Welcome back to more misdemeanours of the mighty Beachboys.

This one is ever so slightly special. You may want to tweak your feelers and pay good old fashioned attention. In this edition of my brain debris you’ll experience surrealism laid out like literal scrambled eggs. What’ll proceed before your very eyes appears as one of the finest pub talk cock and bull stories based in farfetchville bang square on cloud nine, except for one teeny-weeny little difference. It actually happened. Gird your loins you splendid Sapiens, it’s showtime.

Football is a game of fine margins. How accurately this can be illustrated is to cast peepers in the rear view mirror to reacquaint our nods of a serendipitous fact. Of the seven preceding fixtures we’ve endured to reach the penultimate FAT hurdle, 100% of them were edged by the odd goal or by virtue of spot knocks.

From a purely theoretical viewpoint, Halesowen Town represented our weakest level of opposition on this ridiculously resplendent trophy run, whereby they reside and ply their trade at step four of the non-league pyramid. Completely insignificant in the realm of ko cup ball as I’m sure you astute ladies and gentlemen are all well aware, this was to be no walkover despite the bookies writing off the West Midlands marauders. Truth be told, the proverbial odds were evened up somewhat, what with the abrupt fashion this cup tie was thrust upon us.

“I believe I can fly” has for me always stood out as one of the most accurate, inspirational and motivational lyrics written when applied to achieving what feels nigh on impossible. “If I can see it, then I can do it, if I just believe it, there’s nothing to it”. Sounds like fortune cookie bullshit, right? But it’s as real as shit can be. To achieve anything meaningful in this life, you first got to damn well believe you are capable of such feats. Possibly the most important step to success starts right here, in that cloud looking organ tucked between your ears. That’s where the magic happens people.

The nunight message was short and sweet. “Focus on the process and the outcome will take care if itself. Sleep well, be ready”. Tomorrow we have to opportunity to make our childhood dreams come true.

Birds singing, sun shining and Leo landing on my head, “Daddy wake up, wake up, wake up”… it worked, I was now awake, albeit with mild concussion. That kid intuitively knows how to get things done. The gut feelings I regularly receive in life are seldom erroneous, and on this particular beautiful late summers Saturday this dipstick was getting good, good, good, good vibrations (please tell me you sung that part in your head, if not you’ve failed us both). A peculiar aurora engulfed our presence prior to genesis, where nervousness and apprehension played truant. Maybe the viral banishment of supporters contributed to the calm before the storm effect. Particularly pleasing it was to have the pleasure of hosting our gentleman Chris Crerie and his family to experience this occasion. It brought back a nostalgic sense of emotion to watch you walk to your favoured seat in the stand mate.

An eerie wave of silence broken by the sound of stud to concrete steps. Out they emerged, a holistic, cohesive yellow and blue unit strode out onto the pristine green grass of home. Boy did they look ready. A procession to paradise this was not though, as fluent footwork found us fall behind early. Thankfully the prognosis for this problem was pretty straightforward, where our cadre went about the the task of righting this wrong. Parity restored and craving for more the tide was lapping the way of our core. The irrepressible Alex Wall put the finishing touch to the masterpiece he’d been preparing all game. Scooby Doo’s bff Shaggy struggled to subdue our sovereign striker, as his wretched attempt at a Stone Cold Steve Austin stunner was shrugged off by the powerful marksman, who applied the most delicate of finesse to float the ball flawlessly over the stranded stopper. In what felt like slow motion, my heart skipped a beat, and wide eyed like that of a toddler I gazed as the ball fell to caress the back of the net. So this is what it feels like to fly.

In the immediate aftermath of this immense incident I was repeatedly asked, “how do you feel”? Bewilderment, for want of a better word. I personally found myself lost in a concoction of thought, how, why, what had just happened. My little brain couldn’t calculate this outcome even in its most creative state. For years we’d dreamed of maybe one day reaching the fabled FA Cup third round to draw a glittering premier league pairing. This eclipsed even that. Struggling to suppress my emotions I needed some time to compose myself so took a soulful solo stroll to sit alone by our dugouts. I wasn’t on my Jack Jones for long though, as one by one, like-minded and as emotionally breached as I, a few of our superheroes joined me to breathe in what we’d just achieved. As we sat there, a collection of young children broke out onto our surface, now shimmering in sundown, and began to play ball. It was just so perfect. There they were, playing peacefully together, dreaming of Wembley, right on the very spot where that exact same fantasy had just come to fruition. This was genuinely one of life’s wow moments and I doubt I’ll ever forget it.

We were later to discover that behind the gentlemanly felicitations offered on full time, stood some ugly and nefarious undertones from our Yeltz counterparts when the powers that be came calling, making probing enquiries into the eligibility of our fielded starlets. Our i’s and t’s were appropriately dotted and crossed and all that was lost be a good nights sleep for our squeaky clean secretarial steward much to the delicious dismay of the belligerent Birmingham brats.

Turning attention back onto a more pivotal point, our club has been particularly proud to have helped hone the skills of two wonderful, loyal and gifted media stars of tomorrow in Euan Rourke and Millie Hawkins who’re both taking the next baby steps in their fledgling life paths having been accepted into the universities of Derby and Brighton respectively. We at CRFC are very proud of them both and I personally have no doubts whatsoever that they’ll both go on to enjoy fruitful and fulfilling careers in the future. Euan and Millie, thank you both and good luck. If either of you ever need a helping hand from me, I’m always a phone call away.

So who’d have thought it aye? That little pub team from Essex, the little boys club by Concord beach honouring the hallowed turf. Albert may have for-seen this in a dream of his, which Dad likely continued. Big bro Antony most definitely and I testify guilty too. Still I feel as though the reality of this situation will evade our neurons until the day we’re physically sat in that stadium watching our soldiery march out for one final battle on the ultimate stage. The dawn of destiny will then be upon us.

To the hundreds of people who’ve given so selflessly and generously with their time, money and sheer hard work to contribute a little something special to our wonderful football club since it’s birth. This is for you. Embrace it, enjoy it, savour it because you all deserve it. I’m proud of every single one of you and I hope you realise you’re eternally part of a spectacular story. Thank you.

Que sera sera,
Whatever will be will be,
We’re going to Wembley
Que sera sera.

You all know I love a quote, so here’s one which fits the bill like a glove.
“History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it.”
Winston Churchill

See you all under the arch