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The Home of football for old gits.

Henleaze Corinthians

The  European Journey

2002 match report - The Emerald Isle
2001 match report - pics to follow
Still Waiting for Terry to submit Match Report 2000 !!!!!!!!!!!!

Click here for 1999 Pics

Click for 1999 match report from Mike the Manager

Click for 1999 match report from Carl the Carl

THE CORINTHIANS IN EUROPE

Saturday 25th March 1995 is a memorable date in the Corinthian calendar. It's the date of our first venture not just beyond the safety of Bristol's city boundaries nor outside the M4 corridor but to the far flung reaches of Calais dans La Republique de la Belle France. Not only is this date auspicious and memorable because it was our first European tour but it was also the first match we didn't lose. We didn't win either but who cares about that when the opposition did not score more goals than us.

It was a gritty performance against a veteran XI of Calais dockers and having previously conceded on average 5 goals a game, a 1-1 final result actually seemed like a real football score. The boys went back on a high and the result sent shockwaves up Henleaze Road. A team photograph even appeared on the front of the Bristol Evening Post. A team of no hopers suddenly turned into a finely tuned winning machine ( well almost) fearing no one.

We let the success go to our heads and decided to repeat the venture and have been doing so every year since.' Undefeated in Europe - Allez Les Bleus- hoof, hoof, hoof it up the pitch' are the battle cries that can be heard from the OAPs of Henleaze as we leave for our next European campaign

full of expectancy and waiting to fill up on litres of Stella in the Aussie Bar and Cafe de Paris.

It's obligatory to drink 10 pints of Stella Artois on the previous Friday night as we have discovered this is our secret training programme and the reason for our success - the team is still so pissed the following day it doesn't know what it's doing.

1999 will be our 5th tour and so far we remain unbeaten. The scores have been:-

1995 1-1

1996 3-3

1997 7-7

1998 1-1

We’ve achieved these results despite the boring and predictable football in traditional English style we play set against the free flowing passing game of the French. While we shout 'hoof' they call out 'touch touch'. It might look pretty but so far it hasn't brought them success.

Saturday 15th May 1999 will see the Corinthians travelling once more to the Stade Du Sangatte playing before an intimidating continental crowd of two schoolboys. The Corinthians will again uphold the honour of the whole of Henleaze and English football. Who knows we might be invited to entre the Inter Toto Cup.

FC SANGATTE V HENLEAZE CORINTHIANS

From the pen of Keith Tilley - tour organiser supreme.

1995 Tour Pics

1998 Tour Pics

Come on chaps what about it, Captain next year? Then I can tell old Tilley that there is only one bloody captain on the field!

Calais 2001 - Sangette 2 Henlease 4

2002 match report - The Emerald Isle

Rob Ward kicks off :

here we are in Bewleys Hotel in Ballsbridge,yes Balls bridge in Dublin at the start of the 2002 tour.Early start on the guiness last night (Thurs) after uneventful journey which started at the Cock (Cock,Ballsbridge-what's going on I hear you stammer.
Pub had sign at entrance saying no stag parties or large groups permitted.Didn't stop Banker Monks (aka Walter) from successfully ordering 14 pints of the black stuff. Last orders at 12.30 am (Bristol has a lot of catching up to do)-then on to an upstairs retreat where loud live irish music kept the old warriors awake until 2.30-then taxi back to Ballsbridge for kip.
Now 11.40 am and still waiting for half the party to get up sos we can get into gear.That's it for now.

