Wilderspool Causeway

The current price to cross the river between Pangbourne and Whitchurch is 60p; if it was down to me I would increase this to 80p immediately and then gauge if further increases would be viable. Cars shouldn’t be on the road so much these days anyway – if you’re local and want to walk or cycle into Oxfordshire or Berkshire, you can do so for free. Also, forget all the bollocks spoken about ‘leadership’; the dream job is to sit in the hut at the entrance to a car park or toll booth, reading, drinking coffee and chatting to drivers or pedestrians now and then if they feel like it.

Whitchurch villagers will have crossed the bridge at around 8:15 this morning as part of their very short journey to Prospect Park in Tilehurst. The club obviously have a very strict Covid-19 protocol, with parents required to wear masks and space themselves out across the length of the pitch. The referee had forgotten to arrive for the game so a large, gruff man wearing a pink Man Utd shirt and a ‘Southcote Colts’ jacket came over to give each team a pre-match speech and announce that he would be reffing the game. I’m not sure who he was affiliated with or where he came from exactly but he was there and sometimes that’s what’s important. He refereed in a very laid-back yet authoritative way. He had already taken a bit of grief from a couple of parents due to his shirt, and this helped to establish a relaxed tone to the game – a sort of negative charge. Fair play to him for being so relaxed and friendly, whoever he was.

Within a few moments of the game starting, Mason Ralph side-stepped a defender and clipped the ball into the top left corner. A goal from Connor Mulvaney soon followed, but Whitchurch began to fight back, prodding and probing in midfield to try to cultivate a meaningful rhythm to their play, but it didn’t work. Evan was on the bench in this half, as was Hayden Harris, who in a nonchalant and surly (yet ultimately well meaning) manner would convert four chances in the second half. Meanwhile, Whitchurch tried to salvage some hope and purpose from proceedings. ‘Where the fuck’s he come from?’ They had a really quick player who would suddenly emerge to scupper an attack, sprinting across the pitch in an effort, perhaps, to compensate for one or two of his less dynamic teammates. This showed great fortitude, and it should be emphasised that a scoreline of 12-0, while convincing, is also deceptive. There were aspects of Whitchurch’s play which militated against an even more devastating outcome, and these should be viewed with respect. A ten minute period in youth football can include 5 or 6 goals, perhaps as emotions become difficult to corral.

In the second half the surging waters of Wokingham’s attack – like the Thames governed by an unaccountable, thrusting and inexorable westward tide, or the Emmbrook abandoning the parameters of nature to shatter misconceived notions of its scale and potential destructiveness – collapsed the lingering dam of Whitchurch’s resistance, leading to a deluge of goals: liquid football. Hayden finished chance after chance, Kian Smith scored an absolute thunderbolt and with almost the last kick of the game, Evan curled a free-kick just inside the left post. It was great to see him score a free kick, as this is a strength he wasn’t able to develop at Bracknell last year because young Ronnie had priority.

As for Whitchurch, they could ponder, cogitate, move magnets around a magnetic board or hold a glass island post-mortem, tip tapping away on an ipad or tablet to try to impose some retrospective meaning on what transpired. Or they could find answers from a deeper source than the mind’s rationality, but how should they go about this? I wish them true success in their ongoing footballing pilgrimage.

‘They didn’t know where they were going, but there knew where they were wasn’t it.’ Wandering around Prospect Park, having dropped Evan off to walk with a friend, I did 3000 steps before eventually finding the pitch in a slight depression screened off by trees. The drive in to the park was very dodgy for a start, somehow resulting in being funnelled into a car boot sale. I could have displayed some unsaleable or fairly dubious items: Fulham shirts, empty Lucozade bottles, half-used ointments and grammar guides. I might as well have done, because the next half an hour was a passage of futility which brought me close to tears, to be honest. I checked the text directions: ‘From the main car park, follow the path down.’ This was a problem – which way? And how does the massive car boot sale car park relate to the main car park? ‘You will see a pitch on the right.’ On the right of where? ‘Go across the pitch.’ Well, the refs were checking studs and watches, communal prayers and team talks were over and the games were about to kick off…walking across a pitch could have incurred a fine or complaint to the league authorities from the taciturn of Tilehurst or the addled of Andover or whatever variety of the half dead were there. ‘Behind the trees there is another pitch’ – trees in every direction. ‘It’s fairly hidden from the path’…

The only strategy I could think of, as I knew we were supposed to be on Pitch 1, was to quickly ask a referee or volunteer if they knew where I needed to go. The first one said ‘Nightmare ennit. This is Pitch 1, I’m sure.’ I walked over to a guy beside the next pitch: ‘This is Pitch 1 mate – definitely.’ Options were limited now. I stopped pacing around and just accepted I’d have to go back to the car boot sale and maybe salvage something from there. Ambling along, I had one last scan of the park and realised there was actually only one significant path that ran through it and that the bigger portion of the park was indeed to the right of this path, though almost all of the pitches were to the left. Way over to the right was a significant group of oak trees and, just behind, a flash of orange. The game was obviously in progress, and I’d taken 35 minutes to locate it from the car park.

