For the benefit of Mr Kite and others who don't take the Petersfield Post, here's my feature on the recent trip west with Petersfield Town Juniors under-15s...
It would not come as too much of a surprise to learn that scientists gather annually in a holiday park in Aberystwyth to unearth the reasons behind why it is unique on earth in having caravans colder on the inside than the atmosphere outside.
It may be of course that the caravan we stayed in over the Bank Holiday weekend contains an anomaly in the space-time continuum and that it contains, in some small parts, pieces of the planet Jupiter. Certainly, its use as a time-travelling vehicle would not come as a surprise to the seven of us forced to endure it. It dated from the 80s and probably hadn’t been cleaned since just after.
When Howard Carter broke through into Tutankhamun’s tomb there was less dust than there was in our toilet. And there were homeless winos in Aberystwyth shop doorways who could dribble with more velocity than our shower provided.
I wouldn’t blame you if you shrugged and said “Well it’s your fault for going to Aberystwyth…”
But we had little choice. That was where the Welsh International Football Festival was being played and Petersfield Town Juniors under-15s were flying the flag for England. Or so we thought. When we de-camped to the bar on the opening night we found that Purbrook Youth under-16s were also taking part. But the English were not there in force other than a few stragglers.
I believe we drew the short straw with the caravan. And not just because we had to share with Nurse Gladys (Andy, the team physio). To be fair to Gladys, he did superbly as chef, earning himself the nickname of Hiroshima, after the condition of the kitchen when he’d finished every day.
He even managed to work out how to light the gas fire, which entailed taking it apart and rebuilding it from scratch every time you wanted some heat.
Others, however, seemed reasonably happy with their accommodation.
Ours was more damp than an otter’s pocket. My brand new paperback had curled and crumpled after only a day in the bedroom. At least it was called a twin bedroom. What it actually contained was a set of parallel bars with some padding on them. Beds aren’t naturally that narrow. And neither am I. I’m sure in a previous occupancy they may have doubled as bookshelves.
The discomfort of my first night balancing precariously on this ‘bed’ - though I prefer to think of it as a razor blade - was exacerbated by having a sleeping bag that was a) broken; and b) a child’s version.
My step-son Ben was apparently aware of both these facts when he helped me pack it into the car but didn’t deem it worth passing on the information.
And the bar didn’t sell pear cider. So I was not in the best of moods when the football started on Saturday. It was cold and windy. Naturally, it was Wales. But at least it wasn’t raining - no wonder the principality’s residents aren’t too concerned about global warming.
“Poor old Dave,” said trip organiser Maria. “You don’t look very pleased to be here.” A very shrewd woman is Maria.
On the plus side, my third and final night in our temporary gulag could be spent on a double bed as the previous night’s occupants planned to travel home a day early, on Sunday evening, after the cessation of footballing hostilities.
But wouldn’t you know it - never trust teenage boys - they only went and won the thing. Everybody was so delighted that we planned to spend the evening celebrating, so the early departure plans were scrapped.
It meant Ben and I had to return to the parallel bars for one more night. Belatedly I discovered that a night celebrating - albeit without pear cider - is a panacea for bed problems.
Not such good news for Ben though, who complained next morning that I snored like a burglar alarm in a fog-horn factory and that he’d got very little sleep.
Serves him right. If he hadn’t scored in the final I might have been spread out on a double bed.
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