Wilderspool Causeway

As we assembled for the anthem ceremony, it seemed as though something was rotten in the state of Tilehurst. For a start, only three of the West Reading outfit had choreographed their mornings with a view to starting a football match at 11:30. Of those who were present, two were either generally insane or had taken a polystyrene bodyboard – emotionally speaking – to surf the Pipeline of youth football. One lad was on the floor in tears and one was in need of a touchline courage transfusion to walk the final desperate yards to the pitch.

When I say ‘anthem ceremony’, that’s what I think would be an appropriate assertion of identity prior to kick-off. We could belt out Men of Trowbridge: ‘Loud the martial pipes are sounding/ Every manly heart is bounding/ As our trusted chief surrounding/ March we Trowbridge men. See they’re in disorder/ Comrades, keep close order/ Ever shall they rue the day/ They ventured o’er the Wiltshire border.’

Wokingham cognoscenti will know that Cross Street, outside The Ship, used to mark an unlikely border between Berkshire and Wiltshire. Perhaps Centre Skills would opt for an East 17 classic: ‘Good times we had return to haunt me/ Though it’s for you, all that I do seems to go wrong. STAY NOW! Baby if you’ve got to go away, don’t think I can take the pain, won’t you stay another day?’

When the ref, with West Coast nonchalance, lackadaisically brought the whistle to his lips to start the game, Tilehurst had somehow scrambled a team together which would soon be joined by a sub – young Bernard – who would make a strong impression on the second half.

Unfortunately for Tilehurst, Connor defied precedent by firing us into an early lead, sending their keeper into a bawling heap at the edge of the box and their manager, yet again, into his store of emotional sticking plasters.

After 10 minutes, with Evan in the Pirlo role, Josh tearing around the pitch to win tackles and Connor finishing in style, we were 3-1 up. In most games, that would be ‘job done’, but to say our defence is like a sieve would be an insult to the kitchen implement which at least retains something of worth and energy as it conducts its business.

In the second half, with ‘Dribble, Bernard!’ the mantra from the Tilehurst bench, Wokingham capitulated like an aunt among Parma Violets while Centre Skills, with increasing emotional fortitude, began to flourish in Bernard’s mazy slipstream.