This was the first league game of the season and officially the first competitive game the team have ever played; they would now be playing for points and league positions, whereas in previous years league tables and records were only kept by the odd anorak parent. Caversham, a historic site of Christian pilgrimage and some well tended parks and gardens, as recognised as recently as 1770 in Thomas Whately’s Observations on Modern Gardening, is traditionally a place of Royalist sensibilities whereas Wokingham, attacked by Reading during the civil war, is generally Republican. I think it would be a mistake, though, to see today’s game as a recapitulation of that conflict. In fact, the parents were very quiet indeed – there were certainly no political or militaristic cries from those who crossed the river from Caversham or the flatlands from Wokingham to arrive in a field in Tilehurst at 8:30 am on a Saturday morning.

Instead, there seemed to be a quietly supportive energy surrounding the pitch. There was no-one shouting ‘Listen to the talk’, ‘You’re a muppet, lino’ or ‘We’ve gone quiet ent we boys’ – in fact, there was almost an other-wordly sense of calm. Games seem to alternate like that. Sometimes it feels like there’s something major brewing, as in the scene from Mike Bassett, England Manager when the England and Ireland teams arrive in an airport terminal building at the same time, and sometimes it feels like the brewing equipment just isn’t there. This was definitely in the latter category – Wokingham & Emmbrook played with a kind of nonchalance and assuredness on the ball, as if the voids in the pinball machine had been sealed for them by the Central Berkshire football gods, or something. Nearly everything they did worked, and nearly everything Caversham did faltered, but just slightly. It would seem almost unfair to single any Wokingham players out, but I would say that Kian Smith, returning after a season with the district team, dictated the tempo of the game brilliantly from defence, passing intelligently and driving forward with pace to catalyse attacks. Mason Ralph was also very lively up front, and without wishing to seem biased, new signings Harvey and Evan (both Fulham fans) linked up excellently in midfield before being substituted by spreadsheet at half-time. The coach recognised afterwards that the duo’s composure and range of passing were greatly missed in the second half and that he would have to think about re-evaluating the squad rotation policy in future weeks. That said, there were some excellent players on the bench, such as the marauding Connor Mulvaney, so perhaps equal game time for all is still the fairest compromise?

With two early goals from Mason Ralph, the game was seemingly over before it had really begun, though it has to be noted that defensively – midfield included – the team are far from a parked bus, with several recovery challenges suggesting that on a different day they may have been punished for hesitation and an element of sloppiness. Goalkeeper Leo Standing, though not quite the size and stature of Manuel Neuer, made some excellent saves and would have been a worthy man of the match if it wasn’t for young Ralph up front.

Overall, pre-match futility seemed to dissipate in the warmth of Tilehurst – and then again over toasties on the sun terrace opposite architectural salvage and an empty car park at the Costa del Showcase.

 

First half: Standing, Doyle, Uwannah, Newman, Smith, Saynor, Kimpton, Ralph, Ferguson-Newlove Subs: Mulvaney, Jackman, Webb

Second half: Standing, Doyle, Uwannah, Mulvaney, Jackman, Smith, Ralph, Ferguson-Newlove, Webb Subs: Kimpton, Saynor, Newman

 

 

 

The first friendly of the season was way up at the top of Woosehill. If you read ‘History of the Ashridge Exchange’, a convoluted document describing the genesis of the A329(M), you will realise that the Woosehill Estate became the biggest cul-de-sac in Europe due to council refusal to allow traffic to flow to the precious roads surrounding it, such as Reading (too urban) and Barkham (too rural). The false promise of an interchange was the basis for development; If people want to live in Woosehill, they should be content to be marooned and semi-isolated from long-standing Wokingham residents.

The top of Woosehill is the only place where you can find a degree of meaning and perspective. You can do a bit of forest bathing, touching base with the earth beneath ferns and variegated pylons. Witness bunting and a royal standard fluttering over the Chestnut Park archipelago. On the side of Rainbow Community Centre is the slogan ‘Life is a circle; enjoy the journey’. Enjoy the existential roundabout, take the second exit up to the play park and sit on a revolving disc as the game commences.

