There were rumours of gales in Bailey and South East Iceland, becoming cyclonic, so it was a relief to cross the Loddon in clear winter sunshine this morning, with the Thames sea state only smooth or slight.
Our opponents in the A321 derby were Twyford Comets, but other than opportunities to ford the Loddon – as suggested by their name – there was little by way of common ground between us. I’m hopeful, though, that in the future we can look to Hurst or the outskirts of Winnersh – Wokingham, even – and meet at the Wheelrights Arms or Elephant & Castle to confer over Chantry Cheer or other local bitters on all that unites our districts other than the right wing of the Conservative Party.
On the subject of pubs, there seemed little option yesterday other than to raise a glass of San Miguel with Gary and Miguel at The Three Frogs, once visited by Barack Obama on a stag weekend. Miguel is a friend from Mexico and when we weren’t served too swiftly, Gary’s loud observation that ‘they obviously don’t like Mexicans here’ broke the ice all around. Perspective was offered by Miguel as he recounted crossing land borders in Central and South America, resolving never to do so again. The border guards will either take your money and phone ahead to say you’re rich and ripe for a double mugging, or simply not let you pass. He made the Tuns Crossroads and Coppid Beach Roundabout seem almost like trivial thresholds.
Aside from our decaying Ford, the focus of the morning was to feed Evan the energy he needed – both positive and food related. On the food front, he’d have Super Hoops in denial of Fulham’s lunchtime appointment with QPR, a banana, banana and coconut smoothie, Belvita biscuits, a suspended two-fingered wafer biscuit and copious amounts of albuterol sulphate to mitigate a hacking cough and the chances of bronchospasm.
Iris, meanwhile, would undergo double egg machinations: first scrambling them with me and then again with Nananne at lunchtime under the benign jurisdiction of Mam. For positive energy, I encouraged Evan to practise some skills in the lounge and dining room, an exercise which would reap a questionable harvest later on.
If you’re unfamiliar with the layout of the Goals Centre, pitches are named after famous stadia. Today we were at the Olympiastadion, Berlin, the ground at which we feel most at home when not at the Amsterdam Arena. The Olympiastadion also has the Glockenturm, a bell tower and observation deck which seems to find a strange echo in the Bulmershe Water Tower looming proprietorially behind one of the goals.
In a sense, after such difficult weeks leading up to the game, nothing seemed to matter other than the ability to remain unnerved by the data in front of us.
Twyford started laboriously yet with stultifying impact: we couldn’t seem to find a meaningful pass to undermine their sheer bland competence. Evan’s Cruyff turns and sidesteps worked on numerous occasions, yet we gifted them two goals, one from an innocuous throw-in and another when a pass down the line would have been a better option than a Maradona.
In the second half Wokingham fought back until Thanasie, at times as useful as a tap operated by a foot sensor and at others the cornerstone of our success, launched himself into the air to save a shot. Unfortunately, though, he wasn’t the goalkeeper so we conceded a penalty, lost the game and retreated to the bar – Evan, Ciara, Thanasie, Elias, Ian and I – for double-shot Americanos, light blue M&Ms and an ambiguous future, mainly moderate in the south.
Wilderspool Causeway 