Malapropisms
‘I’m Adam Ant,’ exhorts The Weatherman, as the troops squelch through the puddles and file two by two up the single step of the GPSFA Fun Bus.
‘You’re what?’ frowns The Accountant, clearly in no mood to lose his grip on today’s Times crossword.
‘I’m Adam Ant,’ insists the red-faced Weatherman.
‘What? That 1980s post-punk pop star?’ huffs The Accountant, pausing momentarily on 17 across (BBC meteorologist [7,4]).
‘Yes, I’m Adam Ant,’ declares The Weatherman with a confidence that belies his horrific season-long record, ‘that by half time, the sun will be out and the sky will be blue.’ The Accountant rolls his eyes, exhales agonizingly and mutters something that's indecipherable to all but the most proficient of lip readers.
The bus is awash with 5-a-side war stories and for once Nureyev is saying very little. Kenny grimaces throughout, just as he did for several hours following the unprecedented early exit of his beloved Longlevens on Tuesday afternoon. Scarface grimaces at the possibility of GL1 having no insurance policy in place and the resulting likelihood that he’ll have to pay out for the damage his head caused to the auditorium’s perimeter boards yesterday evening. And they all grimace when someone mentions the rather loud lady on the balcony and that the twenty metre exclusion zone that surrounded her didn’t extend to the playing area. A reflective silence punctures the recollections, but The Colonel’s in the bus so it doesn’t last for long.
The journey via the South Cerney lanes is swift and the only ‘How long?’ query is made as we turn into the extremely well appointed Gerard Buxton Sports Ground. In the mid-fifteenth century, Parliament decreed that nearby Wootton Bassett be designated a ‘rotten borough’, but there’s nothing bad about the facilities here, the sole objects of unpleasantness being in the visitors’ changing room where there are still seven pairs of hideously coloured football boots on display. Only Nureyev, Big Sam, No-More-Moaning Lisa and The Weatherman have converted to properly designed footwear, but the overall trend is thankfully upwards, unlike the accuracy of the season’s climatic forecasting.
Adibayor has lost one of his numerous skins at the leisure centre earlier in the week, so is down to a dozen layers this time around. After surveying the changing room in anticipation of a discard or three, the miscreant makes a mental note to scour the internet for some BOGOF deals on which he can spend someone else’s money to bolster his bodily insulation system. After all, it’ll be summer soon and he’ll need a few extra layers for those balmy July afternoons when most of the population spend most of their time showing off their swimwear and tattoos in equal measure, to passers-by whose fervent desire is to view neither.
The Swindon manager, a stalwart of the district game, is joined today by a newly appointed coach who goes by the title, ‘Stage Two’. Coach Wilson doesn’t seem to think this is his real name, though the jury’s still out. With three officials provided, The Accountant himself has the opportunity to stalk the touchline to his heart’s content, a journey which, given a lifetime of attempting to legally balance the books, he does to perfection by spending precisely fifteen minutes on each of the rectangle’s four borders. It’s only when the referee adds on three minutes of injury time at the end of the game that he realises the uniformity of his approach counts for nothing and the exposition of more dark thoughts simply worsens.
Gloucester play down the slope in the first half, Nureyev snapping into tackles and using the ball effectively. One such pass frees Scarface on the right, the midfielder’s fine cross picking out Adibayor who registers three points, but the match official steadfastly refuses to add them to our tally chart.
Soon after though, Nureyev’s effort is blocked and photographic evidence later shows that Adibayor sidefoots a fine finish from near the edge of the box, prompting an impromptu pas de deux between assistor and executor.
At the other end, the excellent and wonderfully named Margaret Albert Pargeter, along with the equally impressive Weatherman and Big Sam give little away, the trio a mix of defensive stability and creative panache. Behind them, ‘Jooooood’s’ handling as ever breeds confidence in team mates and spectators alike, the outpouring of appreciation for our revered stopper sounding just like the other barmy army’s adulation of the current England cricket captain (pre-Ashes).
