Wilderspool Causeway

Woodley United were resplendent in sky blue shirts which promote a local law firm specialising in Cohabitation Agreements (not sure why they would need mediating), Cohabitation Disputes, Grandparents’ Rights and Deputyship Applications, whatever they’re for (Sheriff of Winnersh? Assistant Duty Manager of Greggs? Deputy Head of Bulmershe School? First Mate on the Caversham Prince? Anything else?) Woodley appeared with a style and understatement more usually associated with veteran actresses, or the Queen herself, than a Reading satellite town. It was such a nice tone, it really was.

After some asthmatic weeks, Evan returned to the team rejuvenated, with Dolce & Gabbana oversocks (don’t ask how) to compensate for deficient ankle support.

He was by no means the most eccentrically dressed Wokingham player. Connor – Fresh Prince of Mulvania, architect of our revivals, Maestro of Woosehill – was wearing a snood and mismatching gloves, one of them stripy and one of them plain.

So this was an aesthetic contest as much as a footballing one. We had alice bands and various shades of Nike: no North Korean skin- fade haircuts here. Evan’s MacManaman curls were offset by simple trims, French crops, mop tops, the odd bob. It was the Top Man contest and by virtue of a fortuitous confluence of hand-me-downs and found items: ‘it’s never cheap or cheerful; he’s Hugo and he’s Boss!’

For the first ten minutes, the game threatened to live up to the aesthetics: Evan’s cultured passing and thoughtfully executed skills – along with a pinged half volley – earned him the Man of the Match award. We were 2 nil up when he left the pitch after 10 minutes, and he rarely featured in the latter quarters of the game, having left the pitch to a feeling that his work there was done.

The scorpions rarely found the space to pounce, but were deadly when they did: two goals from two shots in the first half added substance and vitality to the unmistakably dignified tenor of their behaviour.

With the game deteriorating and all but lost to the doldrums, to protracted shoelace stoppages and general entropy, the ball was fired with vigour towards the top corner and saved superbly by a Woodley defender: penalty. Jack Parry strolled up with the nonchalance of a giraffe, stroked it home and then turned and charged in delirious knowledge of victory, throwing himself onto the turf and other players in an action transgressive of health and safety protocol and deserving of a yellow card as surely as the Scorpion lad merited red.

This was a victory of style over style: of clothing, of technical ambition, of bravery. Wokingham have a ‘skills trophy’ which is awarded every week: the coaches are looking for Maradonas and Rabonas, dragbacks and Cruyff turns, improvisation and quality passing. The score is irrelevant to them, and rightly so.

I do wonder what would happen, though, on a tour of the north country. It’s bad enough going by minibus to Berkhamstead: you get off and can hardly move. Imagine stepping off the bus in Darlington or Whitley Bay and facing the locals with all your elegant oddball clobber and a bag of tricks: unthinkable.