Steve Ryan pick up the ball:

Following Bobs lead some thoughts on Day 1 (or the first 7 hours for the late shift)
Irish Tour (Mini Version)
Day One
Those of us who have to work for a living (well at least for 36 weeks a year) i.e. James, Andy T and myself set off expectantly on Friday night courtesy of Ryanair from Bristol International Airport. Our tea time flight had been handily rescheduled for a 9.30 departure, much to the chagrin of tourists and pilot alike(more of that later). Check in was painless enough and my shameless attempts to masquerade as a member of the Ryanair dynasty were to no avail. After a couple of guinnesses in the bar we were all set to compete in the traditional Ryanair “tarmac rush” (no doubt a potential Olympic sport should Killarney ever host the event) in the quest for that elusive prime position seat. Our main rivals were a touring rugby side from Plymouth, sundry hen parties plus one or two unsuspecting members of the public who with young children in tow were naively hoping for a quiet flight. Many of the participants seemed to have consumed large quantities of banned substances to facilitate a p.b. in the unseemly tussle for their favoured seats on board. Needless to say my current conflict with the ravages of time meant that my disfunctional knee relegated me to a leisurely hobble to a seat wedged between the fragile goods locker and the overly used urinal. The Ryanair service to Dublin is however first class with time only to consume one Jameson’s. We were serenaded by the tourists lead by the statutory prop forward with leather flying goggles and their timely and highly original rendition of the Dambusters theme at key moments in the flight. These raucous choruses were interspersed with the occasional appeals by their tour virgin with thong and nappy over his trousers repeatedly appealing to one of the hen party to “give us yer knickerrrs luv.” Landing was rapid and roundly applauded and was followed by even more rapid, Grand Prix standard taxiing by our “I’m going to be late for the pub cos you changed the schedule” pilot. I have never been in a plane that went faster on the ground than in the air and used hand brake turns to secure a parking space. Mind you there were single yellow lines which meant no parking at all and in our space double yellows which meant no parking at all at all( Apologies for old joke.) Immigration and customs were non existent, the only baggage claim was when one of the hens succumbed to the persistent tour virgin and magically produced a minute black g string from her luggage to put him out of his agony and further complicate his wardrobe. This sleight of hand certainly beats the old rabbit out of the hat routine.
As promised cousin John, hill walker, musician, raconteur and gifted mid fielder was there to meet us and he whisked us off to the hotel in the quaintly named Ballsbridge and onto reputedly Ireland’s oldest pub just in time to miss the last reel of the local band but still in time to sink our first drop of the black stuff on Irish soil at midnight. The lack of music prompted a move across the road to a pub more redolent of the Met at the Mauretania than Mollie Malone. Undaunted the most was made of the opportunity and the main spectator sport was watching our leader Mr Stark take on the 1965 Irish Sumo champion at her own game and from where we were standing he more than held his own. We partied to the wee small hours until a strategic retreat was sounded and we arranged to reconvene in the hotel lobby at 10.00 a.m. next day.
The Tour Episode 2  
Day Two- The Morning Session
The night passed blissfully and peacefully. The sleep of the innocent. Little of note to mention although I did find out that my room mate who will remain nameless to protect his considerable reputation is in fact a closet Radio 5 listener. Sad eh?
The day dawned crisp and clear although as always in the Emerald Isle, a little damp. This dampness fortunately subsided on leaving the room, it is terrible what that Guinness can do to you.