Adibayor goes close again, forcing a save from Cowley in the Swindon goal and the momentum, fuelled by the return and subsequent decapitation of the half time jelly babies, continues after the break. The interval meanwhile has seen The Weatherman standing stock still, staring sullen-faced at the greyness above, the Wiltshire rain running down his cheeks like a mannequin’s tears, as another well intentioned prophecy is consigned to an olive green container with ‘Please do not Recycle’ emblazoned in huge capital letters right across its lid.
Eight minutes in and The Colonel wriggles free on the left before providing his twelfth assist of the season to give Billy his eighteenth and easiest finish of a hugely productive campaign to date, from much the same distance as last week’s three-inch assist. ‘It’s all about the positioning,’ is the skipper’s avuncular summation afterwards and never a truer word has our indomitable leader ever spoken.
Billy’s now in the mood, delivering a corner that The Colonel ‘in-offs’ in from even closer than the captain’s earlier ‘effort’ and another, much deeper flag kick resulting in Lisa heading powerfully home at the back post.
A fine move involving Scarface, Lisa and Nureyev frees The Colonel for a well taken fifth, while in between, Lacoste has fired just wide and Nureyev has seen his effort following a trademark driving run touched on to the crossbar.
It’s been a five star display against a good side in the Swindon rain, with each player contributing hugely to an accomplished team performance.
Entry into the post-match reception in the GBSG refectory is slightly delayed due to Lisa’s wantaway tie and a plethora of inside out kit that’s been added to the pile by the usual errant suspects.
Kenny, a connoisseur of sausage & chips like no other, displays the same intensity of concentration on his eating as he does on his goalkeeping, while Scarface refrains from continually rotating his offering and decides to actually swallow something instead. Coach Beale and Stage Two meanwhile attempt to sell after-the-event match programmes to anyone prepared to flaunt their wallet; Adibayor suggests maybe someone should buy him a copy as he’s currently stockpiling his cash in an offshore account somewhere beyond the International Brexit Line and doesn’t have any to spare, while The Colonel borrows two quid to buy a one pound programme, despite having no intention whatsoever of spending the ‘loan’ on anything containing words.
Despite the babble of mini bus conversation, Lacoste takes the opportunity of catching up on a bit of much needed shut-eye on the journey home, three runs up the wing and a single effort on goal all that are needed to warrant serious R & R, while Scarface looks around for something decent to hit his head on, but all the seats are upholstered and as such lack the necessary challenge required.
Big Sam reflects on the folly of giving his dad that box of sweets last Sunday, when keeping them for himself would have provided both some sugary afternoon sustenance and a useful bargaining tool, the likes of which rarely fail to come in handy. Kenny is ecstatic, but refuses to smile nonetheless. A clean sheet is a clean sheet and his mental mathematical calculations tell him that his average goals-against-per-game ratio has reduced from 1.238 at 10.29am to 1.181 at 12.29pm. He’s let in 26 so far this season and hated every one of them with a passion that goes way beyond the accepted definition of rational.
‘I saw bars,’ says The Weatherman as he climbs down the mini bus step, provoking a flurry of hope and horror in equal measure amidst the assembled throng. At last, after five catastrophic months, there might actually be a glimmer of sunlight at the end of the long, dark meteorological tunnel. Or not, as the case may be.
‘That’s wrong, Teddy,’ says The Lens, ‘it’s “I seen bars,” before dashing off to sort out another ‘Buy Nine for the price of Ten’ offer.
They say that hope springs eternal. But after a quarter of a century plus of misused past participles, it seems there’s more chance of a half-correct weather forecast than a half-correct two-part sentence. Thanks goodness The Chairman’s not here to bear witness; it could put his long overdue recovery schedule back years.
Gloucester: Kenny; The Weatherman, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Big Bad Sam; Scarface, Billy, Nureyev, Lacoste; Adibayor; Lisa, The Colonel. Attendance: 24 (14 away).
