Boots & Bags
The early-morning drizzle, not predicted by The Weatherman the evening before, doesn’t prevent another three-figure attendance descending on Longlevens for the morning’s three-pronged entertainment schedule against Swansea, South Birmingham and Plymouth.
News of Grandma Sargeant’s latest magnificent offering in the confectionery department has most obviously reached South Wales and Deepest Devon as laverbread and pasties are exchanged for association badges and chocolate filling, with not a second thought given to the respective areas’ thousands of years of culinary tradition. Only South Birmingham fail to consume their allocation, but the Plymouth faithful have no problems swapping green for blue on Sunday morning and eat the lot.
Back to Saturday and the Second Knight returns to the team sheet after a pre-Christmas break sampling the delights of Turkey without the stuffing, but it is the visitors that are quicker into their stride and claim a 14th minute lead when Kingdom is the first to react to a pass from Smith to roll the ball into the far corner, despite the best efforts of Michael Fish on the line.
Franks saves well from Cole as Plymouth continue to look dangerous, but Adichareh twice tests the visitor’s keeper after being released first by Nureyev, sporting a pair of proper black boots for the first time and then by Billy BS who is sporting his usual duo of red ballet slippers. The lightweight, heelless variety of multicoloured trotter coverers apparently became famous after the French Revolution, a time of student uprising, plenty of Miserables and Marie Antoinette, an aristocrat who famously once orated, ‘Let Them Eat Cake.’ Both Grandma Sargeant and the Plymouth hordes couldn’t agree more.
Returning to the present and Lidstone powers home a header from a right wing corner to put the Devonians two-up and looking good at the interval. The mid-point soujourn is a time for reflection, jaffa cake consumption and biting the heads off jellified babies, but the combination proves to have mysterious alchemist-like properties as Gloucester come out all guns blazing for the second half.
Mitchell, having passed the first thirty minutes of the game having an in-depth bench conversation with the Second Knight about Life, the Universe and Everything, a one-way discourse that saw the Second Knight do a lot of nodding and yawning, suddenly springs to life and within five minutes of the restart makes a great run before passing to the First Knight who ballet-shoes clinically into the bottom corner with the foot he normally uses to pirouette on.
With Nureyev also re-energised, Scarface marauding down the right, the Second Knight pondering over his earlier deliberations on the left and Mitchell exploding at regular intervals, Gloucester push forward with renewed vigour, though there is a noticeable lull in proceedings as Scarface is upended and the First Knight’s free kick searches out the squirrel hiding in the bush ten yards behind the goal instead of the top far corner. ‘Gotcha,’ says the First Knight. ‘Missed,’ says the squirrel. ‘Again.’
But then Gloucester are level. Mitchell explodes once more to rescue a seemingly lost cause on the by-line and cuts inside before driving in the leveller at the near post.
There’s a return to the action for Mustoe who has performed well in the first half and does so again before departing for a second time due to receiving a stud in the chest (after committing the original foul), but to his eternal credit failing to (properly) moan for the second game running. Well done, Lisa.
The PPK Alliance, particularly during the second half are excellent, belying their separatist undertones to perform most obviously as one. Big Sam, now firmly entrenched along with Nureyev as one of the coaches’ two favourite players due to the colour of his footwear, has a fine game on the left side as does the Weather Man, calm, collected and combative on the right. Margaret meanwhile, barely eighteen hours after belatedly receiving his IOW prizes and barely two hours since he stopped eating them, makes a bevy of fine challenges and important interceptions to deny the visitors another direct effort on goal.
There is a last-minute flurry in the Gloucester box, but Plymouth’s efforts are blocked first by a pair of distinctive black boots and then by a sickly mixture of orange and green, though the effect on the ball if not on the consciousness is the same whatever gets in the way and honours finish even. Both teams are rightly applauded by the touchline throng for their efforts - a fine game, quick on the feet and easy on the eye, no quarter asked and even less expected.
And so to Ten-Pin where the A Squad scores 863, Plymouth 1172 and the Bs somewhere in between. ‘They’ve got more players,’ explodes Mitchell. ‘Averages, dear boy,’ says Coach Wilson, who’s apparently some sort of accountant. ‘How am I getting home?’ asks Jarvis Randall. ‘Why haven’t we got a score?’ interjects Coach Harris. ‘Why’s everyone staring at me?’ says Jack Sargeant.
And it’s at this point that everyone suddenly realises that JS is sporting a man bag, worn diagonally across his torso and containing who-knows-what. Last Easter on an island far away, the Plymouth Brethren wore similar accessories on top of their ivory-white tracksuits and later in the week, the Erdington & Saltley staff followed suit, though on apparel that was somewhat less sartorial and far more creased in appearance. Erdington though was far more disappointing, as no-one expected it.
‘It’s fashion,’ says Sarge, a man of such overwhelming kindness but limited taste, that he’ll spend all year saving his money to buy everyone Christmas presents, but no-one will want to open them.
Sunday morning and the South Birmingham cakes are long gone, the protagonists easily identified from the dried chocolate deposits adorning their lips and flakes of blue icing the gaps between their teeth. Limbrick, Williamson and Sarge arrive at HQ to support their friends who are playing Plymouth, but sit in the eating room eating trayfuls of chips instead. There are shivers in their fingers, doubts in their mind (Coach Harris has done the cooking), ketchup on their tongues and a steely concentration in their eyes. But far more importantly, Limbrick and Williamson have mouths slightly upturned, grins on their faces and hope in their hearts. Because their friend Jack Sargeant is sitting next to them. And on this occasion, thank heaven, he’s not wearing his man bag.
