Supremum Diem
The final day has arrived and the Mayor of our Fair City has arrived too. Jody Bevan (GPSFA 1988-90) is here, trying to recruit a goalkeeper for Fairford Town’s afternoon fixture v Brackley Town Saints, so Kenny and Sarge are sensibly keeping an extremely low profile.
Coach Beale and Stage Two from Swindon are also in evidence, as is the tactics board that is almost permanently stored in The Red’s manager’s rather fetching faux-leather shoulder bag. The Weatherman’s making his last visit to the Home of Football as a player, but sadly his prophesy of cloudless skies and Seychelles-like temperatures have failed to make an appearance. Just like the previous thirty five times.
The Chef’s on a roll having completed the night shift, pre-cooked the bacon and given his carer the slip, while the Vice Chair is back from his seven-day, all-inclusive sightseeing tour of Slough and returns to the Seychelles-like temperatures of the GPSFA kitchen.
The Chain Gang is here for the final time, organising the signage and doing the maths. One of their number is celebrating a ‘big’ birthday; the remaining eighty three per cent spend their spike and board time carrying out subtractions of one sort or another as they contemplate the same thing happening to them at some point in the near or semi-near future.
Chairman Keith arrives unannounced to carry out his final Ofstead of the season and apart from the lack of flapjacks for the second week running, all seems to be in order. Mrs Chairman has clearly had a tip-off that of the sixty four slices she sees departing GL2 on a normal Saturday morning, only around eighteen are finding their way onto the big black serving shelf. Covert reports of late arrivals and crumbs round the mouth filtering back along the northern by-pass are a sure indication that the Spycatcher’s game is almost certainly well and truly up.
Coach Delaney arrives in good time, having left particularly early just in case; his face a picture of mini bus-less contentedness, his mind a maelstrom of disconnected ideas as to how he might possibly avoid going to Jersey next year, while ensuring that whatever scraps of credibility he still has left, remain semi-intact at the very least.
It’s kick-off time and the teams are led out by our tallest match mascot of the season, wearing a special jumper that lists, in order, the things he likes the most. Spurs are in second place.
Early doors and The Colonel continues his recent hot streak of finding the net after being set up by a combination of Billy and Will I Am Eleven Now, prompting a mini-whoop from MOTC, resplendent in bobble hat number fourteen and a pair of unpretentious grey wellies with a rather odd lattice-like attempt at external décor.
It’s Harewood again as Moaning Lisa turns momentarily happy, firing spectacularly home from just outside the box for the team’s hundredth goal of the campaign, before Adibayor nips in for number three after Nureyev’s effort has been parried by the keeper.
The celebration is pure Carlsberg, the goalscorer sprinting to the black & yellow wall before requesting a step ladder and tapping Graham I Am Fifty Now on the forehead in some sort of premeditated Freemason-like ritual. Will I Am Eleven Now adjusts his random fringe without touching it and grins knowingly, appreciating that at some point in the future and with a name like that, it could well be him. How far in the future he’s not quite sure, having decided that doing the maths could impact quite negatively on his number one priority, which is enjoying some quality relaxing time during any and every lull in proceedings.
Gloucester’s ascendancy continues after the break, The Weatherman notching his second goal of the season exactly seventy days after notching his first in the previous encounter with Swindon. The black & yellow t-shirt-clad assemblage along the far touchline celebrates enthusiastically, though Father Ted is busy buying an Earl Grey with two sugars and almost misses the party.
Adibayor grabs number five before going through on goal, but instead of trying to complete his hat trick, squares the ball for someone else to score instead. They don’t, but the mother of all goalmouth scrambles ensues and the determination of the Swindon defence eventually wins the day about eight and a half minutes of penalty box ping-pong later.
At the other end, Kenny’s big strong hands pull off a remarkable penalty save, prompting an outpouring of admiration from the Black & Yellow Wall, the likes of which have rarely been heard at Longlevens before. Or anywhere else for that matter.
The determination of Big Sam, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Weatherman and Scarface to uphold Kenny’s incessant high-pitched exhortations based loosely around the words, ‘Clean sheet, clean sheet,’ affords the visitors no further opportunities and there’s still time for Lisa to bundle home Billy’s left wing flag kick and Nureyev to put the gloss on a fine all-round display by finding the bottom right hand corner.
It's far too early in the grand scheme of things, but the final whistle of 2017/18 blows after exactly sixty minutes of a game that no-one wants to end. The Chain High Five is in evidence for the last time, the connection between players and supporters one of the many highlights of this most memorable of years.
Over the past eight months, the team’s been wonderfully led by Alex Knight, a warrior in ballet-boots, no quarter asked and even less considered. Alongside him Cameron Walters, good before Christmas, great afterwards and magnificent in Jersey. Wycombe on 14th October kick-started Harley Mustoe’s campaign and he hasn’t looked back, some of his fabulous strikes contenders for Goals of Any Season.
Will I Am Eleven Now, electrifying at times down the left, has left full backs floundering and ladies drooling, while Luke Hanlon’s been a dream for the team. Hugely popular due to his willingness to take on any and every role, his contribution to our success, whether supporting the attack or covering the defence, has been massive.