This was Evan’s first game back with Wokingham after a year at Bracknell Town disrupted by flooding and early curtailment of the season for obvious reasons. He was placed in centre midfield, reunited with buccaneering leitwolf Connor Mulvaney, with whom he had previously played for four seasons, and Peter Crouch-style striker Hayden Harris. Rangers’ first and only goal was a reprise of a former move in which Evan floats a ball in for Hayden – who has an aerial threat uncommon in players of this age – to bury at the far post. Also returning was the excellent Kian Smith, who had spent last season representing the district team.

As the game developed it became scrappier, interspersed with phases of good passing from each team. Unfortunately, I was at fault for the Oranges’ equalising goal having volunteered to be linesman (activity not posted to Strava to be picked up by the ‘Strava Wankers’ Twitter account, as happened last time). I spotted what was widely deemed to be a clear offside, but hesitated and didn’t raise the flag. The ball was soon in the net and it was too late. That’s why parents don’t generally volunteer as assistant referees – there’s enough material to intermittently niggle away at the mind all day as it is.

Woosehill’s ‘Life’s a circle; enjoy the journey’ is better, in my view, than ‘Discover Freemasonry’ or ‘Scouting and freemasonry: two parallel organisations’, as advertised outside the town hall in Wokingham. You may not be able to get out of Woosehill, other than via a fantastic network of concrete footpaths and woodland crossings, but perhaps you could also question why you might want to. If you do find a way out, rather than the Ashridge Interchange and the abandoned IDR, which is now a series of car parks leading to the library, you will now find a new road immediately parallel to the A329(M): the relief of the relief road, with houses alongside and little islands of winding paths carefully measured so that developers can advertise ‘the best in country living’ on 5 km of spaghetti trails leading to dead ends on every side and back to where you started.

Instead of the therapeutic pines of Wokingham Without, today we would travel through the roundabouts of Bracknell Within – including Met Office – to double back to Larges Lane and the sloped playing fields of Ranelagh School for a league fixture against Berks Elite FC.

It was hard to get to grips with who they were or where exactly they had come from, shouts of ‘Come on Berkshire’ doing little to add clarity. This was in short supply for the Berks Elite players, too, as their manager was the living embodiment of the FA’s ‘How not to do it’ video. He yelled throughout the game, as if he was, say, Tom Waits filling in with the Pixies, projecting a jumble of incoherent sounds which only occasionally coalesced into a recognisable word like ‘SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE!’ The lads from Berkshire didn’t seem to know what he meant by this at all, confusion deepening as his level of apoplexy rose in inverse proportion to their grip on the game.

Bracknell needed to react to last week’s comprehensive cup defeat, and I needed to stop trying to find solutions myself to help Evan adjust to the new team, but just get a few things off my chest to the manager and let him take over; he listened well as I explained what Evan could do, and I decided to arrive separately to the game this week rather than potentially confuse him on the way there.  The pitch had a muddy tract through the middle, raising concerns about whether or not it will last throughout the autumn and winter. The game started slowly, with Bracknell dominating possession but unable to make a breakthrough until new signing Ieyan Qureshi (from the Junior Premier League) danced through the defence and rolled the ball nonchalantly past the keeper. He added another soon after, and after 15 minutes Evan entered the fray, immediately making a strong contribution with a left-footed,  volleyed pass into striker Jacob Barnes.

After a quiet game last week, Evan had received encouragement and constructive advice from the manager; he wanted Evan to play with more confidence, enjoy the game and believe in his ability. To that end, he gave him increased rather than reduced responsibility, asking him to take all corners and to push forward as much as possible. This paid off, with Evan whipping in some brilliant corners and arriving at the edge of the box to fire a first-time shot into the bottom corner. In the second half, he ran through on goal in a 2-on-1 situation, checked his run, looked up as if to pass then swept the ball into the bottom left corner. This was becoming a very good all round performance, and was enough for him to win him the Man of the Match trophy at the end. Another contender for this was the excellent Ashton Walker; his reading of the game at centre back is always superb, and he also popped up with two goals near the end to complete an excellent team performance.

It’s sometimes tricky to work out what the little hinge is to turn potential into something good. In this case, I think it was about relaxing. If you’re a Muslim who likes Werther’s Originals, for example, you have to check first – have a little word with the Imam or log on to a reputable ‘Halal or Haram’ website. It’s not a case of finding and blessing the Eddie Stobart lorries yourself – I don’t think – though maybe that wouldn’t hurt. It’s more a case of whether or not the Werther’s Originals are intrinsically good (Halal). You sometimes just need to check in with a higher authority first, and then you can unleash.

