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

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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