       
Eleven hearty souls convened in the lobby to negotiate the bus system and go in search of the Holy Grail, the elusive full Irish breakfast. The rest of the party recklessly risked their impending footballing performance by seeking out gyms and saunas, tut, tut. Our trip into town took us through the Embassy district and young Terry was able to give us an incisive lecture on local architecture astutely pointing out the unique Irish style bungalows which consisted of just a single storey! He was a little non-plussed when it was pointed out to him that many local buildings consisted of several bungalows on top of each other. Our fascinating discussion of architecture gave way to an overwhelming desire for bacon , sausage and pudding both black and white and we blindly followed former captain Keith, much as we have done on the field for many years, into the parlour of an unsuspecting local. Apparently 3 of our number had interrupted their family breakfast the previous day and in line with typical Irish hospitality the family invited them to break bread with them. The sight of 11 hungry punters was too much, we resembled the Apostles after the betrayal of Jesus and we had appetites to match and he directed us to Brewbakers, sadly very poor spellers but gladly great cooks and gracious hosts. So as not to confuse the chef we decided on 11 full Irish breakfasts, although it has to be said one of our number who once again will remain nameless, presumably suffering from Radio 5 withdrawal symptoms, perversely ordered an extra egg. This order confounded the establishment but there was method in the man with no name’s madness as he was eventually furnished with extra egg, sausage, bacon and puddings both black and white. No doubt he had picked up this tip on Drive at Five or on 6 o’ 6. Whatever, we ate to excess, rarely had any of us seen such mountains of buttered toast. We departed in search of culture and retail therapy. A local book shop immediately satisfied my quest for knowledge of my infamous or should I say illustrious ancestors? Almost immediately I found not only a biography but even a picture of Thomas Kent from my great grand mother’s family, an Irish republican summarily executed by the British in the wake of the Easter Rising 1916. The National Gallery was a favourite spot. The jewel in the crown is the atmospheric depiction of the betrayal of Jesus by that 12th apostle in the garden of Gethsemane by Caravaggio. (Incidentally Caravaggio has been dismissed by some for the crass reality of his art often in the grossest of forms - Art critics please respond.)The darkness of the scene and the gravity of the act portrayed, evoked memories of a similar event when a dubious last minute penalty had been awarded in Calais all those years ago. A sobering thought for this apostolate. Many thanks to the Jesuits for the loan of this picture and of course special thanks to Ignatius Loyola, no not the Sangatte centre half, but the one who founded the Society of Jesus , in the vanguard of the Counter Reformation! (Or should I say Catholic Reformation- Historians please respond.) The Irish School exhibits also caught the eye, Mr Tilley loved the Yeats exhibits, and nobody liked to break it to him that he hadn’t really made a killing by buying an original water colour by W.B. and an unpublished poem by Jack! (An acknowledgement here to the Tommy Cooper school of comedy, now there was a flawed genius- Comedians please respond)A little time remained for a visit to the music shop where the entrancing Solas performed and a pilgrimage to the Post Office in O’Connell St. (formerly Sackville St.) where collateral blood was shed in 1916. A bus journey back for the 3.00 pm meeting was enlivened by the bus driver who when faced by the challenge of explaining to two Hong Kong students the need to have tickets and to know where to get off was heard to remark that “it was like controlling mice at a crossroads!”