Gloucester: Franks; Michael Fish, Margaret, Big Sam; Scarface, Nureyev, Billy BS, Lisa; Adichareh; Mitchell, Second Knight. Bag man: Sargeant.
News of Grandma Sargeant’s latest magnificent offering in the confectionery department has most obviously reached South Wales and Deepest Devon as laverbread and pasties are exchanged for association badges and chocolate filling, with not a second thought given to the respective areas’ thousands of years of culinary tradition. Only South Birmingham fail to consume their allocation, but the Plymouth faithful have no problems swapping green for blue on Sunday morning and eat the lot.
Back to Saturday and the Second Knight returns to the team sheet after a pre-Christmas break sampling the delights of Turkey without the stuffing, but it is the visitors that are quicker into their stride and claim a 14th minute lead when Kingdom is the first to react to a pass from Smith to roll the ball into the far corner, despite the best efforts of Michael Fish on the line.
Franks saves well from Cole as Plymouth continue to look dangerous, but Adichareh twice tests the visitor’s keeper after being released first by Nureyev, sporting a pair of proper black boots for the first time and then by Billy BS who is sporting his usual duo of red ballet slippers. The lightweight, heelless variety of multicoloured trotter coverers apparently became famous after the French Revolution, a time of student uprising, plenty of Miserables and Marie Antoinette, an aristocrat who famously once orated, ‘Let Them Eat Cake.’ Both Grandma Sargeant and the Plymouth hordes couldn’t agree more.
Returning to the present and Lidstone powers home a header from a right wing corner to put the Devonians two-up and looking good at the interval. The mid-point soujourn is a time for reflection, jaffa cake consumption and biting the heads off jellified babies, but the combination proves to have mysterious alchemist-like properties as Gloucester come out all guns blazing for the second half.
Mitchell, having passed the first thirty minutes of the game having an in-depth bench conversation with the Second Knight about Life, the Universe and Everything, a one-way discourse that saw the Second Knight do a lot of nodding and yawning, suddenly springs to life and within five minutes of the restart makes a great run before passing to the First Knight who ballet-shoes clinically into the bottom corner with the foot he normally uses to pirouette on.
With Nureyev also re-energised, Scarface marauding down the right, the Second Knight pondering over his earlier deliberations on the left and Mitchell exploding at regular intervals, Gloucester push forward with renewed vigour, though there is a noticeable lull in proceedings as Scarface is upended and the First Knight’s free kick searches out the squirrel hiding in the bush ten yards behind the goal instead of the top far corner. ‘Gotcha,’ says the First Knight. ‘Missed,’ says the squirrel. ‘Again.’
But then Gloucester are level. Mitchell explodes once more to rescue a seemingly lost cause on the by-line and cuts inside before driving in the leveller at the near post.
There’s a return to the action for Mustoe who has performed well in the first half and does so again before departing for a second time due to receiving a stud in the chest (after committing the original foul), but to his eternal credit failing to (properly) moan for the second game running. Well done, Lisa.
The PPK Alliance, particularly during the second half are excellent, belying their separatist undertones to perform most obviously as one. Big Sam, now firmly entrenched along with Nureyev as one of the coaches’ two favourite players due to the colour of his footwear, has a fine game on the left side as does the Weather Man, calm, collected and combative on the right. Margaret meanwhile, barely eighteen hours after belatedly receiving his IOW prizes and barely two hours since he stopped eating them, makes a bevy of fine challenges and important interceptions to deny the visitors another direct effort on goal.
There is a last-minute flurry in the Gloucester box, but Plymouth’s efforts are blocked first by a pair of distinctive black boots and then by a sickly mixture of orange and green, though the effect on the ball if not on the consciousness is the same whatever gets in the way and honours finish even. Both teams are rightly applauded by the touchline throng for their efforts - a fine game, quick on the feet and easy on the eye, no quarter asked and even less expected.
And so to Ten-Pin where the A Squad scores 863, Plymouth 1172 and the Bs somewhere in between. ‘They’ve got more players,’ explodes Mitchell. ‘Averages, dear boy,’ says Coach Wilson, who’s apparently some sort of accountant. ‘How am I getting home?’ asks Jarvis Randall. ‘Why haven’t we got a score?’ interjects Coach Harris. ‘Why’s everyone staring at me?’ says Jack Sargeant.
And it’s at this point that everyone suddenly realises that JS is sporting a man bag, worn diagonally across his torso and containing who-knows-what. Last Easter on an island far away, the Plymouth Brethren wore similar accessories on top of their ivory-white tracksuits and later in the week, the Erdington & Saltley staff followed suit, though on apparel that was somewhat less sartorial and far more creased in appearance. Erdington though was far more disappointing, as no-one expected it.
‘It’s fashion,’ says Sarge, a man of such overwhelming kindness but limited taste, that he’ll spend all year saving his money to buy everyone Christmas presents, but no-one will want to open them.
Sunday morning and the South Birmingham cakes are long gone, the protagonists easily identified from the dried chocolate deposits adorning their lips and flakes of blue icing the gaps between their teeth. Limbrick, Williamson and Sarge arrive at HQ to support their friends who are playing Plymouth, but sit in the eating room eating trayfuls of chips instead. There are shivers in their fingers, doubts in their mind (Coach Harris has done the cooking), ketchup on their tongues and a steely concentration in their eyes. But far more importantly, Limbrick and Williamson have mouths slightly upturned, grins on their faces and hope in their hearts. Because their friend Jack Sargeant is sitting next to them. And on this occasion, thank heaven, he’s not wearing his man bag.
Gloucester: Franks; Michael Fish, Margaret, Big Sam; Scarface, Nureyev, Billy BS, Lisa; Adichareh; Mitchell, Second Knight. Bag man: Sargeant.
