Clock).
Billy is fourteen seconds behind Lisa’s record against Hackney, scoring one third of a minute after returning to the field to see the city team lead 4-1 at the break, while Adibayor (a beauty from just outside the box) and Lisa (a fine header from a corner) complete the scoring in the second half. The result means a clean sweep, hundred per cent tour record and it’s a happy crowd that samples the staple post-match diet of even more sausage & chips.
And while it’s the wins that the record books will detail, it’s been about far more than that. There’s a togetherness about the group that’s difficult to match; an excitement about success gained together, a willingness to share and a growing understanding of the need to diversify. We’ve walked in the footsteps of legends, the philanthropists without whose deeds we’d probably have no pitches to play on, often without realising the significance of the ground on which we tread and the people who made it all possible.
Resilience, self-confidence, independence, self-sufficiency. Humility, appreciation, understanding. Looking after your mates; friendships cemented. Whatever the results on the pitch, these are the real Capital Gains.
Gloucester: Kenny; The Weatherman, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Big Sam; Scarface, Nureyev, Warrior, No-Moaning Lisa, Lacoste; Dr Seuss, The Colonel.