The Big Match
The squad assembled fit and raring to go at 3.00 p.m. how Sven Goran would love to have such a wealth of talent available for Korea, ”Ulrika” he would cry. We were ferried to the venue, University College, Dublin by taxi and with all our excursions by this mode of transport the order of arrival bore no relation to the order of departure. The orbital road at UCD proved too much for some and those who got lost were given the helpful advice “ ah yes, you are on the right road but you are going the wrong way.” At the ground we were first astounded by the splendour of the astro turf stadium and the volume of the crowd. Unfortunately it soon transpired that the crowds were there to cheer on the Leinster ladies hockey champions in a grudge match with the champions of Ulster. Naturally we soon adopted Leinster loyalties and were pleased to see them turn around a deficit from the first leg and secure victory. Our pitch was in fact the one next door and ominously on first viewing it was divided into quarters. There were those doubting Thomas’s amongst the disciples who were afraid that cousin John had Ballsbridged it up, oh ye of little faith. Not only had yer man sorted out the venue but also put together a team ideally suited to take on the Corries. They arrived in a mish mash of kit to lull us into a false sense of security. In true touring tradition they out did us in pace, skill and understanding and remember many of them had never played together before and were drawn from other disciplines like hockey, hill walking and hurling. Not only that, they had local rules such as playing on only three quarters of the pitch in the first half, playing half an hour first half and a one hour second half (almost literally a game of three halves!), supplying a ref. who responded to appeals from the sparse but vocal crowd (consisting of Corinthian crocks, Patrice and baby David) about his decisions by retorts of “overruled” and who had to leave when his ”wife” rang his mobile part way through the proceedings. Most notably we were to play with hockey goals which meant the chance of scoring was virtually nil. So intimidating in fact were the goals that no one dared to shoot for the first hour (or the first two halves!) As the rain came down it was very much Billie to Pat to Mick to Pat to Paul to Pat to Sean to Pat to Colm to cousin John, what a terrier he is,(by the way my Dad used to say that John’s Dad used to play for the Arsenal!) with a style as fluid as the Blackwater in Fermoy and with Peter, he is a friend of Jim Beglin you know, as peaceful and untroubled as a Sunday on the beach in Kinsale, in the Irish goal. The turning point came when the refs phone went. It wasn’t his wife at all but Dawn Tilley who had been enlisted to put on her best Irish accent to lure him away like some latterday siren. This meant that Rob Ward came on and as instructed he immediately awarded a dubious free kick in the danger zone. From a well rehearsed training move the ball was floated in by Andy T and it took a vicious deflection off James to deceive Peter who was miles away contemplating the vagaries of life and how it should have been him who had gone on to play for Liverpool and the ball crept through his legs into the leprechaun sized goal. The rest of the game was merely soaking up pressure and packing the goal. John was taller than the bar so nothing in the air would trouble us and we were resolute on the floor. We threw up a barrier more formidable than Maggillycuddys Reeks, the stone wall mentality, as thick as Blarney Castle kicked in and bolstered by the cheers on the adjoining pitch for the demolition of Ulster by the Leinster ladies, a most unlikely victory was secured. Yet again the Corinthians had triumphed on foreign soil against a more skilful and more talented side. There is no doubt that there something special about those folk forged on the Henleaze Road, they can triumph in adversity. After the match we adjourned to the bar where we were treated to an excellent buffet and plenty of Guinness and we swapped stories of sporting triumph with the Leinster ladies. There is a unique bond between sportspersons at the peak of their game tempered in the cauldron of top class competition and it was great to swap stories. For some reason the hockey players soon left and all that remained were the post match formalities. The Man of the Match selection was difficult. Rob Ward was the only candidate for the HCs, his free kick decision had been inspirational but clearly the award had to go to the Irish. It could have gone to any of their number, the competition was so fierce. As their ref was still off seeking the source of the bogus phone call it was decided that Paul who had lead us a merry gig in midfield all afternoon should receive the prestigious trophy. The scandalous suggestion that the trophy had been stolen form the Sangatte clubhouse was dismissed and Paul graciously accepted it stating that this would be the first of many occasions on which the trophy would be fought over. This was greeted with unanimous approval. Cousin John accepted a bottle of Bristol Cream, a small token from us for all the hard work he put in. The final task was to organise our return to the hotel to prepare for the Night to Remember. Unfortunately all the taxis in random order were still negotiating the UCD orbital road and could not be rescued and it was left to John and Pat, (what a great player he is! Bandanaed, Bespectacled, Bow legged and Brilliant ) generously to ferry us back.

