The Wanderer - issue 119 - http://www.wwisc.co.uk/

The Wanderer - issue 119 - Online - WYCOMBE WANDERERS INDEPENDENT SUPPORTERS CLUB - http://www.wwisc.co.uk/

The Wanderer - issue 119 - Online - WYCOMBE WANDERERS INDEPENDENT SUPPORTERS CLUB - http://www.wwisc.co.uk/


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What-Ho, Binky old bean!

I hope lockdown on that Fijian island wasn’t too traumatic. Getting trapped in that awful

looking hotel must have been hellish. Only four stars? My heart went out to you. I know

you’d much rather have been with us in Four Ashes. Hopefully you’ll be able to travel

soon, but I should warn you, things have changed at the Park. None of the old crew can

even get into the Boardroom these days...and not just because of the killer Covids

keeping everyone under their tables or down in the wine cellar with Aunty Claudine.

You may recall we just made it over the line last term, to great celebrations despite old

doom and gloom Trev moaning about the balance sheet. Post survival it was all tears

and hugs and jolly-well-dones all round, but just as we were congaing around the

boardroom, the Stroudster comes barging into the party, tie askew, tears in his eyes,

and starts ranting again, waving bills and pointing at random players shouting ‘You’re

out! You’re out too! We’ve had it I tell you!’ until that Northern foreman in the leather

jerkin got him off the table and led him out.

Short version: yet again, we were bucketless and old Long Hair and the Quiet One were

told they would be starting next season with £50 cash, any players too old to sell and the

pick of the catering staff to make up the numbers. Took the shine right off, I can tell you.

Long faces all round. When you’re not sure where the next snifter is coming from, the

very mention of belt-tightening always makes one so damned thirsty. Anyway, two

weeks later, there we all were at the next meeting, you know the sort of thing; everyone

with a face like a mile of bad road, eyeballing the trophy cabinet and wondering who last

had the key and what would get the best price if we had to divvy it all up, when old

Trevor skips in, grinning from ear to ear and shouting about what a wonderful day it is to

our open mouths and shocked clocks.

It turned out, he’d managed to get the rabble to scrawl their Xs on a deal with another

pair of wild colonials, Rob 'n Pete, who have slapped wads of greenbacks on the table

and taken over the place - lock, stock and drinks cabinet. We’ve been turfed out without

so much as an invite to the FA Cup Third Round drinkies and nibbles soiree, while Trev

and Rob ‘n Pete strut about the place pointing at sites for beer tents, demanding BBQs

and inviting beat combos to shake their fringes at us before every game. Shocking stuff.

Cissy hasn’t been back since some chap in a greasy parka pointed at her from the stage

and yelled at her to ‘Roll With it’! (There is more, but I cannot say too much, as I hear

one of the new cabal is a lawyer and we all know the sort of fiscal damage that can be

done to your Trust Fund by a legal eagle who thinks your lips are a bit loose…)

Toastie Watters and I both had some dollar on the management being poached by a big

club (there were rumours of 30 guineas a week and ‘as many tabs as you could smoke’

from somewhere up in the Frozen Wastes) but Rob ‘n Pete told us the funny Northern

bloke was one of the reasons they bought the place and upped the budget so the

Dynamic Duo could get in some new faces and chivvy up the OAPS, so before you could

say ‘Ding Dong’ we were back to twanging everyone in the League’s last nerve again…

Only this time by winning a lot of games. …I know!


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