‘You’re what?’ frowns The Accountant, clearly in no mood to lose his grip on today’s Times crossword.
‘I’m Adam Ant,’ insists the red-faced Weatherman.
‘What? That 1980s post-punk pop star?’ huffs The Accountant, pausing momentarily on 17 across (BBC meteorologist [7,4]).
‘Yes, I’m Adam Ant,’ declares The Weatherman with a confidence that belies his horrific season-long record, ‘that by half time, the sun will be out and the sky will be blue.’ The Accountant rolls his eyes, exhales agonizingly and mutters something that's indecipherable to all but the most proficient of lip readers.
The bus is awash with 5-a-side war stories and for once Nureyev is saying very little. Kenny grimaces throughout, just as he did for several hours following the unprecedented early exit of his beloved Longlevens on Tuesday afternoon. Scarface grimaces at the possibility of GL1 having no insurance policy in place and the resulting likelihood that he’ll have to pay out for the damage his head caused to the auditorium’s perimeter boards yesterday evening. And they all grimace when someone mentions the rather loud lady on the balcony and that the twenty metre exclusion zone that surrounded her didn’t extend to the playing area. A reflective silence punctures the recollections, but The Colonel’s in the bus so it doesn’t last for long.
The journey via the South Cerney lanes is swift and the only ‘How long?’ query is made as we turn into the extremely well appointed Gerard Buxton Sports Ground. In the mid-fifteenth century, Parliament decreed that nearby Wootton Bassett be designated a ‘rotten borough’, but there’s nothing bad about the facilities here, the sole objects of unpleasantness being in the visitors’ changing room where there are still seven pairs of hideously coloured football boots on display. Only Nureyev, Big Sam, No-More-Moaning Lisa and The Weatherman have converted to properly designed footwear, but the overall trend is thankfully upwards, unlike the accuracy of the season’s climatic forecasting.
Adibayor has lost one of his numerous skins at the leisure centre earlier in the week, so is down to a dozen layers this time around. After surveying the changing room in anticipation of a discard or three, the miscreant makes a mental note to scour the internet for some BOGOF deals on which he can spend someone else’s money to bolster his bodily insulation system. After all, it’ll be summer soon and he’ll need a few extra layers for those balmy July afternoons when most of the population spend most of their time showing off their swimwear and tattoos in equal measure, to passers-by whose fervent desire is to view neither.
The Swindon manager, a stalwart of the district game, is joined today by a newly appointed coach who goes by the title, ‘Stage Two’. Coach Wilson doesn’t seem to think this is his real name, though the jury’s still out. With three officials provided, The Accountant himself has the opportunity to stalk the touchline to his heart’s content, a journey which, given a lifetime of attempting to legally balance the books, he does to perfection by spending precisely fifteen minutes on each of the rectangle’s four borders. It’s only when the referee adds on three minutes of injury time at the end of the game that he realises the uniformity of his approach counts for nothing and the exposition of more dark thoughts simply worsens.
Gloucester play down the slope in the first half, Nureyev snapping into tackles and using the ball effectively. One such pass frees Scarface on the right, the midfielder’s fine cross picking out Adibayor who registers three points, but the match official steadfastly refuses to add them to our tally chart.
Soon after though, Nureyev’s effort is blocked and photographic evidence later shows that Adibayor sidefoots a fine finish from near the edge of the box, prompting an impromptu pas de deux between assistor and executor.
At the other end, the excellent and wonderfully named Margaret Albert Pargeter, along with the equally impressive Weatherman and Big Sam give little away, the trio a mix of defensive stability and creative panache. Behind them, ‘Jooooood’s’ handling as ever breeds confidence in team mates and spectators alike, the outpouring of appreciation for our revered stopper sounding just like the other barmy army’s adulation of the current England cricket captain (pre-Ashes).