 

 

 

Being in Farnborough at 8:15 on a Saturday morning raises some of life’s fundamental questions, such as ‘Why am I here?’ Another one would be ‘What sort of long-gone karmic moment could signal ‘Farnborough’ for a future life?’ Why are we here?

After a good start to the season, which included a goal for Evan on his league debut against Eldon Celtic (too bitter to write about given scuffles between the two sets of parents – final score 3-1), another win and a draw, we drove through the therapeutic pines of Outer Crowthorne in a calm and optimistic fashion.

Whereas last week existential fears were calmed entirely by the absorbing quiet of the trees of Pinewood (final score 1-1), this week they were there in abundance and remained long after the final whistle. Hawley/Farnborough is mundane in the extreme, if that’s possible. There didn’t seem to be anything to live for. At least Wokingham Without/Pinewood had a sense of purpose and design to it, with peace in the aftermath of the closure of the London Open Air Sanatorium in 1966. You can still edge towards Crowthorne and have a wander between the giant sequoias of Wellingtonia Avenue. You can ramble around Finchampstead Ridges, smoke rising through the clearings. As far as I can see, Farnborough is a really horrible place with nothing to redeem it – a bit like Camberley. Where can you go to burn off the excess cortisol to reduce its level to merely ‘above average’ from ‘all you can feel’?

This was a cup game; Bracknell are a strong team in Division 2 (of 7) and Hawley are a strong team in Division 1. A real life comparison might be something like Leicester v Nottingham Forest or, to take an example from the Highland league, Inverurie Loco Works FC v Hill of Beath Hawthorn or Crossgates Primrose.

The first half was relatively even, believe it or not, and the score was 2-0 at half-time. Although Bracknell played meaningfully at times, they couldn’t really impose their rhythm on the game. The second half included a series of calamitous goalkeeping errors (Bracknell don’t have a goalie), shattering the team’s morale. Evan had played well on the left, but didn’t see much of the ball when moved into the middle in the second half. When it was his turn to sit off, I saw the manager speak to him for a good 3 or 4 minutes. Apparently Evan was told that he needs to approach the game with greater mental strength. I was disappointed he didn’t get a chance to take any free-kicks – he normally puts them away, but didn’t get a look in today. It’s not easy to settle into a new team, and after a crushing defeat in a nothing place like this it’s not easy to see why it’s worth it either.

Where’s the most depressing place you’ve visited in the UK? And how do you know it’s the most depressing place? After all, ‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’ That said, if pressed I would opt for Leekes in Melksham. It was brand new but felt dead. The air seemed stagnant and the shop was open plan so you could see all their deeply boring wares at once.

Despite being in the Royal Borough, Holyport is unlikely to qualify in many people’s minds as depressing, I would suggest. Apparently all sorts has happened there. It used to be a stopping off point for pilgrims making their way from Canterbury to St Davids and the green used to be a muddy pasture where drovers could allow their sheep to graze freely. There was also a pub called The Eagle, renamed The Belgian Arms because passing German prisoners of war used to offer up a salute as they passed. Holyport therefore seems to have a history of being for ordinary people rather than just the backwater monarchists you usually expect to find in that area.

The contingent they brought to Ranelagh’s playing fields today, whether they were lost or diverted pilgrims on a mission to the dead end of Larges Lane or touring monks disguised as footballers, were small in number but highly spirited. Evan was in goal for the first quarter, but didn’t touch the ball a single time, spending most of the time standing on the wheels of the goal. He said ‘I could have literally just got my deckchair out for 15 minutes.’ He had certainly unfolded his mental deckchair in full so I’m glad Holyport weren’t able to mount an attack, as who knows what would have happened. Holyport were under siege, but defended stoutly and were only a goal down at the first break. The team-talk at this point emphasised the importance of making thoughtful decisions rather than rushing: survey the space and release the ball – no need for winding, labyrinthine runs with your head lowered to the floor; the ball can move much faster than any individual, so send it into motion. Lower your pulses and calm down: that type of thing.

In the second half, Evan seemed to find his niche in central midfield, playing a series of excellent through balls through to the strikers and chipping in with a goal himself, controlling the ball from a cross and placing it into the corner. There was then a flurry of goals as Bracknell began to exploit the space down the channels, varying their play stylishly with attacks through the middle too. Holyport, to their credit, continued to put in maximum effort throughout – gathering in close proximity to each other like pied wagtails on an urban heat island – but ultimately would have to continue their journey empty handed, and god speed to them as they do so.