A Night to Remember
Taking advantage of local knowledge the venue for the night’s festivities was decided. O ‘Donoghues a classic Irish pub was guaranteed by cousin John to provide the craic, the music and the local talent to warm the cockles of any Corinthians’ loins. Spruced up, colourfully adorned( some of us), thinning hair strategically rearranged, bald patches polished and Grecian 2000 in abundance the ramshackle crew looking for all the world like extras from the remake ofAuf Wiedersehn Pet embarked on the obligatory taxi ride. The last taxi arrived first and it was decided to sample some traditional local fayre and excellent curry houses were visited. Suitably replete a full frontal assault was launched on O’D’s and we were rapidly ushered to the bar out the back as the main saloon was thronging with locals listening to a traditional band jamming away. Initial impressions of the back bar were a little disappointing as a rather lacklustre combo of two “musicians” plucked unpromisingly away. Not to worry for there before us appeared a bevy of beauties, a hen night no doubt from Blackrock or Donnybrook. They had clearly forsaken the dinner experience and were already in the festive move. On arrival I was approached by “Jane” (names may be changed to protect the innocent), and asked was my name Sean, Michael or Patrick, I was able to reply with a fair degree of honesty as Patrick is my middle name, that I was and this was the first opportunity to kiss the soon to be wed “Wendy” who had many a similar forfeit to fulfil. Well this broke the ice, but I was perplexed, the accent was more Downend than Donnybrook, more Bishopston than Blackrock. Yes, would you believe it, it was a hen night from Bristol. There was to be no language barrier or cultural divide here. What followed is perhaps best left unsaid, it would take W.B. Yeats to really do it justice. Suffice to say that Tony over indulged in the retrieve the shamrock from the brides cleavage challenge, gamely going back for a second dive without breathing equipment, Chris was bedazzled by the sultry “Sharon”, she of fishnet stockings, leather skirt and special deals on package holidays. I had the most fun I have ever had legally with a Bristol Grammar School pupil, the fulsome and nubile “Nikki” (or Nixie of Dreambook fame). The evening went with a swing, the community singing lead by the girls, especially the rendition of American Pie was so sublime that the poor duo departed meekly knowing that the competition was too fierce. Occasional sorties were made into the saloon and here the craic was first class. A bewitching quartet of girls three of whom claimed to come from the “occupied territories” graced the bar. Keith shamelessly pretended to be a millionaire whilst one of the colleens was off to America to marry the man of her dreams, although he did not know it yet.
A promise was made to “Deirdre” to try and secure cup final tickets (unfortunately contacts at BRFC were not able to pull off the miracle).
By midnight the bar was closing and many of the tourists were beginning to flag. Those who arrived on Thursday were suffering the most and it was only the hard core under the leadership of cousin John who made it with the hen night to the Gaiety Theatre. John, Chris, James, Andy Mac, Howard( admittedly looking rather glazed by this time) and I were up for it and we spent a few hours cavorting and conversing, damage to my aching knee being far in excess of anything I could have done on the field.
Peter and cousin John represented the Irish. John was a particular favourite of “Nikki” and “Sharon” on the dance floor, and who can blame them, what lovely movers the three of them were. Time was catching up on all of us and at 4.00 am it was time to say our goodbyes, wish Wendy well for the wedding and to threaten to arrive en masse for the reception at Redwood Lodge.
It was truly a Night to Remember.

         
The Morning After
Meeting time for the return journey was 6.00 a.m. and the company arrived in varying stages of disarray. The Gaiety crew had mainly gone without any sleep at all(The least fortunate without any sleep at all, at all!). Walking back and having breakfast in a Chinese restaurant en route had left time only for a shower. Our friendly cabs arrived and those wishing to get to the airport first, waited for the last one to arrive. Ryanair did the business this time going faster in the air than on the ground and deposited us back in Bristol to be home in time for breakfast.
Plans are already afoot for a return in Bristol with the last day in August the favourite at the moment, keep that weekend free. We are sure that Wendy and her girls are looking forward to another Night to Remember,
She will have been married for three months by then. The competition for Man of The Match will be intense, can an Englishman seize the trophy? Did John’s Dad really play for the Arsenal? Will Tony ever look at Shamrock the same way again? Will bookings at Bakers Dolphin go through the roof? Will three storey bungalows ever catch on? Was Peter a better player than Jim Beglin? Did the Ryanair pilot ever get his pint that night or did he just become a taxi driver? Will baby David ever be as good a footballer as his Dad?
For the answers to these and many other vital questions watch this space.
5th May 2002

SPR with acknowledgements to
The Gospel according to St Matthew.
The Catholic Missal ed. Jex Martin M.A 1959
St. Ignatius Loyola
Tommy Cooper
The Easter Rising by Conor Kostick and Lorcan Collins
The AA Glovebox Atlas of Ireland
University College Dublin
Leinster Ladies Hockey
Mick’s Cabs and Ryanair( same drivers!)
The Driver of the No. 7 bus
Don Maclean
Bakers Dolphin Travel
Bristol Grammar School
Solas
W.B. Yeats/ Jack Yeats/Caravaggio
And most importantly Cousin John Morrison and his fondly remembered Dad Gerry

Message from Nixse!!!
Thanks for being such good entertainment in the fair city fo Dublin boys - we shall have fond memories of O'D's and the Gaiety - those of us that could remember anything on Sunday morning that is!!!

Last Updated: May 07, 2002