After a somewhat questionable managerial debut two weeks ago, I was summoned to a downstairs room of The Wokingham Masonic Centre to meet with officials from the upper echelons of the Wokingham and Emmbrook hierarchy. There was possibly nothing odd in that, given recent cuts to council budgets and a shortage of meeting space, but as my co-manager and I took our places among the caped brethren it soon became clear that the 20-1 defeat we presided over had not gone down too well, rousing the powers that be from their lodge-based slumber.
They were more than mildly shipped off, and as we were led towards the pillar of Boaz to bow in penitence- which we did not- they explained to us in complex pigpen cipher that, basically, we are a pair of morons. We have brought the town into disrepute, will now be tracked in perpetuity and will not be admitted to future games for an indefinite period. This makes today’s report quite tricky as once Evan was dropped off, I was left to retreat to Bulmershe Water Tower to watch what I could through binoculars and rely on text updates from the ever faithful Joe and Lewis Walker.
We were up against a team called ‘Caversham Arrows’ from an exotic region north of the River Thames I’m not entirely familiar with where you can go for a drink at The Griffin, The Moderation, The Alto Lounge, The Grosvenor, The Clifton Arms, The Crown on the Bridge, The Island, The Prince of Wales, The White Horse, The Gardeners’ Arms or- if you prefer Wetherspoon’s- The Baron Cadogan. If you’re not careful in Caversham Heights, you’ll end up in Mapledurham or Woodcote- the outskirts of Oxford, even. While Lower Caversham has a slightly grittier reputation, don’t be fooled by the upper area’s appearance of bucolic charm. You never know what goes on behind those net curtains, the pills that are popped, the barrenness of the cultural desert trudged through every day.
So these boys come from a different place, a place which no-one has been to. From what I can gather of the game, they scored WITHIN a second, and added 3 more very quickly. In the water tower, Text 1 read: ‘5 mins gone, 0-4. Mulvaney on.’ ‘Mulvaney on’ meant Mulvaney had been off- and I was sitting there in wet jeans and trainers, seething. How can you start a game without Connor Mulvaney? How can you set up a meeting with local freemasons for the people who helped you out, and then leave Connor Mulvaney- your own son and nephew- on the bench? Evan’s really great, Mark’s great- they all contribute in different ways, sometimes outstandingly. But Connor tends to be beyond great. He’s a Glen Campbell among Noel Gallaghers. You do not leave Glen Campbell on the bench, even if he has Alzheimer’s. Glen Campbell needs to be on the pitch, playing. Noel Gallagher isn’t fit to tie his shoelaces, isn’t fit to wipe his arse. Text 2: ‘Half-time 5-4 down. Mulvaney’s turned it.’ Obviously! Yes Connor, we’re back in the game son!
In the second half I was able to find a slightly better vantage point to the side of the tower, but could still only see blobs of red and orange, and then one blob of orange and several blobs of red. It was hard to work out what was going on, but then suddenly I heard a roar and saw the orange blob advance with a cry of ‘CHARGE!’ In Under 7’s football, the opposing team have to wait on the halfway line to allow the goalkeeper to roll the ball out to the defenders. This is supposed to cultivate a passing game and reduce the pressure on defenders. However, Wokingham and Emmbrook found a way around this by waiting on the halfway line and then re-enacting the Charge of the Light Brigade whenever the keeper released it. Even from a distance, I could sense the hilarity this provoked, though it was ultimately unsuccessful as a strategy. Final text: ‘8-4 final score, councillor gone, come back in for the team talk.’ I’m glad I did because Evan was awarded Man of the Match, apparently having pulled the strings in midfield to engineer an- albeit abortive- comeback, executing some tricky skills along the way to pick up the trophy.
Wilderspool Causeway 