Sam Kelly has been Mr Consistency – defensively, offensively and whatever’s in between; a paragon of pragmatism in all the very best of ways. Teddy Peirce found a new position, a new name and a level of performance that most people only dream of. Margaret Albert Pargeter, surely one of the best boy markers on the 17/18 district circuit; a foot in here, a toe in there, I can’t see the striker, anywhere (with apologies to William James Wordsworth).
Kenny’s penalty save today was BSH in a nutshell, his hatred of conceding goals, his love of pristine laundry, his commitment to the cause unbounded. The Colonel’s electrifying pace has caused defences problems all season long; while nearly half his goals have come in the last six games, about half the others were genuinely ‘big ones’. And big is good. Adibayor, all silky skills and graceful movement, a delight in every way, he ends the season as the team’s richest man despite spending the greatest amount of money.
The Yellows call time on their home campaign with a scintillating 2-2 draw against both Erdington and Saltley and The Lens spies a late-in-the-day opportunity, gathering players and parents together for a group shot that by his calculations will make him the greatest amount of dosh for the least amount of ergs. Everyone poses, no-one buys, everybody smiles.
7.30pm and The Wall has relocated en masse to Fairmile Gardens, a quiet suburban neighbourhood huddled in front of their Saturday evening TVs, blissfully unaware of the hundred-strong throng that’s assembled in their midst. Everybody’s here. The whole of this great, amazing, living, breathing wall is here, tombola-ing and bingo-ing and raffling and skittling and auctioning and partying and putting on a show that is right up there with Barnum and anything else that Cecil B. DeMille and his rather questionable mates could ever have come up with.
Adibayor enters the room after sixty minutes of laying on goals for other people in the ramshackle Samba structure outside. ‘Teddy said I’d score this morning,’ he proudly declares.
The room falls eerily silent. It’s a Thatcher’s Cider advert, time-stands-still moment. No-one stirs, let alone moves. The single bubble in Fortey’s Foster’s comes to a halt in the centre of the glass but refuses to pop. Emma T’s lips quiver slightly, but the expected roar fails to materialise. There are no extra Rs in Shamar tonight. The atmosphere at the Gala can only be cut by the sharpest of knives. The hairs on the back of a hundred necks stand end to end in enraptured attention. It’s genuinely and absolutely electrifying. No-one can quite believe what they’ve just heard.
Because after all these hours and days and weeks and months of this brilliant time in our lives, The Weatherman’s finally got it right.
Gloucester: Kenny; Michael Fish, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Big Bad Sam; Scarface, Nureyev, Billy, Lisa, Will I Am Eleven Now; The Colonel, Adibayor.
Coach Beale and Stage Two from Swindon are also in evidence, as is the tactics board that is almost permanently stored in The Red’s manager’s rather fetching faux-leather shoulder bag. The Weatherman’s making his last visit to the Home of Football as a player, but sadly his prophesy of cloudless skies and Seychelles-like temperatures have failed to make an appearance. Just like the previous thirty five times.
The Chef’s on a roll having completed the night shift, pre-cooked the bacon and given his carer the slip, while the Vice Chair is back from his seven-day, all-inclusive sightseeing tour of Slough and returns to the Seychelles-like temperatures of the GPSFA kitchen.
The Chain Gang is here for the final time, organising the signage and doing the maths. One of their number is celebrating a ‘big’ birthday; the remaining eighty three per cent spend their spike and board time carrying out subtractions of one sort or another as they contemplate the same thing happening to them at some point in the near or semi-near future.
Chairman Keith arrives unannounced to carry out his final Ofstead of the season and apart from the lack of flapjacks for the second week running, all seems to be in order. Mrs Chairman has clearly had a tip-off that of the sixty four slices she sees departing GL2 on a normal Saturday morning, only around eighteen are finding their way onto the big black serving shelf. Covert reports of late arrivals and crumbs round the mouth filtering back along the northern by-pass are a sure indication that the Spycatcher’s game is almost certainly well and truly up.
Coach Delaney arrives in good time, having left particularly early just in case; his face a picture of mini bus-less contentedness, his mind a maelstrom of disconnected ideas as to how he might possibly avoid going to Jersey next year, while ensuring that whatever scraps of credibility he still has left, remain semi-intact at the very least.
It’s kick-off time and the teams are led out by our tallest match mascot of the season, wearing a special jumper that lists, in order, the things he likes the most. Spurs are in second place.
Early doors and The Colonel continues his recent hot streak of finding the net after being set up by a combination of Billy and Will I Am Eleven Now, prompting a mini-whoop from MOTC, resplendent in bobble hat number fourteen and a pair of unpretentious grey wellies with a rather odd lattice-like attempt at external décor.
It’s Harewood again as Moaning Lisa turns momentarily happy, firing spectacularly home from just outside the box for the team’s hundredth goal of the campaign, before Adibayor nips in for number three after Nureyev’s effort has been parried by the keeper.
