Wilderspool Causeway

On the now familiar territory of La Bambonera, Woodley, we faced our old foes from Twyford: the people of the crossroads. I use the word ‘foe’ loosely. Their genial coach – dressed as if having taken his fashion cues from the staff of municipal swimming pools – wandered over to wish our girls and boys the best of luck; not that they’d need it, I thought, despite all prior evidence to the contrary.

What does surface geniality count for, anyway? For all we knew, he could have been ‘the self-professed saviour of the dim right wing with respiratory problems and a mason’s ring.’ Theresa must have her henchmen, after all, and he lives in her constituency.

The game began in drizzle and darkness. No shafts of morning light illuminated the precinct or water tower. One of our supporters, tanned from Iberia, in a move suggestive of guts and genius, arrived with a step ladder from which his youngest would be able to see the game. He wouldn’t be disappointed.

Wokingham lined up with Saynor and Dance in defence, Mulvaney and Butler up front and Sexton in goal. In their vivid orange kits, they shone as brightly as Ronan Keating’s muse must have done to inspire such impassioned crooning. They even managed to put a few passes together before a moment which will always live in the memory, and may remain unsurpassed this season.

In a near-exact parallel of the first game of last season, Evan picked up the ball on the halfway line and curled it into the corner, making him the first goalscorer of each season, with near-identical early-September goals.

I was astonished by this, and relieved. There were times last season (reflecting with Coach Peter over pints of Beck’s and Lager Top on Friday night), when it seemed as though Evan had become a ghost of his former self, that he’d lost ‘the force’ or whatever you want to call it. It’s good to know you can get it back.

Connor soon added a second goal before a very odd display of goalkeeping in which our incumbent, static as a starfish, allowed Twyford to hit back, twice. It was as if his mind contained a perimeter fence dividing sanity from madness, and he’d hopped over it.

‘What began as drizzle had now become torrential.’ More strangeness ensued. Just after half-time, Twyford were awarded a free-kick. Instead of forming a wall, Wokingham decided to stand a milliner’s yard from each other, constructing what was, in effect, a fence. Twyford scored.

But it didn’t matter because in the last ten minutes, as rain relentlessly fell, the whole team – including the subs – seemed to will a victory, almost as if moved by deeper currents than those generated by Coach Michael’s half-time team-talk.

Twyford’s passing consisted of increasingly redundant avenues of enquiry; they were met with resistance and belligerence at every turn, as if something immoderately northern had crept into Wokingham’s understanding of the world. Twyford’s football, now firmly in the realm of the bland, found further potential for futility as it began to trespass into regions of terminal inconsequence. Einwerfen after einwerfen and play after play, as the Americans say, offered itself as a worthy nominee for the British Academy of Pointlessness in Woodley Awards 2016.

That’s slightly harsh. They had a brilliant goalkeeper (whom we’d like to sign if ever the transfer window opens) and some useful players, but no-one could contend with Connor Mulvaney, to whom all the cliches apply: he’s a force of nature, a whirlwind, he ‘takes the game by the scruff of the neck’ – and then some.

He scored a hat-trick in the last ten minutes, and there would be no need for premeditated consolation of the sort sometimes offered by Uncle Malcolm at Fulham games. Following Fulham away from home is, by its very nature, fraught with the potential for dark feelings, but sometimes Uncle Malcolm and accomplices would encounter darker scenarios than most: a 0-0 draw away at Wigan with no shots on target, for example, or the Nightmare of Old Trafford 2005 when after a 7 hour coach journey and a thorough frisking, we finally entered the ground only for Rooney and Ronaldo to score 4 goals in 19 minutes.

At this point, Uncle Malcolm – always with something up his sleeve – delved into his portable pantry to produce smoked salmon, cottage cheese and other carefully chosen items. Once, when we found ourselves in the purgatory of Westfield after a January game was postponed due to ice, Uncle Malcolm bought everyone ice creams by way of mitigation. In my case, today, the crumpled Milky Bar contingency remained unnecessary; Evan won the Skills Trophy and we had a Rollover hot dog for lunch before whacking on the Party Anthems – from London to Ibiza or something – on our way into town.

Songs referred to: Blur  ‘Mr Robinson’s Quango’

The Divine Comedy  ‘Geronimo’

Jennifer Lopez  ‘On the Floor’