Tranmere –
The name suggests a crossing of the waters,
A ferry across the Mersey,
A crossing of the River Rubicon,
Or for us, the River Thames –
On the 9.55 Football Poets Special,
Speeding through the Golden Valley,
Past Swindon’s railway works,
The Vale of the White Horse,
Then on through Sonning Cutting,
Sequestered Berkshire,
Suburban Middlesex,
Old Oak Common,
To Paddington.
We sat in an overcrowded carriage:
Richard, now ready, having scoured Stroud,
And all villages and hamlets of the Five Valleys,
Until at last finally securing an FGR scarf,
Chewing on his bacon and egg sandwich,
But worried that he’d left the gas ring on,
Stuart, with a stone in his shoe from his yesterday walk,
Seeing it as a pilgrim’s scruple,
The retention of which would be necessary for victory,
For only the scrupulous would be triumphant,
After enduring self-flagellation,
Crispin, now ready, after tirelessly badgering
Wembley Stadium about his treasured, magic drum –
More of that later.
But there we were,
At Wembley,
Like a village gawping at the big city,
Just 3,500 souls,
Thirteen charabancs only
(Six from FGR, 4 from Stroud, 3 from Stonehouse),
Like some Laurie Lee
Cider with Rosie day out revisited,
A Last Supper of the Season,
While the massed ranks from Birkenhead and Liverpool
Numbered 15,000 and fifty coaches,
Confident of victory,
Against this rustic outfit.
But Crispin had a plan –
Crispin Thomas, like Oscar,
The clairaudient in The Tin Drum,
Worried that Wembley would ban his drum:
‘the day will come …
oh how I pray
for my white drum’,
Eventually receiving this email from Wembley Stadium:
Hello Crispin,
I hope you are well. This isn’t a problem and the staff are aware of you and your drum.
Please make your way to the accessible entrance at the turnstile and they will check the drum and they will let you in.
Many thanks,
Crispin, now ready,
Crispin,
Now revelling in his clairaudient condition,
Obtaining a ‘singing end’ for FGR,
Joining ranks with the other FGR drummer,
To wave his arms in the air to draw the FGR crowd
From their numbered, specified seats,
And so amplify the support, noise and chants,
With supporters standing en masse behind the goal,
Despite the tickets stating in bold:
Persistent standing is not allowed.
But we were allowed,
Because all fans behaved themselves responsibly –
But many thanks to Wembley’s staff for their dispensation,
For this concentrated noise
Gave succour to the team on the pitch
Throughout the whole ninety minutes:
The support was continuous.
And at the end,
After all the chants of
‘On our way, on our way,
To the football league we’re on our way’,
And,
‘Not bad for a village team,
Not bad for a village team’,
The man from the Met. came up to Crispin,
Congratulated him on his drumming,
Congratulated FGR’s three and a half thousand
For outshouting Tranmere,
Adding,
‘I had a tear in my eye at the end.
I was so pleased for you.’
Not bad for a village team,
A team at the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere.