The celebration is pure Carlsberg, the goalscorer sprinting to the black & yellow wall before requesting a step ladder and tapping Graham I Am Fifty Now on the forehead in some sort of premeditated Freemason-like ritual. Will I Am Eleven Now adjusts his random fringe without touching it and grins knowingly, appreciating that at some point in the future and with a name like that, it could well be him. How far in the future he’s not quite sure, having decided that doing the maths could impact quite negatively on his number one priority, which is enjoying some quality relaxing time during any and every lull in proceedings.
Gloucester’s ascendancy continues after the break, The Weatherman notching his second goal of the season exactly seventy days after notching his first in the previous encounter with Swindon. The black & yellow t-shirt-clad assemblage along the far touchline celebrates enthusiastically, though Father Ted is busy buying an Earl Grey with two sugars and almost misses the party.
Adibayor grabs number five before going through on goal, but instead of trying to complete his hat trick, squares the ball for someone else to score instead. They don’t, but the mother of all goalmouth scrambles ensues and the determination of the Swindon defence eventually wins the day about eight and a half minutes of penalty box ping-pong later.
At the other end, Kenny’s big strong hands pull off a remarkable penalty save, prompting an outpouring of admiration from the Black & Yellow Wall, the likes of which have rarely been heard at Longlevens before. Or anywhere else for that matter.
The determination of Big Sam, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Weatherman and Scarface to uphold Kenny’s incessant high-pitched exhortations based loosely around the words, ‘Clean sheet, clean sheet,’ affords the visitors no further opportunities and there’s still time for Lisa to bundle home Billy’s left wing flag kick and Nureyev to put the gloss on a fine all-round display by finding the bottom right hand corner.
It's far too early in the grand scheme of things, but the final whistle of 2017/18 blows after exactly sixty minutes of a game that no-one wants to end. The Chain High Five is in evidence for the last time, the connection between players and supporters one of the many highlights of this most memorable of years.
Over the past eight months, the team’s been wonderfully led by Alex Knight, a warrior in ballet-boots, no quarter asked and even less considered. Alongside him Cameron Walters, good before Christmas, great afterwards and magnificent in Jersey. Wycombe on 14th October kick-started Harley Mustoe’s campaign and he hasn’t looked back, some of his fabulous strikes contenders for Goals of Any Season.
Will I Am Eleven Now, electrifying at times down the left, has left full backs floundering and ladies drooling, while Luke Hanlon’s been a dream for the team. Hugely popular due to his willingness to take on any and every role, his contribution to our success, whether supporting the attack or covering the defence, has been massive.
Sam Kelly has been Mr Consistency – defensively, offensively and whatever’s in between; a paragon of pragmatism in all the very best of ways. Teddy Peirce found a new position, a new name and a level of performance that most people only dream of. Margaret Albert Pargeter, surely one of the best boy markers on the 17/18 district circuit; a foot in here, a toe in there, I can’t see the striker, anywhere (with apologies to William James Wordsworth).
Kenny’s penalty save today was BSH in a nutshell, his hatred of conceding goals, his love of pristine laundry, his commitment to the cause unbounded. The Colonel’s electrifying pace has caused defences problems all season long; while nearly half his goals have come in the last six games, about half the others were genuinely ‘big ones’. And big is good. Adibayor, all silky skills and graceful movement, a delight in every way, he ends the season as the team’s richest man despite spending the greatest amount of money.
The Yellows call time on their home campaign with a scintillating 2-2 draw against both Erdington and Saltley and The Lens spies a late-in-the-day opportunity, gathering players and parents together for a group shot that by his calculations will make him the greatest amount of dosh for the least amount of ergs. Everyone poses, no-one buys, everybody smiles.
7.30pm and The Wall has relocated en masse to Fairmile Gardens, a quiet suburban neighbourhood huddled in front of their Saturday evening TVs, blissfully unaware of the hundred-strong throng that’s assembled in their midst. Everybody’s here. The whole of this great, amazing, living, breathing wall is here, tombola-ing and bingo-ing and raffling and skittling and auctioning and partying and putting on a show that is right up there with Barnum and anything else that Cecil B. DeMille and his rather questionable mates could ever have come up with.
Adibayor enters the room after sixty minutes of laying on goals for other people in the ramshackle Samba structure outside. ‘Teddy said I’d score this morning,’ he proudly declares.
The room falls eerily silent. It’s a Thatcher’s Cider advert, time-stands-still moment. No-one stirs, let alone moves. The single bubble in Fortey’s Foster’s comes to a halt in the centre of the glass but refuses to pop. Emma T’s lips quiver slightly, but the expected roar fails to materialise. There are no extra Rs in Shamar tonight. The atmosphere at the Gala can only be cut by the sharpest of knives. The hairs on the back of a hundred necks stand end to end in enraptured attention. It’s genuinely and absolutely electrifying. No-one can quite believe what they’ve just heard.
Because after all these hours and days and weeks and months of this brilliant time in our lives, The Weatherman’s finally got it right.
Gloucester: Kenny; Michael Fish, Margaret Albert Pargeter, Big Bad Sam; Scarface, Nureyev, Billy, Lisa, Will I Am Eleven Now; The Colonel, Adibayor.