Adibayor goes close again, forcing a save from Cowley in the Swindon goal and the momentum, fuelled by the return and subsequent decapitation of the half time jelly babies, continues after the break. The interval meanwhile has seen The Weatherman standing stock still, staring sullen-faced at the greyness above, the Wiltshire rain running down his cheeks like a mannequin’s tears, as another well intentioned prophecy is consigned to an olive green container with ‘Please do not Recycle’ emblazoned in huge capital letters right across its lid.
Eight minutes in and The Colonel wriggles free on the left before providing his twelfth assist of the season to give Billy his eighteenth and easiest finish of a hugely productive campaign to date, from much the same distance as last week’s three-inch assist. ‘It’s all about the positioning,’ is the skipper’s avuncular summation afterwards and never a truer word has our indomitable leader ever spoken.
Billy’s now in the mood, delivering a corner that The Colonel ‘in-offs’ in from even closer than the captain’s earlier ‘effort’ and another, much deeper flag kick resulting in Lisa heading powerfully home at the back post.
A fine move involving Scarface, Lisa and Nureyev frees The Colonel for a well taken fifth, while in between, Lacoste has fired just wide and Nureyev has seen his effort following a trademark driving run touched on to the crossbar.
It’s been a five star display against a good side in the Swindon rain, with each player contributing hugely to an accomplished team performance.
Entry into the post-match reception in the GBSG refectory is slightly delayed due to Lisa’s wantaway tie and a plethora of inside out kit that’s been added to the pile by the usual errant suspects.
Kenny, a connoisseur of sausage & chips like no other, displays the same intensity of concentration on his eating as he does on his goalkeeping, while Scarface refrains from continually rotating his offering and decides to actually swallow something instead. Coach Beale and Stage Two meanwhile attempt to sell after-the-event match programmes to anyone prepared to flaunt their wallet; Adibayor suggests maybe someone should buy him a copy as he’s currently stockpiling his cash in an offshore account somewhere beyond the International Brexit Line and doesn’t have any to spare, while The Colonel borrows two quid to buy a one pound programme, despite having no intention whatsoever of spending the ‘loan’ on anything containing words.
Despite the babble of mini bus conversation, Lacoste takes the opportunity of catching up on a bit of much needed shut-eye on the journey home, three runs up the wing and a single effort on goal all that are needed to warrant serious R & R, while Scarface looks around for something decent to hit his head on, but all the seats are upholstered and as such lack the necessary challenge required.
Big Sam reflects on the folly of giving his dad that box of sweets last Sunday, when keeping them for himself would have provided both some sugary afternoon sustenance and a useful bargaining tool, the likes of which rarely fail to come in handy. Kenny is ecstatic, but refuses to smile nonetheless. A clean sheet is a clean sheet and his mental mathematical calculations tell him that his average goals-against-per-game ratio has reduced from 1.238 at 10.29am to 1.181 at 12.29pm. He’s let in 26 so far this season and hated every one of them with a passion that goes way beyond the accepted definition of rational.
‘I saw bars,’ says The Weatherman as he climbs down the mini bus step, provoking a flurry of hope and horror in equal measure amidst the assembled throng. At last, after five catastrophic months, there might actually be a glimmer of sunlight at the end of the long, dark meteorological tunnel. Or not, as the case may be.
‘That’s wrong, Teddy,’ says The Lens, ‘it’s “I seen bars,” before dashing off to sort out another ‘Buy Nine for the price of Ten’ offer.
They say that hope springs eternal. But after a quarter of a century plus of misused past participles, it seems there’s more chance of a half-correct weather forecast than a half-correct two-part sentence. Thanks goodness The Chairman’s not here to bear witness; it could put his long overdue recovery schedule back years.
Gloucester: Kenny; The Weatherman, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Big Bad Sam; Scarface, Billy, Nureyev, Lacoste; Adibayor; Lisa, The Colonel. Attendance: 24 (14 away).
